Rain streaked the windows of Sebastian Hartwell's corner office, casting liquid shadows across his titanium desk. At 8:57 a.m., his fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the polished surface, eyes fixed on the smoked glass door. Three minutes early. Clara Morgan's precision was usually impeccable.
The door whispered open. She entered balancing a Limoges cup, steam curling like phantom fingers. "Your Geisha blend, Mr. Hartwell."
He extended his hand—an uncharacteristic gesture. When his knuckles brushed hers, he felt the tremor racing up her arm. Hypocrite, he thought. Last week you traced my thigh beneath the boardroom table.
His gaze snagged on the hollow of her throat. Above her silk scarf's edge, a bruise bloomed like crushed violets. His doing.
"Button your collar," he commanded.
Clara's cheeks flushed coral. "Yes, sir." Her fingers fumbled at the pearl buttons. Sebastian noted the frantic pulse at her wrist. Why the fear now? You begged for this game.
As she retreated, he watched the sway of her hips—a hypnotic pendulum that resurrected last night's memories: the tear-salt on his tongue, the silk shredding under his hands, her broken whimpers that somehow fueled his hunger.
FLASHBACK
Six hours earlier
The penthouse reeked of regret and Chanel No. 5.
Sebastian had cornered Clara by the wet bar, still buzzing with Macallan. "You've been playing with matches, little girl."
She'd lifted her chin, a terrible facsimile of boldness. "Does the flame scare you?"
He'd laughed darkly, backing her against the glass. "I am the inferno."
When his mouth crashed down, her gasp tasted like surrender.
END FLASHBACK
He adjusted his tie, disgusted by his own thirst. New York's elite threw daughters at him weekly—debutantes dripping in Dior, heiresses "accidentally" spilling champagne on his Tom Ford suit. Their calculated seductions turned his stomach.
But Clara? When she'd ambushed him in the garage last year—"Try me for one month"—he'd seen the desperation beneath the bravado. That intrigued him. Her clumsy seductions (a "stumble" against him in the elevator, fingers "fixing" his tie) felt strangely… authentic.
Until last night, when she'd shattered the illusion with terrified sobs.
At her workstation, Clara pressed a fist below her ribs. Cramps twisted like barbed wire. Not PMS. His savage rhythm still echoing in her bones.
Sophia Reed peered over the monitor divider. "Clara? You're white as printer paper."
The junior assistant had been Clara's sole ally when whispers of "How'd she land Hartwell?" poisoned the breakroom. Sophia silenced them with glacial professionalism: "Outperform her, then critique."
"Just need water," Clara lied.
Stilettos cracked down the hallway like gunfire.
A flustered intern trailed Bianca Sterling—Manhattan's most venomous socialite, swathed in python-print Alaïa. "I don't take appointments to see my Sebastian!" she announced, spraying Chloe perfume like chemical warfare.
Clara rose slowly. Her. The girl who'd ripped her uniform at Wellington Academy. Who'd pinned "ORPHAN TRASH" notes to her locker. Who'd straddled Ethan Windsor in his Porsche while Clara watched from the shadows.
"Mr. Hartwell's finalizing the Tokyo merger," Clara said, voice polished to diamond hardness. "I'll announce you when he's—"
"Announce?" Bianca's laugh could flay skin. "You think playing secretary erases what you are?" She leaned in, poison-green eyes raking Clara's scarf. "Still hiding bruises? Or just your stench?"
Memories detonated: Bianca's clique shoving her into lacrosse equipment, Ethan's laughter soundtracking her humiliation. No one left to care after Mom and Dad's plane…
Clara gripped the desk edge. "Barging in guarantees we both get fired. You know his temper."
Bianca's palm connected with Clara's cheekbone. The crack echoed through executive row.
"You trailer-park cockroach!" Spittle glistened on Bianca's collagen lips. "Still scavenging for crumbs?"
Sophia dialed security, voice tight. "Hartwell Tower, 80th floor. Intruder assaulting staff."
Clara touched her throbbing face. Don't cry. Not here. "If I'm trash," she said softly, "what does that make your father? The man begging Hartwell for loans?"
Bianca lunged again—and froze.
Sebastian's hand locked her wrist mid-swing. Tendons strained like bridge cables under his Savile Row sleeve. "Which hand struck her?"
"Sebastian, darling—" Bianca's pout dissolved into panic as his grip tightened. "My father's docks—"
"Which. Hand."
Bruises flowered under his fingers. Clara grabbed his forearm. "Stop!" Muscle hardened like marble beneath wool. He'll snap bone, she realized. Not for me—for his wounded ego.
Their eyes collided. In his, Clara saw last night's darkness—her nails scrabbling at his shoulders as she pleaded "No more!"
His fingers unclenched. Barely.
"Remove this," he told the arriving guards, "from my sight."
Bianca's screams faded down the elevator bank.
Sebastian turned to William Chen, his silver-haired VP. "Terminate all Sterling contracts. Liquidate their shares."
William nodded, tapping his tablet. "By noon, sir."
Silence pooled like blood. Sebastian's thumb brushed Clara's swelling cheek. "You shielded her. Why?"
Because I know how it feels to break. "Professional decorum, sir."
A hollow laugh escaped him. "Decorum?" His knuckle traced her jawline—a mockery of tenderness. "When have you ever been decorous with me, Clara Morgan?"
Rain blurred the skyline behind him. Clara remembered the pharmacy clerk's bored stare that morning. Rough night?
Rough? she thought, tasting iron on her tongue. I'm dancing with the devil, and he's leading.