Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

"Am I wrong? Isn't she a homewrecker, not a person worth an ounce of respect?" I stood up, the chair screeching against the floor of the Aurora Table, my finger trembling as I pointed it directly at Katrín Rúnarsdóttir.

It had been fifteen years since the day my childhood ended. For fifteen years, my father hadn’t provided a single króna of support for me or Freya. I remember being ten years old, standing in the rain outside his new office, begging for enough money to cover my school books. He hadn't just said no; he had looked at me with such disgust before pushing me away that I fell into the slush. But the daughter of the woman who destroyed our family, Embla Rúnarsdóttir, had lived a life of gold-plated luxury ever since.

From that day on, I swore I would never take a penny from him again. Ragnar Demánsdóttir ceased to be my father the moment he traded his family for a mistress.

"Ragnar, look at how she humiliates me! I won't stand for this!" Katrín shouted, her voice shrill enough to turn the heads of every wealthy patron in the restaurant.

"Enough!" Ragnar roared.

Slap!

The sound of his hand hitting my cheek echoed through the silent dining room. For a heartbeat, the world went gray. A sickening, sharp heat radiated from my skin, and the salt of blood bloomed in my mouth. I stumbled, my vision swimming as the floor rushed up to meet me.

Before I could even catch my breath, a new, agonizing pain lanced through the back of my hand. I looked down, gasping, to see Embla’s thin stiletto heel grinding into my knuckles. She wasn't just stepping on me; she was leaning her weight into it, a cruel, plastic smile fixed on her face.

Anger, cold and violent, snapped the haze in my brain. "Get off me!" I screamed.

I didn't think; I reacted. I reached up and grabbed the tureen of scalding Arctic char soup from the center of the table and heaved it upward. The liquid splashed across Ragnar’s expensive suit, making him howl in shock. Without stopping, I grabbed the plates of braised lamb and beet salad, hurling them at Katrín and Embla.

Grease and sauce splattered over their designer dresses. "How dare you!" Ragnar bellowed, raising his fist to strike me again. But as Uncle John and Aunt Carter rushed to my side, shielding me, his arm faltered.

"What kind of monster attacks her own father?" Katrín shrieked, clutching her stained chest.

Aunt Carter didn't give them the satisfaction of an answer. She just pulled me against her side, her arm a firm barrier. "I won't have a daughter like this!" Ragnar roared, his face purple with rage.

"Good," I spat, wiping the blood from my lip with my sleeve, my eyes burning with a defiance that felt like victory. "I haven't had a father in fifteen years anyway."

As I turned to leave, I caught sight of Zonrik Zartholm. He was still sitting perfectly still, his dark eyes fixed on me with an expression of chilling indifference. That look—that cold, billionaire detachment—stung more than the slap. I raised my chin, stared him down until his jaw tightened, and then walked out into the biting Icelandic wind.

The spring air was freezing, and my thin blazer offered no protection. I walked for what felt like miles, my feet throbbing in my heels, my face burning. I was twenty-eight years old, a professional veterinarian, and I had just been assaulted by the man who was supposed to protect me. I couldn't stop the tears from falling, but I didn't regret the soup. Not for a second.

Suddenly, a sleek black Bentley pulled to the curb beside me. The window slid down, revealing Zonrik’s handsome, impassive face.

"Get in," he ordered.

I hated that tone. The corporate command, the assumption of obedience. "It’s not working hours, Mr. Zartholm. I don't take orders from you in the middle of the night."

"It’s nearly midnight, it’s freezing, and this area isn't safe for a woman alone," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "There have been reports of attacks near the Hvalfjörður trail recently. The police haven't caught the suspect. Don't be a martyr for your ego."

The wind gusted then, chilling me to the bone. I looked at the dark, empty road ahead and the looming shadows of the mountains. My pride was strong, but my survival instinct was stronger. I yanked the door open and sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead as I buckled the belt.

The silence in the car was suffocating. I kept my hand over my bruised cheek, feeling smaller than I had in years.

"Thank you, Mr. Zartholm," I said quietly as we reached the gravel turnoff to my cottage.

"You're an employee of Zartholm Global," he replied, his voice devoid of warmth. "If you're incapacitated, the Land Trust loses its most knowledgeable consultant on the sanctuary borders. I'm protecting an asset, nothing more."

I felt the anger flare up again. "Don't worry, Mr. Zartholm. I’m a 'sentimental relic,' remember? We relics are surprisingly hard to break. Keep your concern for your blueprints."

I slammed the door and watched the Bentley roar away, its taillights disappearing into the mist. He was a machine in a suit, a man who saw humans as line items on a balance sheet.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

The next morning, the Haven Sanctuary felt like a battlefield. I arrived at the Land Trust office with a swollen jaw and a coffee in hand, only to find Gert Holm looking like he was facing an execution.

"A major parameter error was found in the development proposal, Elín," he whispered. "The coastal erosion data—it was calculated wrong. The Zartholm legal team is on the warpath."

My heart stopped. I was the one who had verified those numbers. I had spent weeks staying up late, distracted by the rising costs of animal feed and the looming threat of the resort. I must have missed the decimal shift.

"How bad is it?"

"Zonrik is in his office. He wants blood."

I walked into the Zartholm Sky Residence office, my heart hammering. Zonrik was standing by the window, a thick file folder in his hand. When he turned, he didn't look angry; he looked lethal. He threw the folder onto the desk with a crash that made me jump.

"Explain this," he demanded. "Do you have any idea what an error like this does to a multi-billion dollar bidding process? We could lose the corridor rights by Monday."

"I... I was working under extreme pressure," I started, but his eyes cut me off.

"Everyone works under pressure, Elín. But not everyone lets their 'sentimental' distractions cost a company millions. Find out who else touched these files. I want them fired by noon."

I thought of Ala Lind. She had helped me with the data entry while her mother was at St. Ólafur Medical Center. If Ala lost her job, she’d lose the insurance that was keeping her mother alive.

"It was me," I said, stepping forward. "Only me. Don't blame the staff."

Zonrik walked toward me, his presence filling the room. "You're shielding them. I see it in your eyes."

"I'm offering a remedy," I countered. "There are six days until Monday. I will stay here, in this office, and recalculate every single parameter from scratch. I’ll fix it."

Zonrik’s lip curled in a sneer. "You think you can do in six days what a team of analysts did in a month? You think you’re faster than a Zartholm mainframe?"

"The mainframe clearly failed," I whispered.

The room went silent. Zonrik’s eyes searched mine, his expression a mix of fury and something I couldn't name. "Fine," he said finally. "If the corrected plan isn't on my desk by 8:00 AM Monday, you and your sanctuary are finished. I will personally sign the eviction notice."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

I lived on caffeine and adrenaline for the next forty-eight hours. On Saturday afternoon, my phone buzzed. It was Magnús Einarsson, the local biology teacher who had been helping me at the sanctuary.

"Elín, I know you're buried, but you have to eat," he said. "I'm outside the Zartholm building with the seafood stew from Aurora Table. Come down for ten minutes."

I went down to the plaza, my eyes burning from the glow of the computer screen. Magnús was waiting on a bench, a warm container in his hand. He looked at my face, his eyes softening. "He hit you again, didn't he? Your father?"

"It doesn't matter, Magnús. I’m fixing it."

"You're killing yourself for a man who wants to destroy your home," he said, handing me a spoon.

I began to eat, the warm broth the first real thing I’d tasted in days. I was so focused on the food that I didn't see the black SUV pull into the VIP lane.

"Is the work so easy that you have time for a picnic?"

I looked up. Zonrik was standing there, his hands in his pockets, his gaze raking over me and Magnús. He looked at the seafood stew, then at Magnús’s hand resting on my shoulder.

"Mr. Zartholm," I said, standing up. "I'm on my break."

"The Zartholm Group doesn't pay for breaks during a crisis," he said, his voice like ice. "No wonder the parameters were wrong. It seems the 'Guardian of the Hvalfjörður' is more interested in local romance than her responsibilities."

"Magnús is a friend," I snapped.

Zonrik stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "I don't care what he is. I care about Monday morning. Get back upstairs, Elín. Unless you want to spend your Sunday packing up your animals."

I turned back to the building, my jaw tight. "He’s just a capitalist with a god complex, Magnús," I whispered as I walked away. "Don't let him get to you."

But as I stood in the elevator, I saw my reflection in the chrome door. My face was pale, my jaw was bruised, and I was fighting for the very man who treated me like a broken tool.

"Why do I keep running into you?" I muttered to the empty elevator.

"Because you're in my world now, Elín," a voice said. I jumped. I hadn't realized Zonrik had stepped into the elevator behind me.

The doors closed, trapping us in the small, silent space. He looked at my cheek, his hand twitching at his side. For a second, I thought he might touch me. Instead, he just looked away.

"Monday, Elín," he said softly. "Don't make me do something we both regret."

"You've never regretted anything in your life, Zonrik," I said, stepping out as the doors opened. "That's your superpower."

I walked to my desk, the weight of the sanctuary, Charles, and my own pride resting on my shoulders. I had to win. Because if I didn't, the Zartholm empire would swallow everything I loved.

"Don’t take it to heart, Elín. Your father must have had a reason. Embla said you were being difficult again," Sigríður said, her voice trembling as she pressed a damp cloth to my face.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV: I flinched, pulling back as the cold water stung the split in my lip. "A reason? Mom, he stood in the middle of the Aurora Table and hit me. He didn't just hit me; he humiliated me in front of the man who holds the fate of Haven Sanctuary in his hands. And you’re defending him?"

I snatched the cloth from her hand and threw it into the sink. The anger was a living thing in my chest, hot and jagged. Ragnar Demánsdóttir hadn't been my father for fifteen years. He had been a ghost who occasionally appeared to remind me how much he preferred his new life with Katrín Rúnarsdóttir and her plastic-perfect daughter, Embla.

"He is still your father, Elín. Life is complicated," she whispered, looking at her shoes.

"Life isn't complicated, Mom. It's cruel. He’s spent a decade funding Embla’s influencer lifestyle while I’ve had to beg the city council for enough grants to keep our foxes from starving. We are nothing to him. We are just the mess he left behind."

I walked into my small bedroom and slammed the door. My cheek was pulsing, a dull, rhythmic throb that reminded me of Ragnar’s heavy hand. I needed to sleep, but the image of Zonrik Zartholm’s face kept flashing behind my eyelids—that look of total, aristocratic boredom as my family imploded in front of him. He hadn't flinched. He hadn't helped. He had just watched, like a man watching a minor traffic delay.

Knock. Knock.

"Elín? I forgot to mention... Sigrun called. She’s set up a meeting for you with a biology professor from Nordhavn University. He’s very stable. You need stability, Elín. You can't keep living like this, fighting the whole world."

I groaned into my pillow. "I'm not going on a blind date, Mom!"

"It’s next week at the Aurora Table. If you don't go, I'll stop taking my heart medication. I mean it."

I sat up, defeated by the familiar, suffocating weight of her emotional blackmail. "Fine. One dinner. That’s it."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV: One week later, I found myself back at the Aurora Table, though I had requested a table as far from the VIP section as possible. At exactly seven o’clock, a man in a crisp white shirt and sensible glasses sat across from me.

"Hello. I’m Magnús Einarsson. I teach environmental science and veterinary ethics," he said. He had a kind, open face and a smile that actually reached his eyes.

I decided to skip the pleasantries. If I was going to be here, I was going to be the version of myself that usually scared men away. "I’m Elín. I run a wildlife sanctuary that is currently being sued by a billionaire. I haven't slept more than four hours a night in three years, I smell like antiseptic and horse hay most of the time, and I have a three-year-old son who is my entire world. Still want to order an appetizer?"

Magnús didn't blink. He actually chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I grew up on a dairy farm in Aarhus, Elín. I’ve smelled worse than hay. And I think what you’re doing for the Hvalfjörður ecosystem is the most important work in this corridor. Why would that scare me?"

I blinked, my internal defenses faltering. For the next hour, we didn't talk about marriage or "stability." We talked about the migration patterns of arctic foxes and the corruption in the city’s land development office. Magnús was intelligent, respectful, and—most shockingly—he didn't look at me like a project to be fixed.

"I have a Land Rover," he said as we finished our coffee. "It’s perfect for hauling supplies up to the sanctuary. If you’ll let me, I’d like to come by this weekend and help you mend that fence you mentioned."

"I... I’d like that, Magnús," I said, feeling a genuine smile touch my lips for the first time in weeks.

We walked out of the restaurant together. The night air was crisp, but I felt a strange sense of peace. That peace lasted exactly three seconds—until I saw a familiar black Bentley idling at the curb.

Zonrik Zartholm was standing beside it, speaking to a group of men in suits. His gaze drifted toward the restaurant entrance and locked onto mine. His eyes dropped to Magnús’s hand, which was resting lightly on the small of my back to guide me through the crowd.

"Elín?" Gert Holm, Zonrik’s foreman, stepped forward. "Manager, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Gert," I nodded, keeping my voice professional. I felt Zonrik’s eyes burning into me, cold and judgmental.

"Is this the 'friend' who keeps you so distracted from your paperwork?" Zonrik’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a razor. He didn't look at Magnús. He looked at me like I was a faulty blueprint.

"This is Magnús Einarsson. And my personal life is none of your business, Mr. Zartholm," I said, my face flushing.

"Your personal life becomes my business when your lack of focus results in a fifty-million-króna error in the environmental impact survey," Zonrik said, stepping closer. The men behind him went silent. "I assume you haven't forgotten that your sanctuary’s grace period is ticking down? Or is the professor here helping you pack?"

"I'll have the corrected data on your desk by Monday morning," I hissed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Now, if you’ll excuse us."

I practically threw myself into Magnús’s car. As we drove away, I looked in the side mirror. Zonrik was still standing there, a solitary, dark figure against the golden lights of the restaurant, watching us disappear into the dark.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV: The next forty-eight hours were a blur of spreadsheets and topographical maps. I moved a cot into the back office of the sanctuary. Ala Lind came in early on Saturday, her face pale and drawn.

"Elín, I heard about the error," Ala whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "It was my fault. I was at the hospital with my mother, and I shifted the columns on the land-drainage report. I'm so sorry. If you lose the sanctuary because of me..."

"Hush," I said, grabbing her hands. "It’s not your fault. We were both exhausted. I’m the lead vet; it’s my job to catch the mistakes. I’ve already told Zonrik it was my error. Your job is safe, Ala. Go home to your mother."

"But he'll fire you!"

"Let him try," I said, though my stomach did a nervous flip.

By Sunday evening, the sanctuary was silent. The only sound was the scratching of my pen and the hum of the old computer. My eyes were bloodshot, and my head felt like it was filled with wool. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the numbers swimming in the dark.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the office creaked open. I didn't look up. "Magnús, I told you I don't need more coffee. Just let me finish the Hvalfjörður sector."

"I'm not the professor."

The deep, resonant voice made me bolt upright. Zonrik Zartholm was standing in the doorway of my cramped, dusty office. He looked absurdly out of place in his charcoal-grey suit, surrounded by stacks of animal feed samples and medical journals.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice raspy. "It’s ten o'clock on a Sunday."

"I came to see if you were actually working, or if you were just waiting for the clock to run out so you could play the victim when the bulldozers arrive," he said, walking into the room. He picked up a page of my handwritten notes, his eyes scanning the complex veterinary-environmental calculations.

I stood up, my legs shaking from fatigue. "I don't play the victim, Zonrik. I never have. You can stay and watch if you want, but you’re in my world now. Mind the mud."

He didn't leave. He pulled a wooden chair over—a chair that cost less than his silk tie—and sat down. "The bidding meeting is at nine tomorrow morning. If these numbers aren't verified by the city board, I lose the resort project, and you lose your land. I have no intention of losing."

"Then sit down and shut up," I snapped, turning back to the screen.

We worked in a strange, tense silence for hours. He didn't help with the biology, but he caught three mathematical errors in the first hour just by glancing over my shoulder. He was a machine.

Around 3:00 AM, my head hit the desk. I didn't mean to sleep; my body just gave out. I felt a soft weight settle over my shoulders—a jacket that smelled of expensive sandalwood and cold winter air.

"Five more minutes," I murmured into the wood.

"Keep working, Elín," Zonrik’s voice was surprisingly soft, right next to my ear. "The sun is coming up. And I want to see you win this."

I sat up, the Zartholm wool jacket sliding down my arms. I looked at him, really looked at him, in the dim light of the desk lamp. For the first time, he didn't look like a developer. He just looked like a man who was as tired of the war as I was.

"I'm done," I whispered, clicking the final save button. "The Haven is safe."

"We'll see," he said, taking the USB drive from my hand. His fingers brushed mine, and for a second, the air in the room felt electric, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with land or money.

He stood up, towering over me. "Get some sleep, Elín. I’ll see you at the hearing."

He disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the quiet office. I looked down at the jacket he’d left behind. He was a capitalist, a destroyer of habitats, and the man who wanted to pave over my dreams.

So why did I feel like he was the only person who had ever truly seen me?

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV:

Just a minute ago, I was genuinely terrified for my safety, certain that the exhaustion of the last six days had finally unhinged me. But the moment I looked up into Zonrik Zartholm’s piercing, glacial eyes, I realized I had been overthinking.

The concern I had imagined was non-existent. Instead, I heard Zonrik say in a tone vibrating with pure, unadulterated disgust, "How many days has it been since you stepped into a shower? I can smell the sanctuary from here. It’s a sour, clinical stench."

I knew he was telling the truth. For the past week, every ounce of my attention had been sacrificed to the spreadsheets, the mountain resort development data, and the legal parameters of the Haven Sanctuary. I hadn't left this office. But the visceral expression of loathing on Zonrik’s face still sliced through my pride.

"I'm going home to shower," I snapped, slamming my laptop shut. I couldn't stand the way he looked at me, like I was a diseased specimen from my own clinic.

"The city council hearing starts at nine o’clock. We leave the building at half-past eight. Are you certain you can navigate Hvalfjörður and return within ninety minutes?" His voice was a cold, stern lash from behind me.

I stopped in my tracks and looked back. "Do I have to attend the hearing as well?"

This was a high-stakes land development auction. Usually, only the titans of Zartholm Global and their predatory legal teams were allowed in the room. Seeing the genuine confusion on my face, Zonrik crossed his arms, his expensive suit jacket straining against his shoulders.

"You are the one who corrected the environmental impact surveys and the land-grading calculations," he explained with a terrifyingly controlled patience. "If the council asks about the 'sentimental' anomalies in the data—the nesting grounds or the drainage pipes—you are the one who will answer. I won't have my time wasted by a subordinate who doesn't know the difference between a fox den and a sinkhole."

"Understood," I muttered, looking at the clock.

It was seven o'clock in the morning. It took nearly an hour to get from the city center to my cottage near Hvalfjörður, let alone the time to scrub the smell of failure off my skin. I would never make it back. Zonrik looked down at the Patek Philippe on his wrist, his jaw tightening.

"I am going to print the finalized budget and the site plans. Go into the lounge and use the shower there. Just ensure you are out of my office before the executive staff arrives. I won't have rumors of a disheveled veterinarian living in my quarters."

"Fine," I whispered, too tired to fight.

After he swept out of the room, I walked into the private lounge tucked into the corner of the Zartholm Sky Residence. It was a secret, masculine sanctuary—minimalist, dark, and smelling faintly of his sandalwood cologne. There was a single bed, a desk, and a bathroom that looked more like a spa.

I stripped off my grime-streaked clothes and stepped into the shower. The hot water felt like a miracle against my aching muscles. I stayed too long, letting the steam fill my lungs until the world felt soft again. When I stepped out, I realized I hadn't brought a change of clothes. My old ones were damp and smelled of the office.

In a daze of fatigue, I found a crisp, white dress shirt in his wardrobe. It was far too big, the hem reaching my mid-thighs, but it was clean. It smelled like him—sharp, expensive, and intimidating.

I looked at the clock. It wasn't even eight yet. Just ten minutes, I told myself, crawling onto the small bed. I'll just close my eyes for ten minutes.

I slept so deeply it felt like drowning. I didn't wake up until a hand clamped onto my shoulder and physically hauled me upright. My eyes snapped open, and I found myself staring into the ferocious, dark gaze of Zonrik Zartholm.

"What are you doing? Do you have any concept of time?" He looked like he wanted to throttle me.

I glanced at the wall clock. My heart plummeted. It was 8:20 AM. We had ten minutes before we had to be downstairs. I grabbed my tangled hair in a panic, my mind racing. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—it was just supposed to be a nap!"

"And why," Zonrik asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato, "are you wearing my shirt?"

I looked down. I was indeed wearing his custom-tailored white shirt, the sleeves rolled up several times. I felt my face heat up. I was a mess, a disaster, and I was currently half-dressed in the clothes of the man who held my sanctuary’s life in his hands.

"My executive assistant, Alma, is already at her desk in the outer office," Zonrik said, his eyes raking over me with an intensity that felt like a brand. "How exactly do you plan on leaving my private suite without causing a scandal that will reach my father by noon?"

The thought of Mack Zartholm Sr. hearing about this made my blood run cold. I grabbed Zonrik’s arm, my fingers digging into his sleeve. "What do we do? You have to think of something!"

Zonrik’s POV:

I looked down at Elín’s hand on my arm. She looked small in my shirt, her eyes wide and clouded with sleep, her lips still slightly parted from her sudden awakening. For a fleeting second, the cold professionalism I used as armor felt heavy.

"Change your clothes immediately," I ordered, pulling my arm away. "In five minutes, I will send Alma to the records room. You will leave the office, take the service elevator, and meet me in the car in the basement. Do not be late, Elín. Not by a single second."

"I won't," she promised, already reaching for her discarded suit.

I waited in the back of the Bentley, the silence of the car filled only with the rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the leather armrest. When the door finally opened and Elín slid in, smelling of my own soap and looking pale but professional, I felt a strange, unwelcome surge of relief.

As Kasper pulled the car into the morning traffic of the Reykjavík–Copenhagen Corridor, I opened the file. I was focused, my mind a steel trap, but I could feel Elín’s eyes on me from across the carriage.

"What are you looking at?" I asked without lifting my gaze from the land-acquisition data.

"Nothing," she said quickly, looking out the window. "I'm just... worried about the plan. If the city council sees the discrepancy in the coastal erosion figures..."

"They won't," I interrupted, closing the folder. "I’ve reviewed your corrections. They are sound. Your logic regarding the natural drainage of the Hvalfjörður basin is... impressive."

Elín looked stunned. "You checked the entire report in two hours? That’s hundreds of pages of environmental data and geological surveys."

Kasper, my driver, caught my eye in the rearview mirror and chuckled. "Miss Demánsdóttir, you clearly don't know who you're dealing with. Mr. Zartholm graduated top of his class at Cambridge. He has a Master’s in Finance and Real Estate Development from the University of Texas at Austin. He passed his professional licensure exams before he was twenty-five. He doesn't just read reports; he dissects them."

Elín’s POV:

I looked at Zonrik with a new sense of wary admiration. I had always assumed he was just another "rich second generation" brat who had inherited his father’s empire without breaking a sweat. I didn't expect him to be a Cambridge-educated strategist with a mind like a computer.

"You passed the CPA and development boards by twenty-five?" I asked, my voice small.

I had spent my life dreaming of getting my senior veterinary certifications, but I had been too busy just trying to keep the sanctuary’s head above water to finish the final exams. I felt a pang of envy, and perhaps a flicker of respect.

"As long as you possess the discipline and the focus," Zonrik said, his voice returning to that arrogant, detached hum, "even someone with average talent can pass those tests. It isn't a miracle, Elín. It’s math."

The admiration I felt vanished instantly. The man was insufferable. I turned my head away, staring at the grey Icelandic morning. The silence in the car stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable.

After a few minutes, I felt his gaze on me. I checked my reflection in the window. My hair was coiled tightly, my professional suit was buttoned to the chin, and my golden earrings were in place. I looked like a consultant, not a veterinarian who had just slept in her boss’s bed.

"You didn't eat," Zonrik said suddenly.

I was taken aback. "I... what?"

"You've been awake for twenty-four hours. You haven't had breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine," I said, my pride bristling. "I don't need—"

Gurgle.

My stomach betrayed me with a loud, hollow growl that echoed in the quiet Bentley. I felt the heat rush to my face. I looked down at my lap, wishing the floor of the car would open up and swallow me whole.

Zonrik didn't laugh. He simply reached into a compartment and tossed a wrapped sandwich onto my lap. "We have five minutes before we reach the council chambers. Eat it quickly. I won't have your stomach interrupting my opening statement."

I wanted to throw it back at him, but my hunger was a physical ache. I tore open the wrapper and began to eat. It was a simple chicken and pesto sandwich, but it tasted like a feast. Halfway through, the dry bread caught in my throat. I began to cough, my chest tightening.

Kasper immediately handed a bottle of water back to me. "Here you go, Miss Demánsdóttir."

I gulped the water down, gasping as the blockage cleared. "Thank you, Kasper," I whispered, glancing at Zonrik. He was already back to his papers, his face a mask of indifference. The wicked capitalist, I thought bitterly. He wouldn't even offer a drop of water if I were dying right in front of him.

The hearing was a battlefield. The room was packed with suit-clad executives from rival firms, all vying for the development rights to the corridor. I was called forward to answer three technical questions about the sanctuary’s impact on the local water table. I felt Zonrik’s eyes on me as I spoke. Every time I faltered, I looked at him, and the sheer, cold confidence in his expression gave me the strength to push through.

When the council retired to deliberate, I sat in the corridor, my hands trembling. If we lost, Mack Sr. would blame me. Zonrik would fire me. And the Haven Sanctuary would be gone.

Ten minutes later, the doors opened. Zonrik was the last to walk out. His face was a mask of stone, his lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

My heart sank. We lost.

"Mr. Zartholm?" I whispered, walking up to him. "The result?"

"Let's go," he said, turning toward the elevator without looking at me.

I followed him in my high heels, my heart breaking for the animals I’d have to relocate. I didn't dare speak. The elevator arrived, and we stood in the back. It was crowded—men in heavy coats pressing in on us. To avoid being crushed, I had to turn my back to the crowd, my chest practically pressed against the cold metal wall of the elevator.

Zonrik stood directly behind me, his large frame acting as a shield against the press of the crowd. I could feel the heat of his body, the scent of his sandalwood cologne wrapping around me.

"Why don't you ask?" he murmured, his voice vibrating against the back of my neck. "Don't you care about the fate of your little empire?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "I'm afraid of the answer, Mr. Zartholm. I don't want to hear that I failed."

"You didn't fail, Elín," he said, and I could hear the faint, rare hint of a smile in his voice. "We won the bid. The Hvalfjörður corridor belongs to Zartholm Global."

I spun around, nearly hitting my head on the wall. "What? We won? Then why do you look like you’re at a funeral?"

"Because winning is the expectation," he said, staring down at me. "But I suppose... for you, it is cause for celebration."

I felt a surge of joy so intense I almost hugged him. "I pray every day for the sanctuary to stay safe, Mr. Zartholm. I want it to be the strongest refuge in the universe."

"The universe?" He arched a dark eyebrow. "Your ambition is expanding, Elín."

As the elevator doors opened, the crowd surged forward. I was pushed back, my heels slipping, but Zonrik’s hand shot out, catching me by the waist and pulling me flush against his hard chest. For a long, breathless second, we just stared at each other.

"Don't fall yet," he whispered, his eyes dark and unreadable. "The real war hasn't even begun."