Avery

The glass reception area on the thirty-second floor was a temple of silent, intimidating wealth. I stood in the center of it, my new hire folder already crumpled at the edges from my grip. My cream-colored suit felt like a costume—professional, restrained, a uniform meant to bury the woman who’d been pressed against a brick wall in an alley. Bury her deep.

Eleanor, poised and sharp-eyed, had deposited me here with a final, efficient instruction. “Wait thirty seconds, then go in. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I counted my breaths instead. One… two… My pulse thrummed in my throat. At twenty-seven, the heavy oak door to the corner office opened inward, as if by some unseen command.

I walked into his world.

The office was vast, all dark wood and cold glass. The city sprawled below the floor-to-ceiling windows, a kingdom he’d conquered. Logan stood with his back to me, a silhouette against the morning sky, white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He didn’t turn.

“Close the door, Avery.”

His voice was different. Cool. Flat. It held none of the desperate rasp from the alley, none of the hungry heat from the hotel. I obeyed, the soft click of the metal hinge echoing like a gunshot in the oppressive quiet.

He finally turned.

This was the third Logan. Not the passionate stranger, not the furious, jealous man in the shadows. This was Logan Thorne, Managing Director. His expression was a calm, impenetrable mask. The storm in his eyes had been banked, replaced by a focused, professional chill. He’d put away the man from last night, locked him in a drawer just like he was about to lock away my signature.

He gestured to one of the two leather chairs facing his monumental desk. “Sit.”

I sat, my spine rod-straight. He didn’t return to his throne. Instead, he picked up a folder from his desk— thicker, heavier than the one HR had given me—and placed it before me.

“Read it. Then sign it.”

I opened the folder. The contents were a cold shower. A standard NDA. A conflict-of-interest disclosure. A Titan Ventures code of conduct. And then, a separate, single-page addendum. The header read: Supplemental Directive for Executive Assistant to Managing Director.

The language was legal, precise, and utterly damning. It outlined expectations of discretion, loyalty, and professional boundaries. And there, in clause 4.1, was the knife, spelled out in black and white: “Under the direct reporting relationship from Executive Assistant to Managing Director, conduct of an inappropriate

or sexually intimate nature shall be strictly prohibited and shall constitute immediate grounds for termination for cause.”

I read it twice. The words sexually intimate seemed to pulse on the page. My face grew hot. I finished and looked up.

He was watching me, his gaze analytical, as if studying a graph. “Well?”

“All of it?” My voice sounded small.

“All of it.”

I tapped the addendum. “Including the clause that says if I ever sleep with my boss, I get fired and lose any severance?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He just slid a heavy, expensive pen across the polished wood toward me.

The silent command was absolute.

You’re crazy. You’re signing your own humiliation into a binding contract. The thought screamed in my head. But beneath the shame, a darker, more stubborn part of me reared up. He wants you here. He moved heaven and earth to get you here, right next to him. This is his cage, but he’s locking himself in it, too.

My hand was steady as I picked up the pen. I signed each document. Avery Sinclair. Each stroke of the pen felt like a lie, like a promise to a version of myself that didn’t exist anymore. When I finished, I placed the pen down with a finality that echoed in the room.

He reached across the desk, took the folder, and opened a drawer. He placed it inside, shut the drawer, and turned a small key. The lock snicked shut. He pocketed the key, the outline of it visible against the fine wool of his suit pants.

“Rules,” he said, his voice still that terrifyingly calm monotone. He leaned back against the edge of his desk, looming over me. “New ones. Since the old ones didn’t hold.”

I said nothing. I just looked at him, at the hard line of his mouth.

“In this office, you call me Mr. Thorne. You don’t touch me. You don’t look at me the way you’re looking at me right now.” His eyes held mine, and for a fractured second, I saw a flicker—a crack in the ice—before it sealed over. “You do your job. You go home at six. You don’t text me after hours unless it’s regarding an active deal file. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” I whispered, my own voice gaining a thin edge of steel. “And outside this office?”

He was silent for a long, stretching moment. His eyes dropped, just for a heartbeat, to my lips. A phantom touch that sent a bolt of heat straight to my core. He looked away, out the window.

“Outside this office,” he said, finally, “is a problem we’re going to solve later.”

A sharp, efficient knock broke the tension. The door opened without waiting for an answer. Eleanor stood there, a clipboard in hand. “Mr. Thorne. Your nine-thirty is holding. I can take Ms. Sinclair to her desk for

orientation.”

Logan gave a single, curt nod. He was already turning back toward his window, dismissing me. “See that she has everything she needs.”

I stood, my legs slightly unsteady. I smoothed my suit skirt, a pointless, nervous gesture. As I reached the doorway, his voice stopped me.

“Avery.”

I turned. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring at his computer screen, his profile harsh in the daylight.

“Mark called HR this morning. He wants to know if his transfer to Singapore can be reversed.” A pause. “The answer is no. I just thought you should know—in case he reaches out to you directly.” His fingers tapped once on the keyboard. “He won’t be reaching out for long.”

The cold, casual cruelty of it stole my breath. He’d exiled a man for the crime of taking me on a date, and he was telling me about it like he was commenting on the weather. A warning. A reminder of his power.

I stood in the doorway, wanting to scream, to ask what he meant by that last, ominous sentence. But he had already picked up his phone, hitting a speed-dial.

“Guten Morgen,” he said, his voice shifting seamlessly into fluent, authoritative German. The conversation moved on. I was already forgotten.

Eleanor gave me a thin, professional smile and gestured down the hall. “Right this way.”

I followed her, my heels sinking into the plush carpet. The corridor seemed to stretch for miles. My new desk was in a sleek, glass-walled anteroom just outside his office door. It was a beautiful prison, with a stunning view and a direct line to the warden.

I sat in the ergonomic chair, my hands gripping the armrests. They wouldn’t stop shaking.

Logan

The Monday morning glare off the polished floors was especially harsh. I stood by the window of my office, a fresh coffee growing cold in my hand, my attention not on the skyline but on the glass-walled anteroom outside.

Avery was at her new desk, a study in professional composure. The cream suit was gone. Today, it was a simple silk blouse in a pale lavender. Simple was a generous term. The cut was demure from the front, but the fabric was whisper-thin. And the neckline… it plunged in a deep V at the back, held together by a single, fragile clasp. From my angle, I saw the elegant line of her spine, the hint of delicate lace from her bra strap.

It was a distraction I’d meticulously engineered, and now it was going to be the death of me.

She was leaning over her desk, reviewing a file with Ben from Analytics. Ben was talking, pointing at something on the page. His eyes, however, kept flicking downward. Not to the document. To the front of that blouse, where the thin silk gaped slightly with her posture, revealing a shadow of cleavage.

A hot, corrosive wave of possession slammed into me. My grip tightened on the mug. He was looking at her.

Not as a colleague. Not professionally. I knew that look. It was the look of a man appreciating a view. My view.

Every rule I’d set—every cold, clinical boundary I’d erected in this office—turned to ash in that moment. The green-eyed monster I’d fed in the alley woke up, ravenous.

I set the mug down with a sharp click. I didn’t bother with the intercom. I walked to my office door, yanked it open. The conversation in the anteroom cut off.

“Avery. My office. Now.”

My voice was low, a controlled blade. Her head snapped up. She met my eyes, and for a second, I saw a flash of defiance before she smoothed it into a neutral mask. “Of course, Mr. Thorne.”

Ben took a step back, suddenly finding the ceiling fascinating. I held the door open, my gaze never leaving her as she walked past me. I caught the subtle scent of her perfume—something soft and floral, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. I shut the door. The lock engaged with a soft, final thud.

She turned to face me, standing stiffly in the center of the room. “You needed something?”

The casual question was a spark to tinder. I closed the distance between us in three long strides, stopping just inches from her. My eyes dropped to the offending neckline. Up close, the view was even more devastating.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

“It’s… a blouse.” Her chin lifted a fraction.

“It’s a fucking invitation,” I corrected, the profanity slipping out, raw and unfiltered. “Did you come to my company to hand out free previews to the entire floor? To give Ben from Analytics a fucking peep show over his quarterly reports?”

Her cheeks flushed a brilliant, furious red. “That’s none of your business. My attire is professional and within the dress code. You don’t get to dictate what I wear.”

“The hell I don’t.” The words were out before I could cage them. I reached out, my fingers not touching her, but gesturing sharply at the blouse. “From now on, you don’t wear anything that reveals anything without my express permission. Is that clear?”

Her laugh was a short, brittle sound. “You have no right. That clause in the addendum was about conduct, not clothing. You don’t own me.”

Say it. Just fucking say it. The thought was a drumbeat in my skull, drowning out reason, duty, every promise I’d ever made.

“Fine,” I growled. I closed the last inch of space, my body crowding hers. My hand came up, my fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above that lace edge. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “You’re right. I don’t own you.” My voice dropped to a husk, for her ears only. “But you could wear it just for me.”

Her eyes widened, confusion and anger warring with something else—something that looked like the same desperate hunger I was drowning in. “What are you doing? Yesterday you gave me a contract telling me not to have ‘unnecessary sexual fantasies’ about you. So what is this? What are you doing right now?”

This is me breaking. Again.

I didn’t answer with words. I answered by capturing her mouth with mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a conquest. A reclamation. My lips moved over hers with a possessive fury, my tongue demanding entry. For a heartbeat, she was rigid, unyielding. Then, with a soft, broken sound from the back of her throat, she surrendered. Her lips parted. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, flew up to grip the front of my shirt, holding on as if I were the only solid thing in a tilting world.

I kissed her like I was starved for the taste of her. I backed her up until her hips met the edge of my desk. A stack of portfolios clattered to the floor. I didn’t care. My hands slid from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders. My thumbs traced the line of that deep V at the back of her blouse, feeling the delicate clasp. One flick, and it would all come undone.

She tore her mouth from mine, breathless. “Logan… the rules… your office…”

“Fuck the rules,” I breathed against her lips, kissing her again, deeper, swallowing her protests. My hands left her back and went to the front, my fingers deftly working open the first two buttons of her blouse. The silk parted. The lace of her bra came into view, a pale pink contrast against her flushed skin.

A low groan escaped me. I bent my head, my mouth following the path my hands had opened. I kissed the swell of her breast above the lace, my tongue tracing the scalloped edge. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers twisting in my hair.

This is wrong. This is professional suicide. This is betraying Ethan all over again.

The thoughts were distant echoes, drowned out by the roaring in my blood. My hands slid to her waist, gripping her through the fine material of her skirt, lifting her slightly to sit her on the desk. She went willingly, her legs parting to allow me to step between them. The position was intimate, devastating. I could feel the heat of her through our clothes.

I kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth again, my hands everywhere—in her hair, on her skin, mapping the territory I’d tried so hard to declare off-limits. She was kissing me back with equal fervor, her hands roaming my back, pulling my shirt from my waistband, her touch branding me through the cotton.

“Tell me to stop,” I murmured against her skin, my lips at her earlobe. It was a plea, a last-ditch attempt at being the man I was supposed to be.

Her answer was to arch into me, a silent, physical plea of her own. Her hips rocked against mine, and I nearly lost my mind. My hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. The air between us was thick, charged, cracking with the sound of our ragged breaths and the soft rustle of clothing.

Just as my fingers brushed the lace edge of her underwear, a sound sliced through the feverish haze.

Not from the intercom. Not from the hall.

It came from the direction of the anteroom, clear, familiar, and utterly, world-endingly out of place.

“Hey, Where is your boss”

Oh shit. Ethan...