We were frozen. His fingers still inside me. My leg still hitched around his hip. Both of us staring at Anna through frosted glass like we'd been caught committing a felony.
Which, let's be honest, we kind of were.
Another knock. Sharper. Impatient.
"Shit," Alan hissed.
He pulled his hand out—a slick, obscene sound that made my face burn with humiliation so intense I wanted to dissolve into the floor.
His eyes met mine for half a second. Wild. Calculating. Then his expression went cold and decisive.
"Under the desk," he commanded, voice low and harsh. "Now."
I stared at him. "What?"
"Now, Élise."
Shock took over. Adrenaline. The understanding that if I walked out right now—disheveled, lips bruised, skirt hiked up—Anna would know exactly what we'd been doing.
I had no choice.
I dropped to my knees and scrambled into the dark, cramped space beneath his massive mahogany desk. Pulled my skirt down with shaking hands. Tried to make myself as small as possible in this humiliating, impossible space.
My heart pounded so hard I was convinced Anna would hear it. I felt like a cheap fucking prostitute hiding from a client's wife. No—worse. At least sex workers get paid properly for this level of degradation.
This was free humiliation. Premium-grade shame with zero compensation.
My knees pressed into cold marble. The space smelled like leather and expensive wood polish and him—that cologne that had been all over me five minutes ago when his fingers were inside me and the world made a twisted kind of sense.
Now? Crouched in the dark like a mistress in a bad French film. Fantastic. Really living my best life here.
Above me, Alan straightened his tie. Ran a hand through his hair. Sat down, his legs bracketing me on either side.
The lock clicked open.
Anna stormed in like an avenging angel, her heels clicking sharp and furious on marble.
"Why was the door locked, Alan?" Ice in every syllable.
"Confidential call." He lied without missing a beat, voice perfectly calm. "Security protocol."
From my hiding spot in the shadows, I watched her shoes stop just inches from where I crouched. Expensive stilettos. Probably cost more than my rent.
I could smell her perfume—something cloying and designer, choking the air.
Anna didn't leave. Didn't accept his explanation and walk away like a normal person.
No. She sat down in the visitor's chair. Directly in front of the desk. Directly in front of me.
Trapping me.
"We need to talk about the merger timeline," she said, voice sharp and businesslike. "My father is furious about the terrace incident. He's questioning whether you can maintain the professional image this partnership requires."
Partnership. Not engagement. Not relationship. Partnership.
"I am handling your father," Alan said, voice dropping to that cold corporate tone.
"Are you?" Anna's laugh was brittle, calculating. "Because our families have invested significant political capital in this arrangement. The optics matter, Alan. My father's senate committee controls the data privacy legislation that affects your Iris Project rollout. Or have you forgotten that detail?"
Silence. Heavy and transactional.
"This merger benefits both our interests," Anna continued, her tone pure business negotiation. "You get political protection and access to EU markets. I get the Delaunay name and a seat on your board. It's a clean exchange. But these public scenes—dragging me to dinners, then assaulting my father in front of witnesses—they damage the brand we're building."
Brand. Not marriage. Not partnership. Brand.
I could see Alan's hand resting on the desk just above my head. Completely still. His knuckles were white.
"And that assistant of yours," Anna added, voice dropping. "Whatever distraction she represents needs to be eliminated. My father won't tolerate this instability. Neither will I. Handle it, or I walk—and I take my father's senate votes with me."
The silence stretched. I held my breath.
"I am busy, Anna," Alan said finally, his voice flat. "We will discuss the contract terms tonight."
Contract terms. Not relationship. Not feelings.
A dismissal. Cold and final.
"Are you serious right now?" Anna's voice climbed, losing some of that calculated composure. "You avoid our strategy meetings. You barely acknowledge me in public anymore. You look at her. Is your precious assistant worth losing everything we've built?"
Everything we've built. A business arrangement wrapped in engagement ring packaging.
"We will discuss this tonight," Alan repeated, his voice dropping even lower. Icier.
Anna huffed—pure frustration that a negotiation wasn't going her way. Her chair scraped back violently. She stood, heels clicking toward the door.
"Fine. Tonight. And Alan?" She paused at the threshold. "My father expects a decision by Friday. Either you recommit to our arrangement, or we announce an amicable separation and I keep my board seat as severance. Choose wisely."
The door slammed. The sound echoed like a gavel.
Ten agonizing seconds of silence.
"You can come out."
His voice was flat. Empty. Like nothing had just happened.
I crawled out from under the desk, my knees screaming, my entire body trembling with rage and humiliation and something darker I refused to name.
I couldn't look at him. If I looked at him, I'd either cry or commit violence. Maybe both. Probably both.
I yanked my skirt down, smoothing wrinkles that would never smooth out. My hair was a mess. My lipstick was gone—probably smeared all over his mouth ten minutes ago. My face burned hot enough to melt glass.
This was it. Rock bottom. The lowest point of my professional career, crouched under a desk while his fiancée negotiated their business arrangement merger marriage thing.
And the worst part? The absolute worst fucking part?
I could still feel where his hands had been. Where his fingers had been inside me. My body was still humming with want even while my brain screamed about dignity and self-respect and basic human decency.
Traitor. My entire body was a traitor.
"Never," I whispered, my voice shaking, "ever do that to me again."
He just stared at me. Those dark eyes still holding traces of the desire from ten minutes ago. The possessiveness. The hunger.
Like I was something he owned. Something he could stuff under a desk when inconvenient and pull back out when he felt like it.
"You knew where you were, Élise," he said, his voice rough. "Don't provoke a man you can't handle."
The words hit like a slap. Like this was somehow my fault. Like I'd asked to be hidden like dirty laundry while his business-arrangement fiancée discussed their transactional relationship.
"Provoke?" My voice came out strangled. "I wore a skirt to work. You're the one who locked the door. You're the one who—"
I couldn't finish. Couldn't say out loud what we'd done. What he'd done to me. What I'd let him do.
His phone pinged softly on the desk, the screen lighting up. I couldn't help but see the preview before it vanished: Your custom order is ready.
He glanced at the notification. Something flickered across his face—shock, maybe, or recognition—before his expression went completely flat. Void of any emotion.
He looked at me with eyes like ice.
"Effective tomorrow, Madame Garnier," he said, his voice pure ice. "You are being transferred to the Legal department for today. Get out of my sight."