POV Norah
“Stop eyefucking him every time he walks by,” Fiona hissed over her coffee, eyes wide with the kind of gleeful judgment only your friend could get away with.
I nearly choked on my latte. “I am not—”
“You are, girl.” She smirked, flicking a crumb off her blouse like she had just dropped an indisputable fact. “Stop it before anyone catches on. You’ll have an investigation on your hands, and trust me, those are never sexy.”
Heat rushed up my neck, but I kept my voice steady.
“I am not eyefucking him. I’m just… looking.”
“Looking at his mouth like it owes you money.” Fiona leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Norah, don’t play innocent. I see it.”
My pulse jumped, too fast, too guilty. I shoved my laptop bag higher on my shoulder, muttering, “You’re exaggerating.”
But the truth clung to me as I walked back through the polished hallways of Crawford Empire. Because Fiona was right.
Since the night Xander and I had crossed that line—three nights ago—it had been impossible to stop.
His gaze lingered too long in meetings. His hand brushed mine in elevators, casual to everyone else but electric to me. His voice dipped low when no one else was around, threaded with promise.
And every morning, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I whispered the same lie: This is just a business transaction. Nothing more.
The lie cracked every time he looked at me.
That afternoon, my door opened without a knock. He filled the frame, crisp suit and sharp eyes, a storm wearing human skin.
“I need you in my office,” he said. Not a request.
Butterflies whipped through me. My mouth formed the safest answer. “Yes, sir.”
I followed him down the corridor, pulse echoing in my ears. My mind screamed warnings—don’t do this, don’t let him undo you again—but my body thrilled with anticipation.
When the door shut behind us with a soft click, Xander didn’t waste a second.
His mouth was on mine before I could breathe, stealing air, sense, reason. Papers scattered as he swept his desk clear with one decisive motion.
“Xander—”
“Shut up, Norah,” he growled against my lips, hands already sliding under my blouse. “You’ve been staring at me all damn day.”
“I have not,” I gasped, but my body betrayed me, arching into him.
“You have.” His smirk was dangerous, addicting. “And you know it.”
Then I wasn’t thinking anymore. His desk was cold against my thighs, his body hot against mine. Every kiss was wild, desperate, like we were making up for years of restraint.
His tie brushed my cheek as he bent to bite down on my throat, and I bit back a moan that would’ve carried straight through the glass walls.
The sound of footsteps outside sliced through the haze.
We froze, both of us breathing hard, my blouse half-open, his tie undone.
“Norah,” he hissed. “Get under the desk.”
“What?”
“Now.” His tone was sharp enough to cut steel.
Adrenaline spiked. I scrambled off the desk, nearly tripping as I dropped to my knees. The space beneath was cramped, stuffed with boxes and binders. My heartbeat was deafening as I crouched low, fumbling with the buttons of my blouse.
The door opened.
“Mr. Crawford?” It was one of the assistants, her heels clicking on the polished floor.
“Yes,” Xander said smoothly, his voice suddenly all business, as if he hadn’t just had me pinned against his desk.
She rattled off updates—meetings, schedules, client calls. I hugged my knees under the desk, breath shallow, praying she wouldn’t notice the heat radiating from my flushed skin.
Every second stretched like glass about to shatter and I kept still. Tried to breathe quietly. My fingers shook as I fastened the last button.
Finally, the assistant left and the door behind her clicked shut.
“Norah,” Xander said, his tone dropping. “You can come out now.”
I crawled out slowly, my hair a mess, my knees sore from the hardwood. That’s when I noticed it—perched neatly on the corner of his desk.
A framed photograph.
Xander, in a tuxedo, with his arm around a woman I recognized instantly. The kind of woman plastered across billboards and magazines.
A model. Gorgeous and perfect.
The pang hit sharp and bitter, sinking low in my stomach, and I picked up the frame before I could think better of it.
“Well, well. Didn’t know you were into celebrities.” I forced a teasing lilt, but the sourness in my voice betrayed me.
His eyes snapped to mine, dark and unreadable.
“I mean,” I went on, twirling the photo in my hand, “explains a lot. No wonder you—”
The sentence never finished. He strode over and ripped the frame from my hands. Without a single word, he smashed it against the desk. Glass cracked, splintered, rained across the polished surface.
I gasped. “Xander—”
His jaw clenched. He picked up the ruined photo, tore it clean in half, and tossed both pieces into the bin with the shards.
“The past doesn’t belong here,” he said flatly.