Martin stepped back into his office on the 45th floor like a man walking into a cage he'd built himself.
The door closed behind him with a soft, expensive click—too quiet for the storm raging under his skin. He stood there for a second, still facing the door, still seeing her face in the empty space in front of him.
Fiona.
The way she'd looked up at him across the conference table.
Those hazel eyes wide, startled, but refusing to break. The way her lips had parted—just a fraction—when he said her name. Soft. Full. The same lips that had parted for him that night in the suite, gasping his name (no, not his name, just broken little sounds), trembling under his mouth while he took her apart.
He exhaled hard through his nose.
His jacket felt too tight. Too warm. Too much.
He shrugged it off in one rough movement, tossed it over the back of the nearest chair. The silk lining whispered against the leather. He rolled his shoulders, tugged at his tie until it loosened, undid the top button of his shirt. The air hit his skin, but it didn't cool the heat crawling up his neck, pooling low in his gut.
He crossed to the massive chair behind his desk and dropped into it—hard. The leather sighed under his weight. He leaned back, head resting against the high back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He was supposed to make her suffer.
That was the plan.
She'd walked out on him that night—left him tangled in sheets that still smelled like her, left him hard and aching and alone. No note. No number. No goodbye. Just gone.
He'd spent weeks replaying it. The way she'd arched. The way she'd begged. The way she'd looked at him in the mirrors like she was seeing him for the first time and the last time all at once.
He'd told himself he wanted revenge.
He wanted to pull her back in. Make her feel what he'd felt. Make her want him so badly she couldn't walk away again.
But today…
Today she'd sat across from him in that meeting room, notebook open, pen in hand, voice steady even though he could see the pulse jumping in her throat. She'd looked at him like she remembered. Like she was afraid of what she remembered. Like she was fighting not to let it show.
And all he could think about was how much he wanted to drag her across the table, press her down, feel those lips again, hear those sounds again, make her shatter under him until she forgot how to run.
He let out a long, ragged breath.
His hand came up, rubbed over his face, down his jaw. The scar on his eyebrow itched under his thumb.
He was supposed to punish her.
Instead he was sitting here, hard as hell, heart pounding, mind full of her mouth, her eyes, the way her blouse had stretched just enough across her chest when she leaned forward to speak.
He shifted in the chair. Tried to adjust himself. It didn't help.
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, head in his hands.
This wasn't revenge.
This was something else.
Something dangerous.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
He stared at the dark screen of his laptop like it might give him answers.
She was under his roof now.
In his building.
In his company.
Reporting to him.
And every time he saw her, the plan crumbled a little more.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to break her anymore.
He wasn't sure if he ever had.
All he knew was that he wanted her.
Badly.
Desperately.
And that scared him more than anything.
He closed his eyes.
Saw her face again.
Those lips.
That look.
The way she'd said *understood* like it was a surrender she wasn't ready to admit.
His hand dropped to his lap.
He didn't move.
Just sat there.
Drowning in the chair.
Drowning in her.
And wondering how long he could pretend this was still about payback.
When really…
It was starting to feel like something he'd never let himself have before.
Something real.
Something he wasn't sure he deserved.
But something he wasn't willing to let go.
Not again.