By 9:00 AM the next day, the firm's Slack channel was on fire. The topic GalaShoe was trending at the top of the feed.

It started with a grainy photo someone had posted at 2 AM — a shot of Bennett Lloyd bending down on the staircase landing, a glittering high heel in his hand. The caption read: "Our new boss playing Prince Charming. But whose shoe?"

By morning, the speculation had spiraled. Phoebe Keller was leading the charge. "Someone definitely left a 'glass slipper' last night. Custom Louboutins? Who are we trying to impress?"

Isabelle sat at her desk, staring at the screen. Her hand was clamped around her mouse, the plastic creaking under the pressure of her grip.

A shadow fell over her keyboard. Eleanor walked past, her gaze dropping to Isabelle's feet. Isabelle had swapped the heels for a pair of sensible black flats. Eleanor's eyes lingered for a second too long before she moved on.

Isabelle's stomach twisted. If this didn't stop, someone would dig up the custom order. The shoe had her name on it. Literally.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her photos. She found a picture she had taken last night-a cheap, $40 pair of black pumps she had bought at a CVS a block from the hotel. She had worn them to get home.

She uploaded the photo to the Slack channel. "I think there's a misunderstanding. My shoes are pretty cheap. Definitely not custom."

The channel went quiet for a moment. Then Clara sent her a private message. A sigh-of-relief emoji. "Thank god. I was worried they were yours."

Phoebe, never one to let a drama die, replied in the main channel. "Oh? Then whose is the custom one?"

Isabelle's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She was about to type "No idea" when a notification popped up at the top of the screen.

Bennett Lloyd has joined the channel.

Isabelle's fingers froze. A sharp cramp seized her stomach, doubling her over for a second.

Before she could even process his presence, a message appeared.

@IsabelleDominguez: "Since your shoes are fine, Ms. Dominguez, it seems you have the capacity for more time on-site."

Isabelle stared at the words. What did that mean?

A second later, a new email chimed in her inbox. It was an official appointment letter, CC'd to Eleanor and HR.

"Effective immediately, Isabelle Dominguez is appointed as the on-site technical consultant for the capital representative."

Isabelle shot to her feet. Her chair scraped against the floor, the sound piercing the quiet office.

Eleanor stepped out of her office. Her face was grave, her eyes locking onto Isabelle. "Isabelle. The client specifically requested you. This is a major project. Don't let me down."

Isabelle opened her mouth to refuse. She wanted to say she couldn't do it. But the warning in Eleanor's eyes-the unspoken threat to her career-choked the words back down.

She looked back at the Slack channel. Bennett's avatar was a solid black square. It stared at her like a single, unblinking eye.

The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her denial hadn't put out the fire. It had handed him a perfect excuse. If she had just admitted the shoe was hers, it would have been awkward. But by lying, by claiming she was available, she had given him the rope to tie her to his side.

It was a checkmate. She had walked right into it.

Isabelle grabbed the rolled-up blueprints off her desk. Her nails dug into the thick paper, leaving crescent moons in the margins.

She had to go to his office. It was company policy. It was an order.

She walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. She watched the numbers climb, each ding tightening the knot in her chest.

The doors opened. The hallway was silent, ending at a heavy oak door that looked like the mouth of a beast.

She knocked.

"Come in." That low voice. The same one from the terrace.

Isabelle pushed the door open. Bennett was sitting behind his massive desk. And in his hands, he was casually turning over a very familiar, diamond-encrusted high heel.

Isabelle stood stiffly in front of the desk. She locked her eyes on the wall behind Bennett's head, refusing to look at the shoe. If she didn't acknowledge it, maybe it would disappear.

She forced her voice out, starting her report on the project's technical specs. The words came out tight, her throat constricting every time she swallowed.

Bennett leaned back in his leather chair. He wasn't looking at the blueprints. He wasn't looking at her face. His long fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on the polished wood. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Suddenly, he stood up. He moved around the desk, his long strides eating up the distance between them.

Isabelle stepped back instinctively. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. There was nowhere else to go.

Bennett stopped half a meter away. He looked down at her, his height blocking out the light from the window.

"Spread the drawings out," he ordered. His voice was low, a rumble she felt in her own chest.

Isabelle's hands shook as she unrolled the blueprint on the desk. The paper curled at the edges, refusing to lay flat.

A gust of air from the overhead vent blew across the desk. The lightweight paper lifted, the corner flapping wildly.

Bennett reached out to flatten it. His movement was casual, unhurried.

But just as his hand touched the paper, it slipped. The entire roll of blueprints slid off the edge of the desk, falling to the floor right at Isabelle's feet.

Isabelle bent down automatically to grab them. Her knees bent, her calf muscles stretching taut.

Bennett bent down at the same time. Their heads nearly collided. She caught a whiff of that scent again-cedar and mint-and her brain went completely blank.

Bennett's fingers didn't reach for the paper. Instead, his hand drifted. His fingertips brushed against the back of Isabelle's calf. It was a light touch, barely a whisper of contact.

Right over the faint, silvery scar that sat on her skin. A mark left when she'd stumbled against a wrought-iron table leg in her haste to flee his hotel room five years ago.

The moment his skin touched hers, Isabelle yanked her leg back. It felt like she had been burned. Her breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound in the quiet room. Her pupils dilated, blowing wide with shock.

Bennett slowly straightened up. He held the blueprint in one hand. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools that gave nothing away.

Isabelle stared at him, horror creeping up her neck. That touch was too deliberate. Too intimate. It was not an accident.

But Bennett's face was a mask of innocence. He looked completely unbothered, as if touching her leg had been as meaningless as picking up a piece of paper.

"Your leg is shaking, Ms. Dominguez." He raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. "Are you afraid of me?"

Isabelle bit down on the inside of her cheek. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth. "It's just a little cold in here, Mr. Lloyd."

Bennett didn't push it. He simply placed the blueprint on the desk and walked back around to his chair. He sat down, returning to his paperwork as if nothing had happened.

That retreat terrified Isabelle more than anything else. It felt like the calm before a storm.

She grabbed her bag, her fingers fumbling with the strap. She didn't say goodbye. She just walked out of the office as fast as she could without actually running.

Back at her desk, Isabelle sat down heavily. Her hand drifted to her calf, her palm pressing against the scar. Her skin was slick with cold sweat.

That touch was not an accident. He knew. But why wasn't he saying anything?

A deeper, more chilling thought took hold. He was playing with her. Like a cat with a mouse. He didn't want to kill it right away. He wanted to watch it squirm.

Isabelle couldn't sit still. The phantom sensation of his fingers on her skin felt like a snake, slithering around her ankle, tightening with every breath she took.

She opened the HR portal on her computer. She had three weeks of accrued PTO just sitting there. A desperate idea formed in her mind. If she could just get away for a couple of weeks, maybe he would lose interest. Maybe he would find a new toy.

She printed out the form and walked down the hall to Eleanor's office. She knocked, her knuckles rapping a staccato beat.

"Eleanor, I need to ask a favor." Isabelle stepped inside, holding the paper like a shield. "I'd like to take two weeks of my vacation time. Starting Monday."

Eleanor took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked at Isabelle with a flat, unsympathetic stare. "Now? The project just kicked off. The client's representative just arrived."

Isabelle bit her lip. "I know. But I really need the rest."

Eleanor let out a dry, humorless laugh. "That's impossible. Mr. Lloyd specifically emphasized that you need to be on this full-time."

Isabelle's heart sank. "I can hand my work over to Clara. She's up to speed."

Before Eleanor could respond, the office door swung open. Bennett walked in as if he owned the place-which, technically, his company owned a significant portion of the firm. He leaned against the doorframe, a coffee cup in his hand, looking completely at ease.

"Talking about me?" he asked, his gaze sliding past Eleanor to land squarely on Isabelle.

Isabelle snapped to attention, her spine rigid.

Eleanor immediately pasted on a professional smile. "Mr. Lloyd. Isabelle was just requesting some time off."

Bennett's eyes didn't leave Isabelle's face. He noted the pallor, the tight set of her jaw. "Vacation? I don't approve it."

His tone was flat, bored even, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.

Isabelle clenched her fists at her sides. "It's my legal right."

Bennett pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. He stopped inches away, close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw. "As the on-site consultant, your time off requires my signature." He looked down at her, his gray-blue eyes hard. "And I don't sign."

Isabelle took a deep breath, trying to find a way out. "Then assign someone else. Let Clara take my place."

Bennett reached out. His long fingers plucked the vacation form from her trembling hands. As he pulled the paper away, his thumb and index finger deliberately rubbed against the back of her hand.

It was the same motion. The same slow, deliberate drag of skin against skin. It mirrored the way he had touched her scar yesterday. It felt slimy, possessive, like he was savoring the feel of her.

Isabelle yanked her hand back, her head snapping up to look at him.

Bennett was staring right at her. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. But his eyes were dead. There was no warmth, no humor. Just pure, predatory intent.

"Replace you? No need." He held the paper up between them. Then, slowly, he tore it in half. The ripping sound was loud in the quiet office. "I'm already familiar with your... working style."

The words "working style" were soft, almost a whisper. They dripped with an intimacy that made Isabelle's scalp prickle.

Isabelle froze. In that instant, the last thread of her denial snapped. He knew. He knew it was her. From the very first moment on the terrace, he had known exactly who she was.

Everything-the shoe, the appointment, the touch-had been an act. A performance designed to back her into a corner, to force her to be the one to break first.

Bennett tossed the torn pieces of paper into the wastebasket. He turned and walked out of the office without another word.

Isabelle stood there, shaking. She was trapped. The walls were closing in, and there was nowhere left to run.