Three days later, Bridget was running on fumes. The new field project Jevon had assigned her team was brutal. She hadn't slept more than four hours a night, her eyes burning from staring at spreadsheets.

Her stomach let out a painful cramp. She had skipped breakfast again. During her fifteen-minute lunch break, she ran down to the street and bought a spicy shrimp taco from a food truck, desperate for anything to stop the hunger pains.

She was standing in the company pantry, taking her first massive bite of the taco, when her supervisor burst through the door.

"Bridget! The revised budget needs to be on Mr. Rocha's desk right now. He's waiting!"

Bridget nearly choked. She grabbed the file with her left hand, keeping the half-eaten taco in her right, and sprinted toward the elevators. She didn't have time to throw it away.

When she reached the top floor, she took a deep breath, trying to hide the taco behind the thick manila folder as she pushed open the door to the CEO's office.

Jevon was staring at his computer monitors, his tie loosened, looking deeply irritated by whatever data he was reading.

Bridget stepped up to the desk. She kept her voice flat and professional as she started reciting the core numbers from the budget.

Jevon's eyes slowly drifted from the screen to her face. He noticed a tiny speck of spicy sauce clinging to the corner of her mouth. His gaze darkened instantly.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit him. He had been working for thirty hours straight without a single meal. His blood sugar was crashing violently. His eyes dropped to the half-eaten taco Bridget was desperately trying to hide behind the folder.

His body reacted before his brain could stop it.

Jevon leaned across the massive desk. He snatched the half-eaten taco from her trembling hand. He brought it close, his dark eyes fixed on her face, before he tossed the cheap street food directly into his designer wastebasket. "This street food doesn't suit you," he murmured. Then, his gaze dropped to the tiny speck of spicy sauce clinging to the corner of her mouth. He reached out, his thumb brushing against her lower lip with agonizing slowness to wipe away the sauce. Maintaining eye contact, he deliberately brought his thumb to his own mouth and licked the spicy residue off his skin.

Bridget gasped, her eyes widening in absolute shock at the sheer intimacy of the gesture. The file slipped from her fingers, scattering papers across the floor.

Jevon chewed and swallowed. He licked the spicy sauce from his lips, a wicked, triumphant gleam in his eyes as he watched her stand there, completely paralyzed.

But a second later, the triumph vanished.

Jevon's face turned stark white. He gasped for air, his hands flying to his throat. The sound of his breathing turned into a wet, ragged wheeze. Bright, angry red hives began erupting across his neck and jawline.

Bridget's heart stopped. "Mr. Rocha? What's wrong?"

Jevon collapsed back into his leather chair, his fingers clawing at his collar. "Shrimp," he choked out, his eyes rolling back slightly.

Bridget's blood turned to ice. The taco. It was a shrimp taco.

She lunged across the desk, slamming her fist onto the intercom button. "Alex! Help! He can't breathe!" she screamed, tears of pure terror springing to her eyes.

The office doors flew open. Alex sprinted in. He took one look at Jevon's purple face and immediately ripped open the medical kit on the wall. He pulled out an EpiPen, tore off the cap, and slammed the needle directly into Jevon's thigh.

Jevon let out a muffled groan. His chest he heave violently as the adrenaline rushed into his system, forcing his airways open.

Bridget stood in the corner, her face stark white, her whole body shaking violently. But she forced herself to stay upright. "I'm so sorry, I had no idea about your allergy," she said, her voice urgent and rational despite the terror in her eyes. "What do you need? I'll cover all medical expenses, I'll do whatever is necessary to compensate."

Jevon slumped in his chair, his breathing harsh but steady. Even in his weakened state, his dark eyes locked onto Bridget, refusing to look away.

Alex turned around, his face twisted in fury, ready to scream at Bridget.

Jevon raised a trembling hand. "Get out, Alex," he rasped.

Alex hesitated, then stormed out, slamming the door.

The silence in the room was deafening. Jevon stared at Bridget's tear-stained face. A calculating shadow crossed his eyes.

"Attempted murder, Ms. Frank," Jevon said, his voice a rough whisper.

Bridget burst into tears, bowing her head repeatedly. "I am so sorry! I didn't know! I'll pay for the medical bills, I'll do anything!"

Jevon let out a weak, cold laugh. "Do you think your salary covers the life of a billionaire?"

Bridget sobbed, her hands covering her face. "What do you want me to do?"

Jevon leaned forward, the trap finally springing shut. " You will come to my penthouse tonight after work.,You will cook for me,That is your compensation."

The night air was freezing, but Bridget was sweating. She stood outside the massive double doors of the most expensive penthouse in Tribeca, clutching a bag of groceries to her chest.

She pressed her trembling finger against the doorbell.

The heavy door clicked open automatically. There was no butler, no maid. Just a cavernous, hyper-modern living room bathed in dim, voice-activated lighting.

Bridget stepped inside. She kicked off her heels and slipped her feet into the only pair of guest slippers available-a pair of men's slides that were three sizes too big. She shuffled awkwardly across the polished concrete floor, feeling like a child playing dress-up.

A harsh, hacking cough echoed from the living room.

Jevon was slouched deep into a custom Italian leather sofa. He was wearing loose, dark grey sweatpants and a matching t-shirt. He had taken out his contacts and was wearing a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses. The glasses stripped away his corporate armor, making him look dangerously devastating.

Bridget noticed the faint red marks still lingering on his neck. The heavy stone of guilt dropped back into her stomach.

She walked over, gripping her hands tightly in front of her. "Mr. Rocha, I am so sorry again about this afternoon."

Jevon took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I almost died, Ms. Frank. And now I'm starving in my own home."

Bridget bit her lip so hard it hurt. "What do you want to eat? I can order from the best restaurant in the city. I'll pay for it."

Jevon's eyes darkened. He leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her. "I told you. I don't trust outside food, You cook."

Bridget's face flushed. "Mr. Rocha, my cooking skills max out at microwaving frozen pizza."

Jevon pointed a long finger toward the massive, open-concept kitchen. "Boil some pasta. Now."

Crushed by the weight of her guilt and his absolute authority, Bridget shuffled toward the kitchen. The appliances looked like they belonged on a spaceship. She opened the massive double-door refrigerator and stared blankly at the perfectly organized rows of organic, high-end ingredients.

She found a box of artisanal pasta. She turned to the industrial gas stove and twisted a knob. A massive burst of blue flame shot up, nearly singeing her eyelashes. She yelped and jumped back.

From the sofa, Jevon rested his chin on his hand. His dark eyes tracked her every move. Watching her panic over the stove, the coldness in his chest melted entirely. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a soft, hidden smile.

Bridget spun around, frantically looking for a pot. She grabbed a heavy bone-china soup pot from the drying rack. Her hands were slick with nervous sweat. The pot slipped from her grip.

It hit the floor with a deafening crash, shattering into dozens of sharp, jagged pieces.

Bridget let out a sharp cry. She immediately dropped to her knees, her hands reaching out to gather the broken shards.

Jevon's face hardened instantly. He vaulted over the back of the sofa and sprinted across the room.

"Don't touch it!" he roared.

He grabbed her wrists, hauling her up from the floor with terrifying speed. His grip was tight, his chest heaving as he checked her palms for blood.

Bridget flinched at his yelling. The stress of the day finally broke her. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her cheeks. "I'm sorry! I ruin everything!"

Seeing her tears, the rage drained out of Jevon's body. He let out a heavy sigh, his thumbs instinctively brushing over her pulse points.

He guided her to a high stool at the kitchen island and pressed her down by her shoulders. "Sit. Do not move."

The billionaire CEO rolled up the sleeves of his sweatpants. He grabbed a broom and dustpan, sweeping up the shattered china with practiced efficiency.

When the floor was clean, Jevon walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and picked up a heavy chef's knife. He looked at Bridget, his eyes intense.

"I'll cook," he stated.

Bridget sat frozen on the high stool, her eyes wide as she watched Jevon work. He moved around the kitchen with the fluid, precise grace of a Michelin-starred chef. He chopped fresh basil with terrifying speed, the blade a blur against the cutting board.

He tossed a slab of butter and minced garlic into a hot pan. The rich, savory aroma exploded into the air. Bridget's stomach, empty since the morning, let out a loud, embarrassing growl.

Jevon's hand paused over the stove. A smirk played on his lips, though he kept his back to her to hide it.

He reached up to the highest cabinet to grab a jar of black truffle paste. As his fingers wrapped around the glass, the muscles in his arm suddenly gave out-a lingering side effect of the massive dose of epinephrine he had taken hours ago.

The heavy glass jar slipped from his grasp.

Bridget saw it falling. Without thinking, she lunged off the stool, her hands shooting out to catch the jar before it shattered.

She managed to grab the truffle paste, but her elbow slammed hard into a tall glass bottle of organic ketchup sitting on the counter. The bottle tipped over. The cap popped off, and a thick stream of bright red ketchup splashed directly onto the front of Bridget's crisp white blouse.

Bridget looked down at the massive red stain spreading across her chest. She closed her eyes, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Jevon cursed under his breath. He turned off the stove and grabbed her wrist, pulling her out of the kitchen. He dragged her down the hall and shoved her into the massive guest bathroom.

"Take it off and wash it right now, or the stain will set," he ordered.

Bridget clutched the doorframe, her face burning."No! I didn't bring any clothes!"

Jevon stared at her for a second. He turned around, walked into his master bedroom, and came back holding a brand-new, folded white dress shirt. He shoved it into her hands.

"Put this on. If you don't, I will come in there and take your blouse off myself."

Bridget slammed the bathroom door and locked it. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her ruined blouse. She pulled Jevon's shirt over her head. The fabric was incredibly soft, but it was massive. The hem fell halfway down her thighs, making it look like a short dress. Worse, the collar smelled exactly like him-that intoxicating mix of cedarwood and heat.

She turned on the sink and started aggressively scrubbing her blouse under the cold water.

Suddenly, the smart home intercom on the wall chimed softly. Jevon glanced at the screen, his expression instantly darkening as he saw the feed from the private elevator lobby. With a heavy sigh of irritation, he tapped a button to unlock the door. A moment later, the heavy door swung open.

"Jervin! Open the door!" A loud and excited voice echoed in the apartment

Zane Sterling, Hollywood's biggest action star, strutted into the living room wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap. He kicked off his shoes, complaining loudly about the paparazzi chasing him from LA to New York.

Jevon walked out of the kitchen, holding two plates of steaming truffle pasta. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage.

"Why didn't you knock?" Jevon snarled.

Zane smirked, tapping his phone. "Dude, you took forever to open up. I'm being chased by vultures out there."

At that exact moment, the guest bathroom door clicked open.

Bridget stepped out. Her legs were bare. She was wearing Jevon's oversized white shirt, clutching her wet, I really can't tell. She looked up and froze.

The living room went dead silent.

Zane slowly pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. His jaw dropped. His eyes darted from Bridget's bare legs to Jevon's furious face.

Bridget recognized the movie star instantly. The blood rushed to her head so fast she felt dizzy. She took a panicked step backward.

"Holy shit," Zane breathed out, a massive, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "Jevon, you dark horse. Who is this?"

Jevon slammed the plates onto the dining table. He crossed the room in three strides, planting his massive body directly in front of Bridget, completely blocking Zane's view of her legs.

"Zane. Shut your mouth," Jevon growled, the warning in his voice absolute.

Bridget peeked out from behind Jevon's broad back, her face scarlet. "I-I just spilled ketchup on my shirt!"

Zane leaned to the side to look at her, winking blatantly. "Sure you did, sweetheart. I totally believe you."