Maya POV
“You can do body shots, but you can’t even handle a simple task?”
The voice sliced through the air like a cold slap. I didn’t even need to turn around. I already knew who it was.
I rolled my eyes before facing him. “What can I do for you?”
There he stood, dark suit crisp, jaw tight, eyes colder than ever. Noah Sterling, in all his judgmental, sharp-tongued glory. It had been three whole days since the office holiday party—three days since he yanked me out of a crowd like I was some disobedient child, dragged me outside, and yelled at me like I’d embarrassed the entire company.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t even do the body shot.
I almost did. And yeah, that was bad judgment. But honestly? He had no right. And yet—here he was, still holding it over my head like it was some kind of scarlet letter pinned to my chest.
I spun back to my computer, tapping my pen against the desk in frustration. “It didn’t even happen,” I muttered. “I didn’t do it.”
“But you were about to,” he replied smoothly, stepping closer. “And now, three days later, you still can’t get this content pitch right.”
I stood, trying to keep calm, even though my skin was already prickling from his proximity. “I’m doing my best, okay? But it’s hard to do that when you keep dismissing everything I say before I even finish a sentence.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the content specialist. You’re supposed to know what you’re doing.”
That was it. That little dig—disguised as professional critique but dipped in venom—sent something inside me snapping.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I bit out, throwing my pen onto the desk. “I must’ve missed the part where this became a one-man show where you insult people into giving you results.”
His face didn’t move, but something in his jaw twitched.
“I’ve given ideas,” I continued, voice rising slightly. “I’ve written drafts, built strategies, and all you’ve done is crumple them up and say they’re useless.”
“Because they are,” he said coolly. “And if you can’t take feedback, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
My heart dropped.
And that was when I opened my mouth—to tell him off, to tell him that I do belong here, that I’ve worked five years without ever being seen, and I’m done being stepped on.
But before I could get a single word out, Noah stepped forward and grabbed my wrist.
“Come with me.”
“What—”
He didn’t let me finish.
His grip was tight—not rough, but strong enough to remind me of that night at the party. That same heat, that same control. I stumbled to keep up as he pulled me through the hallway, past confused glances, until he threw open the door to the small glass-walled meeting room at the end of the floor.
He pushed the door shut behind us with a loud thud.
And then—he turned around. We were inches apart. Breathless. Tense.
I could feel the heat of him like a furnace against my skin. My chest rose and fell too quickly. My hand was still tingling where he touched it. His eyes locked onto mine—stormy, furious, but there was something else behind it. Something deeper. Wilder.
I could barely breathe.
“What is your problem with me?” I whispered, my voice shaking more than I wanted it to.
He didn’t answer. Just stared at me.
I could feel his anger—yes. But also… something that made my heart stumble in my chest.
This wasn’t about the project anymore. This wasn’t about the pitch or my notes or the stupid draft he’d just shredded five minutes ago.
It was something else.
And I think he knew it, too. “Noah…” I started, unsure of what I was even going to say.
But I never got the chance. Because he turned without a word, yanked the meeting room door open, and stormed out.
Leaving me standing there alone, confused, my heart thudding so hard it echoed in my ears.
I stared at the door for a moment, still catching my breath, still gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
“What the fuck is wrong with that man?” I whispered into the silence.