[POV Xander]
The elevator doors slid shut, and I was acutely aware of every inch of space between us. Daphne pressed herself against the far wall, clutching her tablet like a shield.
As if that flimsy piece of technology could protect her from the questions burning through my mind. From the tension that had been building since the moment she walked back into my life.
I stared straight ahead at the brushed metal doors, jaw clenched, trying to focus on anything other than the way Archie had looked at her in that hallway. The way he'd leaned close, made her laugh, touched her shoulder like he had any right to…
The image seared through me—his hand on her arm, her smile bright and unguarded in a way it never was around me.
I had no claim on her. I knew that. Whatever we'd shared five years ago had been one night, nothing more. She'd made it clear she wanted to keep things professional, and I'd agreed.
But watching Archie turn on his charm, watching her respond to it… Something dark and possessive coiled in my chest.
"Are you and Mr. Hankel... friends?" Her voice cut through my thoughts.
I caught her reflection in the polished doors—curious, cautious, studying me with those beautiful big grey eyes that had haunted me for five years.
I snorted. "Not exactly."
The elevator dinged before she could push further. I stepped out, grateful for the escape, and led her into my office. But I could feel her following, her curiosity a tangible thing pressing against my back.
I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over my chair, buying time. Trying to decide how much to tell her. How much I wanted her to know.
"We met in business school," I said finally, moving to the window.
The city sprawled beneath me—glass towers and crawling traffic, everything I'd built from nothing. "Archibald Hankel. Son of Richard Hankel. Hotel empire, old money stretching back generations. Everything handed to him on a silver platter."
"And you?" she asked carefully.
"I was there on a scholarship. Working two jobs to afford textbooks while he showed up in cars that cost more than my mother's house." I turned to face her, arms crossed. "We were paired together on a project first semester. Professors thought it would be good for us."
"I'm guessing things didn't go well?"
A small smile she added to this question made something to my chest.
Christ, she still affects me so easily… But I do my best to keep my face neutral. Professional.
"He thought I was too serious. I thought he was a spoiled child playing at business." I paused, old frustrations surfacing. "We clashed constantly. Still do. But our companies have overlapping interests, so we tolerate each other."
"He seems to enjoy provoking you," Daphne observed.
My jaw tightened. The image of him touching her hair, leaning close, flashed through my mind again. "Archie enjoys provoking everyone. It's his favorite sport."
I held her gaze, willing her to understand what I couldn't say directly.
"He's also very good at getting what he wants. The charm, the jokes—it's all calculated. Don't let it fool you."
Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition that I was warning her about more than just business dealings.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said neutrally.
We shifted to work—safer ground. Upcoming meetings, schedule changes, the Thornton Group dinner. I watched her make notes on her tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration, and felt that familiar pull in my chest.
Five years, and she was still the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
She reached for the glass of water on my desk, and I saw her hand tremble slightly. The glass tipped and almost slipped from her hand. Water spilled everywhere—across my papers, across the desk… and across her blouse.
She gasped, jumping back, but the damage was done. The fabric clung to her skin, translucent in patches, and I saw…
God help me, I saw everything.
Black lace against pale skin. The curve of her breasts beneath the soaked material, perced small peaks from cold water. The way the fabric molded to her body like a second skin.
My mouth went dry. Heat shot through me, sudden and overwhelming.
I still remember how she tasted, how warm and smooth her skin was that night. How eagerly her body melted under me, how sweetly she whimpered when my mouth was on her…
"I'm so sorry!" She grabbed for napkins, dabbing frantically at her chest, and the movement only drew my attention more firmly to exactly where it shouldn't be. "I'll clean this up, I'm so clumsy…"
I moved without thinking, rounding the desk with tissues in hand. "Here."
I reached toward her, then stopped.
We were inches apart. Close enough that I could smell her perfume—something soft and floral that triggered memories I'd tried to bury. Close enough that I could see the rapid pulse at her throat, the flush spreading across her cheeks.
My eyes dropped to her blouse again. I couldn't help it.
The lace. The curve. The memory of what she looked like beneath, how she'd felt in my arms, the sounds she'd made when I finally…
I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze back to her face.
She was staring at me. Those eyes—wide, light grey and uncertain, but something else there too. Something that mirrored the hunger I was barely keeping leashed.
For one moment, one dangerous moment, I considered closing the distance. Pulling her against me. Reminding us both of what we'd had, what we'd lost. What was still burning beneath the surface.
But she was my employee. And I'd already taken advantage of her trust once, giving her a fake name, disappearing before morning.
I wouldn't do it again.
I stepped back abruptly, the mask slamming into place. "There's a spare shirt in the closet. Left side. Take whatever you need."
My voice came out rougher than intended. I turned away, shuffling papers that didn't need shuffling, trying to will my body back under control.
She retreated to the closet. When I heard the rustle of fabric, imagined her changing, I had to grip the edge of my desk to steady myself.
When she emerged wearing my shirt—swimming in it, the fabric soft against her skin, my scent wrapped around her—something primal and possessive roared to life in my chest.
Mine, it whispered. She's got to be mine.
I pushed the thought down savagely.
"I'll have someone retrieve your blouse from dry cleaning tomorrow," I managed instead.
"Thank you… And I'm sorry about the water."
"It's fine. Accidents happen."
She gathered her things and left, the door clicking shut behind her. I stood at the window for a long time after, staring at the city without seeing it.
I turned back to my desk, intending to salvage what I could from the water damage. That's when I saw it.
A hair tie. Simple, black, elastic. It must have slipped from Daphne’s wrist when she was changing, or fallen when she grabbed her tablet in her rush to leave. It sat on the carpet near the closet door, small and utterly ordinary.
I picked it up without thinking.
Such a meaningless thing. Worth nothing. The kind of thing you'd find in any drugstore, any bathroom drawer.
I should leave it at reception for her to collect. Have my assistant return it in the morning. Or simply throw it away—she probably had dozens.
Instead, I turned it over in my fingers, remembering the way her dark hair had been pulled back today. The few strands that had escaped to frame her face.
The way she'd tucked one behind her ear when she was nervous. A habit I'd noticed five years ago and apparently never forgotten.
I slipped it into my pocket. I didn't examine why. Didn't want to.
My mind kept returning to her daughters instead. Those twins with their dark hair and bright eyes. The way Nina had grinned up at me without fear, so bold and direct. The shy curve of Lisa's smile when she'd finally peeked out from behind Daphne's leg.
Four years old, Daphne had said. Already born when we met.
But something didn't add up.
Nina's eyes were the exact shape of mine. The same unusual dark brown with those distinctive gold flecks I saw every morning in the mirror. Lisa had my mother's mouth—that same cupid's bow I'd seen in old photographs.
Coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. Daphne had no reason to lie.
But the doubt lingered, sharp and persistent, refusing to be silenced.
I thought about the way she'd tensed when I asked their age. The fraction of a second too long before she'd answered. The way her eyes had flickered, just once, before she'd composed her expression.
I'd built an empire on reading people. On catching the tells they didn't know they had. My hand drifted to my pocket, fingers brushing the hair tie I had no business keeping.
Daphne Carter was hiding something. I just didn't know what.
Not yet.