The next morning, Alan pretended I didn't exist. Curt emails instead of conversations. Canceled our morning briefing. Door closed for every call.
The entire 40th floor felt it—that crackling, dangerous tension radiating from his glass cage. People walked faster past his office. Spoke quieter. Like they could sense something was about to detonate.
I was furious. At him for agreeing to "handle" me like a fucking problem. At Henri for pulling strings like we were all his puppets. At myself for remembering exactly how Alan's mouth had tasted on that terrace, how his hand had felt sliding up my thigh.
That anger—that confusion, that want I couldn't shut down—made me reckless.
Wednesday morning, I opened my closet and made a choice. Not beige. Not invisible. Not the safe, professional armor I'd been hiding behind.
The black pencil skirt was an event—high-waisted, molded to every curve, the kind of thing that made walking an act of defiance. Paired with a cream silk blouse that suggested everything and revealed nothing.
This was armor too. Just a different kind. The kind that said if you're going to destroy me, look at what you're throwing away.
I walked into the office at 8:47 AM. Heels clicking on marble. Spine straight. Every step deliberate.
The effect was immediate and extremely satisfying.
Marc from Finance dropped his coffee. Literally fumbled it, hot liquid splattering on expensive carpet. Thomas from Legal walked into a door frame while staring. Even the women looked—a mix of respect and what-the-hell-is-she-doing.
I felt their eyes. Felt the shift in energy. Felt powerful and reckless and done pretending to be invisible.
Good.
At the water cooler, Julien materialized like he'd been waiting. "Élise. Wow." His gaze traveled down, then up, lingering on my legs. "You look incredible."
"Thanks, Julien." Professional smile. Neutral tone.
"I wanted to check on you after that dinner. The whole Senator thing..." He stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "That was intense. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Good. Because I was thinking—if you're free this weekend, maybe we could grab drinks? Talk about something other than contracts for once?"
Before I could formulate a polite rejection, the intercom exploded.
"MADAME GARNIER." Alan's voice blasted from my desk speaker, so loud it echoed down the entire hallway. "MY OFFICE. IMMEDIATELY."
Julien actually flinched. Stepped back like Alan might materialize and murder him on the spot.
"Right. Duty calls." He practically ran away.
My face burned, but I refused to rush. I smoothed my skirt, grabbed my tablet, and walked the long corridor to his office. Through that glass wall, I could feel his eyes tracking every single step.
The anticipation was suffocating. My pulse hammered. This was it—the termination meeting, the end, the "handling" he'd promised Henri.
I entered. "You wanted to see me, Monsieur?"
He stood. Walked to the door.
The lock clicked into place.
That sound—soft, deliberate, final—sent electricity down my spine. The frosted glass suddenly felt less like transparency and more like a barrier between us and the rest of the world.
"What," he said, voice dangerously quiet, "is that?"
He wasn't gesturing to my tablet. He meant my outfit. My armor. My declaration.
"My clothes, Monsieur." Innocent. Professional.
He moved toward me slowly, a predator closing distance. His eyes raked over me—the skirt, the blouse, the legs he'd had his hands on two nights ago.
"That is a provocation."
"It's a skirt."
"Don't." His eyes were black, blazing. "I have an entire legal department that can't focus. You're distracting my staff."
"Me?" I lifted my chin, refusing to back down. "Maybe your staff needs better discipline."
"You know exactly what you're doing." He stopped inches away, forcing me to look up. "You think because the wedding is postponed, you can play games? Walk around my floor looking like that?"
The rage in his voice wasn't just about the skirt. It was about everything—the terrace, the penthouse, Henri's phone call, the impossible situation we were both trapped in.
"I'm not playing anything," I said, my own fury rising. "I'm doing my job. If you have a problem with my appearance, write me up. Fire me. Do whatever you're planning to do anyway."
Something shifted in his expression. Confusion. Anger. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't insult me." My voice cracked. "I heard you last night. On the phone with Henri. 'Let me handle it.' So handle it. Get it over with."
His jaw clenched. "You think—"
"I think you made your choice. Your grandfather wanted me gone, and you agreed."
"Because—" He grabbed my wrist, pulling me against him. Not gentle. Not asking. "Because you drive me absolutely fucking insane."
His mouth crashed down on mine.
Not careful. Not controlled. Pure frustration and want and fury all tangled together in a kiss that tasted like desperation.
I should have pushed him away. Should have slapped him. Should have reminded him about his fiancée, his grandfather, his entire goddamn empire.
Instead, I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air.
My tablet clattered to the floor. His hands gripped my waist, backing me against his desk. Papers scattered, a coffee mug tipped, cold liquid spreading across expensive wood.
Neither of us cared.
"This outfit," he growled against my mouth, his hand sliding down to grip my hip, then lower to the curve of my ass. "You wore this to torture me."
"I wore this because I'm furious with you."
"Good." His hand found the hem of my skirt, fingers sliding underneath. "Be furious."
His palm was fire against my stocking, sliding higher. I gasped as his fingers found bare skin above the lace, his touch burning.
"What beautiful legs," he murmured against my neck, his breath hot. "Did you wear this for him? For that lawyer to stare at?"
"No—"
His hand slid higher, between my thighs, and I stopped breathing.
"You're wet," he whispered, his voice thick and wrecked. "For your boss."
His fingers pressed against me through thin fabric. My head fell back, a sound escaping my throat that I'd deny making later.
He pushed the fabric aside. One finger slid inside me, and I cried out—sharp, involuntary, desperate.
"Fuck," he breathed against my ear, feeling how ready I was. He added a second finger, pushing deeper, his thumb finding my clit.
My nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring myself as my mind shut down. This was insane. Reckless. We were in his office with people right outside—
He pressed his body fully against me, his erection hard and insistent against my hip. He started moving his fingers, slow and deliberate, watching my face with dark, hungry eyes.
"Say it," he commanded, his mouth moving to my ear. "Say you want this, Élise. Say you're mine."
The words were on my lips, everything rational dissolving into pure need—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
We both froze. His fingers still inside me. My leg hitched up around his hip. Both of us breathing like we'd run a marathon.
Anna Artois stood outside the locked glass door, her face a mask of cold, controlled fury. Phone pressed to her ear like evidence.
"Alan?" Her voice was muffled but clear through the glass. "I know you're in there. Open this door. We need to talk about your grandfather. Now."
Reality crashed back with the force of a freight train. The locked door. His hand still between my legs. Papers scattered everywhere. My leg wrapped around him.
His eyes met mine—wild, desperate, absolutely wrecked.
We were completely, utterly fucked.