"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."

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

I pressed my back as hard as I could against the cold, metallic wall of the elevator, but the morning rush in the Reykjavík–Copenhagen Corridor was unforgiving. The hearing at the city council had just wrapped, and the building was teeming with developers, lawyers, and frantic consultants. A group of men in heavy wool coats crowded in, their sheer bulk squeezing me further into the corner. I felt the intrusive heat of someone’s shoulder pressing against mine, and for a second, a flicker of panic rose in my chest. I felt my hips brush against someone behind me, and I stiffened, my breath hitching in the cramped space.

Just as the embarrassment began to prickle at my skin, a sudden, solid presence moved. I looked back and found myself staring into the sharp, glacial features of Zonrik Zartholm. He hadn't said a word, but he had shifted his large frame, using his own body as a physical barrier to separate me from the other men. He braced his hands on the wall on either side of my head, creating a small, private sanctuary within the chaos of the lift. It was an unexpectedly protective gesture, one that felt jarringly gentlemanly coming from a man who spent his days planning the destruction of my life’s work.

But the posture was dangerously ambiguous. I was boxed in, practically trapped against his broad chest. The scent of his sandalwood cologne and the crisp air of the Jutland coast clung to him, filling my senses. I could almost hear the steady, rhythmic thud of his heart.

Damn it! I thought, my pulse beginning to gallop like a spooked colt. Elín, why are you so useless? It’s just proximity. He’s a land developer, not a savior. Do you really have to let your heart speed up like this?

I kept my eyes glued to the digital floor display, watching the numbers descend. I prayed for the elevator to hit the ground floor before I lost my composure entirely. It was peak hour; the elevator groaned as it stopped on several floors, but it was already at capacity. No one else could get in, but the existing crowd only seemed to press closer, forcing me back another inch.

The heat of Zonrik’s breath fanned across the sensitive skin of my nape. The warmth made my skin tingle, sending a traitorous shiver down my spine. In the oppressive silence of the lift, my mind betrayed me, flashing back to that night in Copenhagen years ago—the night I had tried so hard to bury. The memory of his touch, so different then, made me realize with a jolt of electricity that I had known the weight of his body long before today.

The stale air and the sudden rush of memory made me restless. I shifted, trying to find a pocket of air, but a low, hoarse command vibrated near my ear.

"Don’t move!"

"What?" I looked up, startled.

Zonrik’s brow was furrowed in a tight, pained line. His jaw was set so hard I thought his teeth might crack. He looked as though he were enduring some intense internal struggle. Then, I felt it—a sudden, rigid tension pressing against me. He tried to retreat, his eyes darkening with a mixture of frustration and something much more primal, but in the crowded car, there was nowhere to go. In an instant, the reality of what he was enduring hit me.

My face turned a violent shade of crimson. I snapped my head down, staring at his silk tie, cursing him silently. Zonrik Zartholm, you stinking, arrogant rogue! I didn't dare breathe, let alone move again, until the chime finally signaled the lobby.

It felt as though a century had passed before the doors slid open. I didn't wait for a polite exit; I bolted, weaving through the crowd to reach the crisp air outside. I stayed several paces ahead of him as we walked toward the black Bentley. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. Is this a crime? I wondered wildly. Can I sue the billionaire for emotional battery?

"Elín!"

His voice stopped me just as Kasper, his driver, was opening the door. I turned slowly, trying to look composed. Zonrik walked up to me, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He looked uncharacteristically awkward, clearing his throat and glancing at the looming skyscrapers of the Reykjavík–Copenhagen Corridor.

"Ahem. You did a decent job with the council questions today," he said, his voice regaining its usual clipped, professional edge. "The data held up. I’m granting you three days of leave. Go back to your animals."

I stared at him blankly. My brain was a fog of confusion. What does he mean? Is this a reward for the environmental report, or an apology for what just happened in the elevator?

"It’s getting late. Let’s get back to the office so you can wrap up," he added, coughing into his hand before sliding into the back seat.

I bit my lip and climbed into the front next to Kasper. I didn't want to be anywhere near him. The drive back to Zartholm Global Holdings was stifling. Every time I glanced in the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of him—the man who had held me in the dark three years ago and held me in the light today. My face wouldn't stop burning.

The moment we arrived, I fled. I ignored his presence and hurried to my workspace. Almost immediately, Ala Lind and the rest of the staff gathered around, their faces glowing with relief.

"Congratulations, Elín! Word reached us—the bid was successful! The Haven Sanctuary is safe for now!" Ala cheered, clapping her hands.

I forced a polite smile, though my stomach was still doing somersaults. "It was a team effort. The environmental data was solid."

Ala patted my shoulder, her eyes misty. "Elín, thank you. Truly. If we’d lost this contract, I don't know what I would have done. I was so sure I’d be fired."

"Don't say that. You’ve been at the sanctuary longer than anyone. You’re family," I said, trying to ground myself.

Before I could say more, Gert Holm, the site foreman, stepped into the room. "Elín, Mr. Zartholm wants to see you in the Sky Residence office. Now."

My heart sank. What now? I walked toward the private elevator, my mind racing. Had I missed a signature? Was there a problem with the trust?

When I entered the penthouse office, the air felt thick with a different kind of tension. Zonrik was standing behind his desk, his face contorted in an expression of pure, cold fury. I felt my own temper rise to meet his. I had worked eighteen-hour days for this man; I didn't deserve this look.

"Mr. Zartholm, you asked for me?" I stood my ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"Elín," he began, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. "Do not think for one second that just because we shared a night years ago, you can use it to seduce me or influence my business decisions. I am not a man who can be manipulated by a well-timed reminder of the past."

I was floored. The sheer arrogance of the statement made my blood boil. I stepped forward, slamming my hand onto the mahogany desk. "Mr. Zartholm, I have no idea what delusional world you’re living in, but I have no interest in seducing you. If you were the last man on this earth, I would still prefer the company of my rescued foxes!"

Zonrik snorted, a harsh, cynical sound. "I despise hypocrisy, Elín. Especially when the evidence is staring me in the face."

"Hypocrisy? What evidence?" I shouted. "The elevator was an accident! I didn't ask for the crowd!"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he reached into his desk drawer and threw a small, pink object onto the desk. It landed between us like a grenade.

I froze. It was a pair of pink, disposable lace underwear.

My brain stalled. My heart stopped. Oh, God. I had been living out of this office for a week. I’d bought a pack of disposables because I couldn't go home to do laundry. I remembered taking a quick shower in his private lounge this morning before the hearing. In my exhausted rush to dress and hide from Alma, I must have dropped them in the marble tub or behind the vanity.

The silence in the room was deafening. Zonrik watched me, his expression full of mocking disgust. He clearly thought I’d left them there as a "calling card"—a pathetic attempt to stake a claim on his private space.

I wanted to vanish. I wanted the earth to swallow me, the Zartholm building, and my entire existence. I felt my face reach a temperature that shouldn't be biologically possible. With a sudden, desperate movement, I lunged forward, snatched the pink lace off the desk, and stuffed it deep into my pocket.

"Mr. Zartholm," I said, my voice shaking as I tried to summon every ounce of dignity I had left. "This is... an unfortunate coincidence. I’ve been working here for six days straight. I took a shower. I was in a hurry. I am not a temptress; I am a tired veterinarian who forgot her trash."

"An accident?" He leaned forward, his eyes boring into mine. "You expect me to believe you 'accidentally' left your intimates in my private quarters?"

"Yes! Because not everyone spends their life thinking about sex and power moves, Zonrik! Some of us just want to go home and sleep!" I was shouting now, my voice cracking. "I didn't want to seduce you. I wanted to save the birds!"

"I hope for your sake it was an accident," he said, though his gaze softened just a fraction, lingering on the flushed line of my throat. "I have a strict policy against ambiguous relationships with employees."

"Perfect," I snapped, straightening my back and turning toward the door. "Because I have a strict policy against arrogant billionaires who think the world revolves around their bedroom. I’m taking my leave. Don't call me."

I marched out of the office, my spine stiff with pride even as my soul withered with shame. I walked straight past Ala and the others, ignoring their curious glances. I took the pink underwear out in the hallway and shoved it into a trash can with the force of a professional pitcher.

I drove home to my cottage near Hvalfjörður in a trance. The moment I crossed the threshold, the silence of the sanctuary enveloped me. I collapsed onto my bed, not even botherng to take off my shoes. I slept for twenty-four hours straight.

When I finally woke, the sun was streaming through the windows. I felt human again, though the memory of the pink underwear still made me groan into my pillow. I reached for my phone and saw thirty-eight missed calls.

All of them were from Magnús Einarsson.

I frowned, sitting up. Magnús was usually so composed. I hit the redial button immediately.

"Elín! Thank God," Magnús’s voice came through, thick with relief. "I’ve been calling for a day and a night. I thought something had happened at the council meeting. I thought Mack Sr. had done something."

"I’m fine, Magnús," I said, my voice raspy from sleep. "I was just... exhausted. I slept through the world. The bid was successful. The land is safe for now."

I heard him exhale, a long, shaky sound. "That’s incredible news. Truly. You’ve worked so hard for this, Elín."

"I have," I agreed, feeling a warmth in my chest at his genuine care.

"Listen," he said, his tone shifting to something more hopeful. "Since the crisis is over and you’re on leave... would you consider letting me take you to dinner tonight? I’ve asked before, but there was always a developer at the gate. No business, no Zartholms. Just us."

I hesitated. I looked at the quiet cottage, then at the calendar. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of being the "Guardian." I wanted to be a woman who went to dinner with a kind man who knew about biology instead of boardrooms.

"I’d like that, Magnús. I really would."

"Six o'clock? I’ll pick you up," he said, his voice bright with joy.

"I'll be ready."

I hung up, staring at the screen. For the first time in a week, I didn't think about the Zartholm Global Holdings building. But as I stood up to get ready, I caught the scent of sandalwood on the jacket I’d worn home—Zonrik’s scent. My heart gave a traitorous little kick. I shoved the jacket into the laundry bin and turned toward the shower, determined to wash away every trace of the man who had turned my world upside down.