2.

ADAM

Today has already been a shit day.

I was stuck in my Washington office branch with a boardroom full of idiots who thought “projected loss” was something you could dress up with a prettier graph.

One woman was fumbling over her numbers, her voice trembling. Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to stammer an excuse.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I snapped, leaning forward. “If you’re going to cry, at least do it outside my boardroom. You’re wasting everyone’s time and your makeup.”

A few people looked down at their papers, trying not to react. No one dared laugh — not unless they had a death wish and didn’t care about keeping their job.

“You’re fired,” I told her flatly. “Get out before I find another reason to humiliate you.”

Her chair scraped back hard. She gathered her files in shaking hands and bolted.

Someone across the table cleared his throat. Brave, or just stupid. “With respect, sir, she’s one of our top analysts. Maybe—”

“Maybe you shut the fuck up before I fire you too,” I cut in smoothly. “Top analyst? If that's the top, then I’m terrified to see what the bottom looks like.”

The man’s jaw worked, but he said nothing. Good choice.

Another genius piped up anyway, “We could, ah, reframe the projections, make them look less aggressive—”

I barked a laugh, “Reframe them? What the hell does that even mean? You think I can sell fairy tales to shareholders? Dress up shit in a nicer font and call it gold?” I leaned forward, letting my voice. “Here’s a projection for you: if any one of you wastes another second of my time with half-baked bullshit, you’ll all be out of a job before lunch.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, irritation tightening in my chest. This meeting was going nowhere. I’ve never been a patient man, and I sure as hell wasn't about to start now.

Across the table, my newly hired PA kept batting her lashes like she’d been paid to blink in slow motion. Every time she bent to hand me a file, her blouse gaped just enough to give me the full view of what she thought was her ticket to a promotion.

It wasn’t.

Sure, it made my cock twitch in my slacks — I’m not dead — but I didn’t want her. I only wanted one. And she had avoided me like a plague.

Then my phone lit up. Caleb.

Without a word, I waved a hand. “Out.”

No one argued. The room emptied in under thirty seconds.

I answered. “Caleb?”

“Hey, uncle. How’s it going? When are you coming back to town?”

“Not for another week. Why?”

He hesitated. “It’s about Thalassa. The art gallery she works for went under, and she lost her job. Got evicted. I thought maybe you could help her out. Give her a job. And to ask if she can stay at the house until she gets back on her feet.”

The sound of her name was a punch to the gut.

Thalassa.

And just like that, I was back at the Reyes Christmas party last year, the noise, music, laughter, all fading the moment I saw her. Damn that fucking red hair, shining like copper under the lights. The way that black dress clung to her curves, making her look nothing like the innocent little fiancée my nephew had introduced with a proud arm around her waist.

I remembered the way her green eyes had found mine across the room, wide and defiant, like she knew she had no business looking at me that way but couldn’t stop herself. I couldn’t stop either.

I remembered cornering her in the hallway, the taste of champagne still on her lips when I kissed her. Her startled gasp, the way her body arched into mine even as she whispered my name like it was a curse.

The way her fingers had curled around my cock like she owned it, like she’d been waiting for the chance, like she wasn’t terrified of what we were doing.

It was reckless. It was wrong. It was the best fucking mistake of my life.

Even now, my cock hardened at the memory, pressing against my slacks like a brand I couldn’t erase.

I shifted in my chair. “Yes,” I said finally, clearing my throat, forcing the words out. “She can move in. I’ll look at her CV when I get back. That’s all? I have a meeting.”

“Yeah, thanks, uncle—” I hung up before he could finish.

“She belongs to my nephew,” I muttered. “That was just a mistake.”

But even saying it out loud, I knew I didn’t believe a single word. I hit the intercom. “Leo. Get the jet ready.”

He appeared within minutes, “You’re leaving now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Leo nodded and left.

The door clicked shut, and my new hire stepped in with a puzzled smile. “But sir… we only just got here.”

She trailed her fingers over my shoulder, nails light against my shirt. For half a second, I let my eyes close — but it wasn’t her touch I felt. It was Thalassa’s.

I turned, grabbed the woman by the waist, and pulled her to me. Her giggle was light, eager. She thought she’d won something.

I kissed her hard. She melted against me, and when I slid a hand over her breast, she was already reaching for my belt. She sank to her knees without me asking.

I watched her take me into her mouth, my mind not even here, seeing only Thalassa’s face, hearing only the sound she’d made that night.

Thirty minutes later, I came hard, my fingers fisted in her hair.

When she was wiping her mouth and fixing her blouse, I zipped my pants. “The moment the plane lands,” I said flatly, “you’re fired.”

I walked out without looking back.

Leo was waiting in the hall.

“Did it feel good?” he asked, his tone sharp enough to mean more than it said.

“No. She was terrible. Is the plane ready?”

“Yes.”

By the time the wheels touched down in London, I’d convinced myself I wouldn’t even see her until later. That she wouldn’t have moved in this quickly.

But the second I stepped into the house, I heard music. Loud, bouncy — nothing I’d ever listen to — coming from the kitchen.

I moved quietly down the hall.

She was there.

Dancing in nothing but a towel, hips swaying, her hair damp from a shower. Pizza in one hand. Fried chicken in the other.

“Thalassa?” I said.

She spun around, eyes wide. The towel slipped from her body and hit the floor.

Fuck me.