The morning after was brutal. My lips were still swollen—evidence of my complete fucking stupidity—and the entire office knew something had gone down at the dinner.
Whispers in the break room. Knowing looks. The gossip mill working overtime.
Alan wasn't even in. His calendar said "Off-site" which was code for "mind your goddamn business."
I should've been relieved. Instead, I kept touching my mouth, remembering.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
At noon, an email detonated in my inbox. Sender: Alan Delaunay. Subject: "Tonight."
Oh, this was going to be a disaster.
"You will be working from my penthouse this evening to finalize the Iris projections. My driver will pick you up at 6 PM. Bring all relevant files."
Not "Can you?" or "Would you mind?" Just a flat command. Classic Alan—reasserting control after losing his shit on that terrace.
This was punishment disguised as work. And I had zero choice but to show up.
The Maybach arrived at six like clockwork. Black, sleek, expensive. The kind of car that screamed "I own things, including possibly you."
The penthouse was exactly what you'd expect from a billionaire with control issues—all glass and marble, overlooking Paris like he'd personally purchased the view. Silent except for water sounds coming from somewhere inside.
I followed the noise to a room with a massive indoor pool. Alan was swimming laps. Back and forth, mechanical and relentless, like he was trying to drown something.
Or someone. Possibly himself.
He saw me enter. Didn't stop. Just kept swimming.
I stood there like an idiot, briefcase in hand, watching water slice off his shoulders with each stroke. The pool was lit from below, turning everything blue and surreal.
He was doing this on purpose. Making me wait. Making me watch.
Ten minutes of this power play before he finally stopped at the shallow end. He stood, water streaming down his chest, and looked directly at me.
"You're early," he said.
"Your driver picked me up at six. As ordered."
"Eager to get started?" The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something darker.
"Eager to finish and leave."
He pulled himself out of the pool in one fluid motion, muscles shifting under wet skin. Grabbed a towel. Wrapped it low around his waist—dangerously low.
Then walked straight toward me, leaving wet footprints on marble.
He didn't stop until he was maybe two feet away. Close enough that I could smell chlorine and that expensive cologne he wore. Close enough to see water droplets caught in his collarbone.
"You're dripping on your floor," I said.
"My floor. My water. My problem." His eyes were dark, intense. "Unless you're offering to help dry me off?"
My face burned. "Absolutely not."
"Pity." He moved past me into the study, deliberately brushing my shoulder. "You seem tense, Élise. Pool's heated if you'd like to... relax."
"I'm here to work, Monsieur."
"Of course you are." He leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, still half-naked. Water dripped from his hair onto his chest. "Always so professional."
The sarcasm was thick enough to choke on.
"Report," he said, voice dropping to that flat, controlled tone.
I stared at my tablet like it contained the meaning of life. Anywhere but at his bare chest. Anywhere but at the way that towel sat low on his hips.
"The projections for Iris are stable, Monsieur."
He didn't even glance at the screen. Just stared at my mouth. At my bruised, swollen lips that were still marked from last night.
The silence stretched. Suffocating.
He was daring me to crack. To mention the terrace. To acknowledge that I'd kissed him back like my life depended on it.
"Is that all?" His voice was bored now. Detached. Like I was reciting quarterly earnings.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Good." He turned toward the hallway. "Finish the report. I'll be in my study."
"You should probably put on a shirt first."
He stopped. Looked back at me with something dangerous in his eyes. "Why? Does it bother you?"
Yes. Absolutely. Completely.
"No," I lied. "Just concerned about your professionalism."
His laugh was cold. "Right. My professionalism. That's definitely what concerns you."
He left. I sat there shaking—half rage, half something I absolutely refused to name.
Focus. Work. Don't think about him.
I pulled up the Iris files, started cross-referencing budget streams. Standard corporate archaeology. Then I saw it—an anomaly buried in the encryption.
A separate budget line. "Protocol 1810." Same number as the archive password. Not suspicious at all.
I clicked deeper. The money wasn't going to AI development. It was being funneled to some private medical research company in Switzerland. A company I'd never heard of.
This wasn't just corporate espionage anymore. This was darker. Messier. The kind of shit that ends with someone disappearing.
Then his private line rang. The emergency-only one.
I froze, pretending to work while my blood went cold.
"What?" Alan's voice cut through the silence. Sharp. Angry. Then: "What do you mean, 'weakness'?"
Henri. Had to be.
I couldn't see him from my desk, but I heard everything. Every word a knife.
"And you are suggesting that I 'get rid of her'?"
Time stopped. The world tilted sideways.
This was it. Henri wanted me gone. Terminated. Disappeared. Whatever euphemism rich people used for destroying inconvenient problems.
I waited for Alan to explode. To tell his grandfather to fuck off. To defend me like he had with the Senator.
But the explosion never came.
"I understand the position, Henri." His voice was ice. Empty. "Let me handle it."
The line went dead.
I sat there, completely numb. Shock spreading through me like poison.
He'd agreed. Just like that. No fight. No hesitation.
After everything—the kiss, the confrontation, the way he'd looked at me like I mattered—he was still choosing his grandfather. His empire. His fucking legacy.
Over me.
Footsteps. Steady and controlled.
Alan appeared in the doorway, now dressed. His face was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes. Regret, maybe. Or just annoyance that he'd have to deal with this mess.
"Élise," he said quietly.
I stood, grabbing my stuff with shaking hands. Couldn't look at him. If I looked at him, I'd completely lose it.
"I should go."
"Wait."
I stopped. Back to him. Every muscle locked.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, voice still that terrible calm. "We need to talk. About your future at Veridian."
Professional. Clinical. A termination meeting wrapped in corporate-speak.
I nodded once and walked to the elevator. The doors closed on him standing there, backlit and distant.
The elevator descended. I pressed my hand against my mouth, holding in the sound threatening to escape.
I'd let myself believe—for one stupid, reckless moment on that rain-soaked terrace—that maybe he felt something. That maybe I wasn't just another problem to solve.
Wrong. So completely wrong.
I was collateral damage in the Delaunay family war. Always had been. And Alan had just made his choice crystal clear.
Tomorrow, he'd fire me. Probably throw money at me to keep quiet about everything I'd seen.
And I'd lose my job. My insurance. Any chance of saving Amélie.
All because I'd been dumb enough to kiss him back. To let myself want something that was never mine to want.
The elevator doors opened to the lobby. Cold marble. Empty space.
I walked out into the Paris night, alone, with the taste of his kiss still on my lips and the knowledge that tomorrow, everything ended.