Alan's POV

If tension could be bottled, this room would explode.

The dinner was supposed to be a celebration - two legacies merging, two empires aligning. But to me, it felt like a trap wrapped in candlelight.

The Walters had spared no expense. The long dining table gleamed under the crystal chandeliers, waiters moved like shadows, and every word spoken was dipped in formality.

I'd been in countless corporate dinners, but none where I had to fight the urge to look at someone every other second.

Ashley Walter sat three seats away, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

The same woman who had once whispered, "no names," while tracing circles on my skin - now acting like we were strangers.

Except we weren't.

Every time she shifted, my chest tightened. Every time she laughed politely at a joke her father made, I heard the echo of her real laugh - the one that had spilled out softly against my neck.

Leah leaned in beside me, whispering, "You look like you're solving a murder."

"Maybe I am," I muttered, cutting my steak. "Just haven't decided who the victim is yet."

She smirked. "Try not to make it the Walters. Bad optics."

Across the table, Ashley glanced up at that moment. Our eyes locked - too long, too knowing - and she quickly turned back to her wine glass.

My jaw clenched.

So that's how she wanted to play it.

For the next hour, I played along - nodding at presentations, answering questions about projected revenue, pretending to care about graphs and partnerships. But under the table, my foot bounced restlessly.

Because I could feel her.

She wasn't even sitting next to me, yet every inch of my body was aware of her presence. The curve of her neck. The way her fingers brushed the stem of her glass. The faint perfume - same one that had clung to my sheets that night.

The room blurred around her.

By dessert, I couldn't take it anymore.

When the waiters cleared the plates and people started drifting toward the balcony for cigars and light talk, I found my opening.

I caught her arm gently as she stood. "Ashley."

She froze - her polite smile faltering for just a second before she turned. "Mr. Jean."

I raised a brow. "We're back to last names now?"

Her eyes flicked to the others nearby, then back to me. "We're at work."

"Right," I said quietly. "Work."

We stood there in silence for a moment - too close, too careful. Every word I didn't say was fighting its way out.

Finally, I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "You're really not going to talk about it?"

Her lips parted slightly. "About what?"

I almost laughed. "You know what."

Her chin lifted, that icy corporate composure sliding neatly into place. "I don't think that would be appropriate."

"Inappropriate?" I echoed, smirking. "That's not what you thought that night."

Her eyes snapped to mine - sharp, warning.

But she didn't step back.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

The noise of the room faded - executives chatting, glasses clinking - it all turned to static.

Then she exhaled softly and said, "This merger is complicated enough, Mr. Jean. Let's not make it worse."

"Too late," I murmured.

She looked away, and that small gesture - the flicker of her lashes, the tremor of restraint - hit harder than any argument.

I should've let her go. I knew that.

But my hand was still around her wrist, light but firm.

The same wrist with that tiny crescent-shaped tattoo.

Her pulse was racing.

When she finally pulled free, she didn't meet my eyes. "You're making a scene."

I smiled faintly. "I'm being discreet."

"Then be more discreet," she whispered, before brushing past me - her shoulder grazing mine, leaving my body in chaos.

I turned to watch her walk away, every inch of her collected and calm, like the moment hadn't just cracked the air in half.

Leah appeared beside me again, holding a glass of wine and that irritatingly perceptive look.

"Whatever that was," she said, "don't let Dad see it."

"See what?"

"That look you get when something's off-limits," she replied, sipping slowly. "Because knowing you, you'll want it more."

I laughed softly. "You make me sound predictable."

"You are."

"Not this time."

"Sure," she said, smirking. "Keep telling yourself that."

She drifted away, leaving me with the clinking of glasses and a pulse that wouldn't slow.

Across the room, Ashley was standing with her father, smiling perfectly for the cameras. I caught her glance once - fleeting but electric.

It was all there.

The tension. The restraint. The memory neither of us could erase.

And I knew, right then, that pretending would be impossible.

Because every time she looked at me, I saw the night she tried to forget.

Every time I looked at her, I remembered everything she didn't want me to say.

When our fathers toasted to "new beginnings," I raised my glass too - but my thoughts weren't on business or family legacy.

They were on her.

And the quiet, dangerous truth that burned louder than champagne and applause:

If we kept this up, someone would get burned.

And I was no longer sure I cared who.

Ashley's POV

If tension had a taste, the air in my office would've been drowning in it.

For the third time that morning, I caught myself staring at the door, half-hoping, half-dreading he'd walk in. Alan Jean. The man I was supposed to share power with. The man I was supposed to despise.

The man who'd seen me naked under candlelight.

I hated that my pulse still reacted to his name, that the memory of his mouth, his touch, his voice - still lived beneath my skin like a secret I couldn't wash off.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't think about that night. But promises meant nothing the moment he stepped into my office.

He didn't knock - just pushed the door open and filled the space with that energy that always felt too much. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Busy?" His voice was smooth, almost polite, but his eyes didn't match. They burned - not with anger exactly, but something worse.

"Ashley."

The sound of my name, ripped from his throat with a raw, undeniable edge, stopped me dead. My entire body locked up, rigid with panic. I couldn't move, couldn't turn around, couldn't breathe.

He didn't need to ask for my attention. His presence was a physical force, pulling the air around us taut.

He closed the door behind him. Slowly. Deliberately. The soft click made my stomach twist.

"Yeah," he said. "We do." He leaned against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms like he owned the room. "But I think there's something else we should probably talk about first."

I looked back at the document on my screen. "If this is about the merger-"

"It's not."

My fingers froze on the keyboard.

"Then what is it about?"

He let out a low breath - one that sounded too much like frustration. "You really don't want to talk about that night, do you?"

I turned to face him. "Alan, drop it."

"Drop it?" His laugh was sharp, almost bitter. "I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. But I can't. I can't stop thinking about you."

My heart kicked hard against my ribs.

He pushed off the desk, taking a step closer. "You really want to pretend it didn't happen? Pretend that night didn't change anything?"

"Alan-"

"Don't 'Alan' me." His voice deepened, rougher now, scraping at the calm I'd built. "You really don't want to talk about that night? Well, sorry, but we have to. Because I haven't stopped thinking about you ever since."

He moved closer again, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. My throat went dry.

"Tell me," he said, eyes locked on mine, "you don't miss our lips intertwined. Tell me you don't remember the way I grabbed your waist and pulled you in while you tugged on my hair."

"Alan-"

"Tell me you don't miss it," he pressed, voice lower, angrier now. "Tell me you don't remember whispering my name into my ear that night."

The words hit me like a slow burn. My face flushed hot.

"Stop," I whispered, but it came out softer than I meant it to.

"Stop?" He tilted his head, eyes searching my face like he could read every lie I was trying to build. "Because it's driving me insane. Every time I close my eyes, I see you. Every damn time."

My breath caught. For a moment, neither of us moved.

He was close enough that I could see the tiny scar on his jaw, the one I hadn't noticed that night. His tie hung loose, sleeves rolled up, like he'd stopped pretending to care about professionalism the second he saw me.

"Alan," I said quietly, "we can't do this."

He gave a small, humorless smile. "You think I don't know that?"

"Then stop."

He shook his head slowly. "You're asking the wrong man to stop wanting you."

That shouldn't have made my knees weak. But it did.

I stood, stepping away from the desk, needing distance - but he mirrored me, closing the gap before I could breathe.

"Tell me you don't feel it," he murmured. "Right now. Tell me this-" he gestured between us, "-isn't killing you too."

I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

Because he was right.

It was killing me.

"You truly don't want to talk about that night?" Alan asked, his voice low, shaking with the intensity of his suppressed fury. "Too bad, because I haven't stopped thinking about you since that night."

"There is nothing to talk about, Mr. Jean. It was a mistake. An anonymous encounter under duress. I was wearing a mask, and I didn't know who you were."

"And that makes it a clean slate?" Alan's voice rose, laced with bitter disbelief. He pushed off the wall and took another step, trapping me with his heat and his presence. "You think a piece of lace negates the kind of connection that set us both on fire?"

He planted one hand beside my head, his fingers splayed against the cold marble. He was so close I could feel the ragged cadence of his breath.

"Tell me your memory is blank when our lips intertwined, Ashley," he challenged, his voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous whisper. "Tell me you don't remember the moment I grabbed your waist, pulling you in while your hands gripped my hair."

The memory hit me with sickening clarity-the desperation, the raw, mutual need, the way I had clawed at his neck, pulling him down, needing more. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to block out the image, desperate to hold onto the lie that it was all a faceless blur.

"Stop," I whispered, the word strangled.

He ignored the plea, leaning closer, pressing the attack with the ruthless precision of a predator.

"Tell me you don't recall placing your hands over mine, urging me to hold you tighter, whispering Alan softly into my ears that night," he insisted, his voice a low, furious growl. "Tell me you do not miss my hands on your skin, because you kept guiding them back to you."

The last part was an absolute, undeniable truth. I had. I had needed his touch, needed his presence, needed the validation of his desire that Richard had so cruelly denied me. The shame, the confusion, and the undeniable longing warred inside me, leaving me breathless and weak.

When I opened my eyes, the mask was gone. He could see the wreckage on my face.

"I didn't know it was you," I said, the truth finally breaking free, tasting like ash. "I would never have..."

"You would never have betrayed your father? Your legacy?" Alan finished, a cruel satisfaction flashing in his eyes. He leaned back slightly, giving me just enough air to realize I was still trapped. "That night was reckless, yes. But it was also the only honest thing either of us has done in years."

He stepped away, his control snapping back into place, cold and calculating. He smoothed the sleeve of his suit, adjusting the A.J. cufflink that had signed my death warrant.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth."

I blinked, heart racing. "You want the truth? Fine."

I met his eyes, forcing the words out. "Yes. I think about it too. About you. About that night. But it can't happen again."

Something flickered behind his gaze - relief, maybe, or something darker.

"Can't," he echoed. "Or won't?"

"Both."

The silence that followed stretched so tight it almost hurt.

For a moment, he just stared at me, jaw tight, breathing uneven. Then he nodded slowly, backing away.

"Okay," he said, voice quieter now. "You win."

But there was nothing victorious in his tone.

He reached for the door, paused - then turned back. "You can bury it, Ashley. Pretend it never happened. But I can't."

My heart stuttered.

"Because every time I see you," he added, "I remember exactly how you tasted when you stopped pretending you were perfect."

The door clicked shut behind him before I could breathe again.

I sank into my chair, pulse racing so fast it felt like it might break through my ribs.

My reflection in the glass wall looked composed, calm - but inside, everything was on fire.

Because he was right.

Every look. Every memory. Every part of me that wanted to hate him only ended up wanting him more.

And the worst part?

This was just the beginning.

Because tomorrow, we had another meeting. Another project. Another excuse to be in the same room again.

And I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending that night didn't still live between us - breathing, burning, waiting.

Ashley's POV

The building had gone quiet hours ago. Most of the lights were off, the hum of the city outside a faint whisper through the tinted windows. Only one office still glowed - ours.

Alan sat across from me, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to make him look... dangerous. We were supposed to be finishing a proposal. Instead, we'd been stuck on the same paragraph for thirty minutes, pretending to work while pretending not to stare.

Every time I typed, I could feel his eyes on me.

He'd offer small comments - too casual, too soft - that made my pulse stumble.

"This part could use your touch," he said once.

"My touch?" I'd asked.

He'd smiled, and that was the end of my focus.

Now, as the clock blinked past ten, I sighed and pushed the laptop away. "I think we should call it a night."

He leaned back, watching me in that maddening, unreadable way. "You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Run when it gets uncomfortable."

My chest tightened. "We've been working for six hours, Alan. That's not discomfort - that's exhaustion."

He stood. "You know that's not what I mean."

I swallowed hard. His tone was low, steady, almost careful. Like he was choosing each word with precision.

He came closer - just close enough for the air to change.

"Alan," I warned, trying to stand, but he blocked my path gently, hands resting on the edge of my desk. "We really shouldn't-

"I can't," he said simply. "Not when you're standing here, looking like that, pretending you don't feel it too."

I didn't answer. Couldn't. Because everything in me screamed to walk away - and everything else wanted to stay.

"Alan..." I finally said, softer this time. "You don't understand. This- us- it can't happen. Not again."

His gaze softened, even as something fierce lingered behind it. "Why? Because of our families?"

"Yes!" I hissed. "If my father ever finds out, it won't just ruin the deal - it'll destroy everything."

The air between us went still.

And before I could process what was happening, he closed the space between us.

His hand brushed my cheek first - slow, hesitant, like he was giving me a chance to step back. I didn't. My chest rose and fell, and my pulse thundered as he leaned in, his forehead resting against mine for a heartbeat.

Then it happened - the kiss that should've never happened again.

It wasn't soft this time. It was desperate, like two people trying to breathe the same air after being underwater too long. My hands found his collar, his tie - I wasn't sure which - while he deepened it, one hand on my back, the other finding its way into my hair.

One hand slid around the curve of my waist, pulling me in flush against his body. The other, warm and possessive, settled deliberately over my breast, molding through the silk of my blouse. The sheer audacity, the publicness of the gesture in his private office, was staggering.

His mouth found mine, and the kiss was long, passionate, and consuming. It was a savage relief, a desperate, mutual surrender to the weeks of agonizing tension. I tasted coffee, mint, and pure, intoxicating desire. My hands went immediately to his hair, pulling, deepening the contact, just as I had that night.

The merger, the fathers, Richard-it all vanished. There was only the heat, the pressure of his body, and the sound of my ragged breath against his lips. His hand gently cupped my breast, confirming the heat and excitement building within me, his thumb brushing my nipple through the fabric.

When we finally broke apart for air, Alan rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.

And then-

A shrill ringtone shattered it.

I broke away, chest heaving. The phone on the desk flashed "Richard".

Reality slammed back so fast it hurt.

I scrambled for the phone, trying to catch my breath before answering. "H-hello?"

"Ashley?" His deep voice came through. "You're still at the office?"

"Yes," I said quickly, forcing composure. "Just... finishing up some final edits."

"Go home," he ordered. "It's late."

"Right. I'll be on my way."

The call ended. Silence swallowed the room again.

"That was..." I started. Then stopped. Because what word could possibly fit?

He gave a small, rueful laugh. "Yeah."

"I have to go."

He nodded, though his eyes didn't move from mine. "Ashley-"

"Don't," I said, too quickly. "Please. Not now."

He hesitated, then simply said, "We can't keep avoiding this forever."

I grabbed my bag, trying not to look at him. "Maybe not. But tonight, I have to."

I left before I could change my mind.

Alan's POV

She was gone before I could think of what to say.

The room still smelled faintly like her shampoo, her perfume - her. I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled hard.

For someone who built his life on control, I'd lost every ounce of it tonight.

Leah was right - I'd been quiet, distracted, obsessed. And now I knew why. That night hadn't been a mistake. It was a beginning I couldn't stop chasing.

But she was right too. Our families would never forgive this.

Still, as I stared at the half-empty wine glass she'd left behind, I knew one thing for sure - this wasn't over.

___

Ashley's POV

By the time I got home, my hands were still trembling. I collapsed onto my bed, replaying the night over and over again like a film I couldn't pause.

I'd broken my own rule. Again.

My phone buzzed - Chloe. I ignored it. Then another buzz - her again.

Finally, I sighed and answered.

"Girl, tell me you've found out who that stranger was," Chloe said immediately. "You've been acting weird for weeks."

I forced a laugh. "No, Chloe. Drop it."

"Liar."

"Goodnight."

I hung up before my voice could betray me.

Because the truth was, I'd found him.

And the worst part?

I didn't want to let him go.