Chapter 7

(Oh Little Bully)

After what felt like an eternity, the phone in his secretary's desk finally rang. Maria answered swiftly, her tone professional as she responded, then clipped off the call. She let out a weary sigh, casting one last glance at the intruder.

“He’s sent for you,” she conveyed quietly. The woman rose, her face bloodied and unsettled—far from her usual calm, polished demeanor.

She grabbed her bag and headed back toward Ace's office, sighing deeply before gently pushing the door open, only to slam it shut behind her.

“First, I want an apology,” she demanded, but Ace barely looked up from his laptop, raising an eyebrow.

"For what?" he questioned simply.

“For embarrassing me. I deserve some respect.”

“Respect? For you?” His gaze sharpened as he fixed her with an amused yet cold stare. She nodded, and he chuckled.

“Amari, you barged in here and started arguing with my secretary. This is my company—not your father’s.”

“But she didn't let me in—"

"Didn’t let you in? Or did you fail to follow proper procedure?” His voice grew icier, eyes locking onto hers.

“I'm sorry, Ace. I was excited to see you—I missed you so much,” she rushed, eyes pleading.

“You didn't book an appointment, and now you expect her to ignore her duty?” he snapped.

“That's fine, Ace,” she muttered frustratedly.

He hummed, returning to his screen. "Hmmm."

“Are you just going to ignore me like I'm some kind of disease?” she pressed, moving closer, reaching out to touch his neck. “Ace?” she called softly, turning his face to hers. His sharp jawline and almond-shaped eyes always made her weak, impossible to resist.

“Amari,” he said, gently brushing her hand away. "I’ve got work to do. Besides, you didn't tell me you were leaving the country. You're all over me.”

Amari Sam—born into privilege, a 24-year-old self-made millionaire and sole heiress of Risam Group. Tall and slim, with runway poise and effortless grace. Her posture was impeccable, shaped by years of refinement.

Her face was delicately sculpted—high cheekbones, confident almond-shaped eyes, an elegant, straight nose, and full lips that rarely needed to smile to command attention. Her flawless skin seemed untouched by hardship.

Every move, every word, radiated the subtle assurance of someone raised in wealth and luxury, yet beneath it all, she desperately craved his attention, longing for his acknowledgment.

“I'm sorry I left so abruptly, but I sent the evidence and photos," she explained, her voice steadier, though Ace's expression remained unreadable—silence stretched between them.

“I know you don't love me, but I miss you, Ace. I miss your stares,” she paused. “You have every right to be mad I didn’t call, but you hardly pick up my calls. You only reach out when you miss me—"

“I don't miss people," he cut in coldly. "I don't hold onto feelings or affection. I only call when I need something. We both signed a contract—why make it a big deal? You're acting like I assigned you a role."

Amari's breath hitched as she stared in disbelief. Her eyes watered, but she sniffed, trying to compose herself.

"I get it. You don't have feelings, you don't miss people. But I do!" she insisted. "We’ve been intimate for two years. Fine, I messed up letting my feelings take over, but you’re so good—soft in many ways, even if you hide it. You long for love and affection, and I'm here—"

“For?” he interrupted emotionlessly.

“To fill the void. You’re not alone, Ace—"

“I never said I was," he responded flatly.

“I know, but I can feel it. Whenever we’re together, your touch, your presence—it's everything I crave. I need you, Ace."

“Is that all you want? Sex? Why beat around the bush?" His blunt tone made the air thick with unspoken tension, two years of contractual intimacy weighing heavily.

Amari didn’t flinch. Instead, she let a tear trail down her cheek, her voice soft but resolute.

“If that’s all you speak, Ace,” she whispered fiercely, "then yes. I want you.”

He paused, leaning back in his chair, unreadable. Then, with a deliberate click, he shut his laptop. The screen darkened, and the office basked in the amber glow of the setting sun.

“You’re messy, Amari,” he murmured, his voice low, vibrating. He didn't approach passionately but moved with purpose—like a predator knowing exactly what’s coming.

He stopped inches from her, taller, shadow enveloping her. He reached out to grip her chin, tilting her face up, his thumb brushing her damp cheek.

"If you’re so desperate to fill the void,” he whispered, a dark hunger finally surfacing, "then stop talking.”

Without waiting, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was cold yet commanding. It was about hierarchy, not affection. Amari gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders, clutching his suit.

His hands moved with practiced precision—no fumbling, just control. He turned her around, pressing her chest against the cool mahogany of the desk. The contrast made her arch her back, a soft sound escaping her lips.

“Ace, please,” she begged, resting her forehead on the desk, eyes fluttering shut as his hands slid up her thighs, lifting her designer skirt.

“Please what?" he asked, voice close to her ear, devoid of warmth but full of intent. “I thought I had no feelings. I thought I was just a void.”

He leaned over her, weight pressing down. He took his time, fingers tracing her lace before hooking into the sides and tugging to reveal her to the cool office air. An exhilarating thrill coursed through her—despite her wealth and status, she was entirely at his mercy.

When he entered her, it was with a firm, relentless surge, not a gentle slide. Her fingers clawed at the desk, white-knuckled. The rhythm was steady, unwavering—a reflection of his controlled power, a reminder of their agreement.

He gripped her hips, thumbs digging in, anchoring her as he moved. Not once did he look at her face, but at her reacting body, her flushed skin under the dim light.

“Is this what you missed?” he growled into her ear.

Lost in sensation, she couldn’t answer, overwhelmed by him—the scent of cologne, musk, the pounding of bodies, the sense of surrender. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she knew that would be pointless.

Instead, she tilted her head back, exposing her neck, crying out sharply as she climaxed.

He didn't slow—his movements grew more urgent, his mask of indifference shattering in the heat of the moment. Breathing ragged, he buried his face against her shoulder blades, his body tense.

After a moment, he withdrew abruptly, adjusting his tie before helping her up. His face returned to its icy, emotionless mask.

“I’ll call the cleaning crew now," he stated, glancing at his watch as if it were a routine update. “Don’t be here when they arrive.”

Chapter 8

(Temporary Mask)

The crisp, recycled air of the office struck Amari's flushed skin with a forceful impact. The sound of Ace's belt buckle snapping into place interrupted the silence-the unspoken conclusion to a tense moment she was not prepared to confront.

She lingered at the desk for a moment longer than necessary, her fingers trembling as they gripped the polished mahogany. Amari Sam-she was a woman whose face appeared on billboards from Paris to Tokyo, whose presence commanded attention. Yet, in the dark reflections of the glass windows, she perceived a young woman frantically attempting to adjust her designer skirt, her movements hurried and lacking grace.

Ace had already seated himself in his chair. He did not look at her; instead, he simply adjusted his cuffs and reached for his fountain pen. The transition from primal hunger to cold professionalism was so seamless that it caused a visceral reaction.

"Fix your hair, Amari," he stated flatly, with a tone as emotionless as a dial tone. "You appear as if you have been in a conflict."

"Perhaps I have," she responded, her voice trembling slightly with a hitch in her breath.

She straightened her posture, embedding her runway-perfect stance into her frame. Reaching into her handbag, she withdrew a small gold mirror. Her lips were swollen, her eyes alight with a mixture of adrenaline and residual hurt. With unsteady hands, she reapplied a layer of sheer crimson gloss.

She smoothed her hair, tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and slipped out of her crumpled heels, clicking them back on with determination.

Without speaking, she turned sharply, head held high, and approached the heavy glass door. She did not glance back to see if he was observing; she was confident he was not.

Her heels' click echoed through the quiet lobby, reminiscent of gunfire in the calm morning. Maria sat behind her desk, eyes fixed on a screen that probably held no significant information.

As Amari approached, Maria looked up. Her face carried a neutral expression, but her eyes flicked-briefly-to the slight redness around Amari's neck and the uneven tuck of her blouse.

Amari paused at the desk. The frantic girl from earlier had disappeared, replaced by the heiress of the Risam Group.

"Maria," Amari said coolly, with authority.

"Ms. Sam," Maria responded cautiously.

Amari reached into her bag, producing a crisp, high-denomination bill, and placed it gently on the desk. "For the inconvenience I caused earlier. Purchase yourself something nice, and perhaps a book on discretion."

Maria's jaw tightened, but she did not reach for the money. "I do not require tips for performing my duties, Ms. Sam."

"It is not a tip," Amari replied, leaning slightly to ensure her expensive perfume filled the space. "It serves as a reminder. While I may be a distraction to your employer, I remain the woman capable of acquiring this building and converting it into a parking lot if I am sufficiently offended."

She observed a flicker of uncertainty in Maria's eyes and, for a moment, felt her influence rekindle. It was insubstantial, yet it was all she possessed.

"Have a pleasant day," Amari concluded, her smile sharp enough to cut.

She headed toward the elevators, with the gold doors sliding open to receive her. As the lift descended, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls-dignity reintegrated and her composure restored. Yet, as the numbers decreased, the weight of the two-year contract pressed against her chest like heavy chains.

• •

Ace remained motionless, his fingers gentle against his fountain pen, his gaze steady on the mahogany desk. He wasn't frozen by emotion; he was waiting for the air to clear.

The sandalwood scent in the room had been momentarily compromised. The aroma of Amari's perfume-an expensive, assertive floral-clung to the fibres of his suit like a brand. It was a sensory intrusion, a variable that refused to be dismissed.

He looked down at his ledger. The columns of figures persisted, but they no longer held his focus. His mind replayed the tactical mistake of the last hour: the warmth of her skin, the familiar arch of her back, the vibration of a moan against his neck. It had been a biological release, nothing more, yet the physical residue lingered.

"Tiresome," he murmured. His voice was flat, like a man observing a stain on a rug.

He closed the ledger with a soft, deliberate click.

For two years, the contract had operated with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. His attention on her discretion; her body for his stress relief. It was a closed loop. Amari's recent attempt to imbue the transaction with 'meaning' was a breach of protocol. He didn't feel "soft," as she'd claimed; he was simply annoyed that she mistook his silence for a hiding place.

His phone buzzed. A message from Maria: Ms. Sam left a reminder on my desk. I have placed it in petty cash.

Ace's expression remained unchanged. Amari was reclaiming her territory, striving to re-establish her leverage. It was a transparent move. Most men would see it as bold; Ace saw it as inefficient.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the city lights. He didn't see lives or stories below-he saw a grid of assets and liabilities. He wasn't lonely; he was solitary by choice. Feelings were the static that disrupted the signal, and he had spent a lifetime perfecting his frequency.

He traced the path her car would have taken. He should terminate the arrangement tonight. It was becoming cluttered. It was becoming disorderly.

But as he adjusted his cufflinks, he decided against it. Her utility still outweighed her volatility. He wasn't finished with the asset yet, and he wouldn't be until he had extracted every ounce of use he required.