Monday morning arrived too soon.
I'd barely slept, tossing and turning while James's words played on repeat in my head. Recommend me for CEO, and I'll leave her. The audacity of it. The calculation.
And worse—the part of me that had actually considered it, even for a moment.
I arrived at Pemberton Corp earlier than usual, hoping routine would anchor me. Coffee. Emails. Calendar review. The familiar rhythm of tasks I could control when everything else felt like chaos.
By mid-morning, my inbox was organized, my desk was spotless, and I'd responded to every pending message. But the knot in my stomach remained, tight and unforgiving.
My phone buzzed. Charles's extension.
"Belle, I need you in the executive conference room. Bring your tablet—we're discussing the Harrison account."
The Harrison account. One of our largest clients, responsible for twelve percent of annual revenue. Whatever this was, it was serious.
I gathered my things and made my way to the conference room. Charles stood at the head of the table, his expression grave. James sat on one side, posture rigid and professional, not meeting my eyes.
And Sebastian lounged in one of the leather chairs with calculated nonchalance.
I hated that I noticed him first.
Hated the way my gaze automatically catalogued the breadth of his shoulders beneath his tailored jacket, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell carelessly across his forehead.
He looked like he'd rolled out of bed looking that effortlessly striking, and the injustice of it irritated me almost as much as the man himself.
His grey eyes found mine as I entered, and something flickered there—amusement, perhaps. Recognition of my discomfort. He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was suppressing one.
I looked away quickly, taking my seat beside Charles.
"Thank you all for coming on short notice," Charles began. "Harrison & Associates is reconsidering their contract renewal. They're demanding a comprehensive presentation before making any decisions.”
“How many time do we have?”
“Two weeks to convince them we're still the right partner."
"What prompted this?" Sebastian leaned forward, all traces of casualness vanishing.
When he focused, really focused, there was an intensity to him that made the air feel charged. His mind worked visibly behind those grey eyes, already calculating angles and solutions.
It was infuriating. And undeniably attractive.
"Competition," Charles replied. "A newer firm has been courting them aggressively."
"Then we show them why experience matters," James said smoothly. "Harrison has been with us for eight years. That relationship has value."
"Relationship alone won't save this account," Sebastian countered. "They need to see we can match whatever the competition is offering. Strategy, not sentimentality."
I watched Sebastian as he spoke, the confident set of his shoulders, the way he commanded attention without raising his voice.
There was something magnetic about his certainty—even when it bordered on arrogance.
"Gentlemen." Charles raised a hand. "This is precisely why I'm assigning you both to this project. Together. Belle will assist both candidates throughout this process."
My stomach dropped. Forced proximity with both of them. Indefinitely.
The meeting concluded with assignments and deadlines. Sebastian and James exchanged looks cold enough to frost the windows, but they agreed professionally. Small mercies.
As everyone filed out, I lingered to gather my notes. Sebastian passed my chair, close enough that I caught his scent—something warm and woody that I definitely shouldn't have noticed.
"Try to keep up, Ashworth," he murmured, low enough for only me to hear. "This project requires actual competence."
"I'll try to match your overwhelming humility," I shot back.
That almost-smile appeared again. "There she is. I was worried the weekend had dulled your edges."
He was gone before I could respond, leaving me irritated and flushed and refusing to examine why.
I spent the afternoon setting up the war room, grateful for tasks that kept my hands busy. Sebastian worked with sharp efficiency, requesting reports and data without unnecessary conversation.
Professional. Focused. Almost tolerable when he wasn't actively trying to provoke me.
I found myself watching him when he wasn't looking—the furrow between his brows when he concentrated, the way he drummed his fingers against the table while thinking, the occasional muttered curse when numbers didn't align.
Small human moments that cracked through his polished exterior.
Late afternoon, Sebastian's phone rang. He glanced at the screen, frowned, and stepped into the hallway.
Leaving me alone with James.
The silence stretched between us like a wire pulled too tight. I kept my eyes on my laptop, hyper-aware of his presence across the table.
"You've been avoiding me," James said quietly. "Since Friday. Since I told you the truth."
"I've been working."
"Belle." His voice softened into something dangerously familiar. He stood, moving around the table toward me.
"James, don't—"
"I have something for you." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.
My heart stopped. For one horrible moment, I was back in his apartment, finding a ring meant for someone else.
"It's not—" He saw my expression and shook his head quickly. "Just open it."
I took the box with trembling fingers. Inside, nestled against dark silk, was a brooch. Art deco, delicate gold filigree surrounding a small sapphire. Vintage. Beautiful.
And achingly familiar.
"The street market," I whispered. "Two years ago. We were walking through Camden and I saw this in a window..."
"You stopped for ten minutes. Told me about your grandmother's brooch, how she'd let you wear it for special occasions, how it made you feel like a princess."
James's voice was rough. "You said it reminded you of feeling loved."
I remembered. I'd mentioned it once, offhandedly, then moved on because we couldn't afford luxuries like sentiment.
He'd remembered.
"I went back the next week," James continued. "I've been saving it. Waiting for the right moment."
He stepped closer, his hand finding my waist with familiar ease. "I know I've made mistakes, Belle. Unforgivable ones. But the good parts—they were real. What we had was real."
The brooch blurred as tears pricked my eyes. This wasn't fair. He wasn't allowed to do this—to remind me of the James who noticed things, who cared, who made me feel seen.
His thumb traced circles against my hip, and my body responded before my mind could catch up. Six years of muscle memory, of knowing his touch, of associating his warmth with safety.
"You still feel it," he murmured against my temple. "I know you do."
I did. That was the problem.
"Don't." I pulled away, clutching the brooch box like evidence. "Don't touch me like you have the right."
"I'm not giving up on us, Belle." His expression was patient. Certain. "Take the brooch. Remember what we were. And when you're ready—I'll be here."
He left without another word.
I stood alone in the conference room, the weight of the brooch in my palm, fury burning through my veins—at him for knowing exactly which wounds to reopen, at myself for responding.
For wanting to believe him.