Chapter 10 — A Married Man’s Weakness

The words hover between your parted lips, heavy and warm in the dim light of the suite.

For three agonized heartbeats, neither of you moves. The heat radiating off his broad chest presses through your cream silk blouse, and the rough, slow trace of his thumb against your bottom lip makes every nerve ending in your body burn. You can feel the exact moment his restraint snaps—the sudden, sharp intake of his breath, the twitch in his jaw, the raw hunger in his pale blue eyes.

Then, with a suddenness that feels like a physical blow, Damien lets go.

His hands drop from your jawline. He takes a full step backward, his leather shoes dragging heavy against the dark rug. He raises his right hand, his large fingers flexing before he wraps them around his left wrist, his thumb pressing hard against the cool, polished band of his gold wedding ring.

“No,” he says raspy and flat, looking away toward the dark window. “No. I won’t do this.”

You stand in the space he just vacated, your skin still burning where his palms cradled your face, your bottom lip still tingling from the touch of his thumb. You take a slow, steadying breath, letting the sudden coldness of the room settle into your lungs.

“You won’t do what, Damien?” you ask, your voice calm, quiet.

Damien keeps his back turned to you. His broad shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep, ragged breath, his hand remaining locked over his wedding ring.

“I am a married man, Serena,” he says, his deep voice thick with a rigid, forced discipline. “I have responsibilities to this firm, to my family, and to my name. Crossing this line with you is a mistake.”

A cold, mocking laugh escapes your throat before you can stop it.

You don’t step back toward the door. You walk around his desk, stepping straight into his line of sight until you stand between him and the sweeping glass wall overlooking the city skyline.

“A mistake?” you repeat softly, tilting your head. “Is that what you call this?”

“I am reminding you of reality,” Damien says, looking down at you, his eyes locking back into that cold, unyielding mask he uses in boardrooms. “We have a professional relationship. You are my director. I am your chief executive. What happened just now was a lapse in judgment.”

“Stop lying to yourself,” you say, taking a step closer until you are standing inches from him again. “You brought me up to this floor because you couldn’t stop looking at me. You cornered me against that door because another man touched my arm. You held my face in your hands two seconds ago, trembling because you wanted to taste me so badly you couldn’t breathe.”

Damien’s jaw tightens so hard the muscle flexes along his cheekbone. “Serena—”

“Don’t hide behind that gold band on your finger,” you cut in, your voice dropping to a low, intense whisper that cuts straight through his defenses. “You just told me you haven’t touched your wife in seven years. You live in a hollow house, you sit in a hollow office, and you pretend that your life is under control because you wear a suit and sign multi-million-dollar checks. But the second you get near me, your control turns to ash.”

Damien steps forward, his tall frame towering over you, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous heat. “You think this is easy for me? You think I want to feel like this?”

“I think you’re a coward,” you say flatly, holding his gaze without a single tremor in your voice. “You want me. You’ve wanted me since the second I walked into this office and told you your analysts were wrong. But instead of admitting it like a man, you want to touch me in the dark and then hide behind your wedding ring when it gets too real.”

Damien growls, a low, primal sound from deep in his throat, and closes the remaining distance between you.

Before you can take another breath, he crowds you backward against the cool, dark glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

His body presses flush against yours, aligning from his broad chest down to his thighs. The cold glass chills your back, while the front of your body is completely consumed by his scorching heat. He plants his large palms flat against the glass on either side of your head, trapping you entirely inside his space.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Damien rasps, his chest heaving against yours, his face inches from your neck.

The physical friction is absolute. You can feel the heavy, racing thud of his heart against your ribs, the hardness of his thighs pressed against your pencil skirt, the absolute physical strength of a man who could crush you if he wanted to, but who is instead holding himself back with every ounce of his remaining strength.

“Then show me,” you whisper directly against his mouth, your breath mingling with his in the dark space. “Stop hiding, Damien.”

Damien stares down into your eyes, his chest rising and falling in deep, jagged breaths. His blue eyes track your face, consumed by an agony of desire so intense it looks like physical pain. His forehead leans down, resting gently against yours for three long, agonizing seconds as his body remains pressed hard against yours against the glass.

He wants to surrender. You can feel it in the way his muscles strain, in the heavy, possessive weight of his body against yours.

Slowly, deliberately, you place both palms against his broad chest.

You don’t push him away with anger. You simply rest your hands against his crisp white shirt, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers.

“When you are ready to stop pretending, Mr. Veyr,” you murmur against his jawline, “you know where my desk is.”

Before he can answer, you slide sideways, stepping out from beneath his arms.

Damien remains pressed against the glass, his hands resting flat against the cold surface where your head just was. He is breathing hard, his chest heaving, his head bowed as he stares down at the empty rug beneath him, completely undone.

You walk across the dark suite with slow, measured steps. You reach the double mahogany doors, pull the brass handle down, and step out into the quiet corridor without looking back once.

The next morning, you arrive at the office at six-forty-five.

You sit at your desk in the glass-walled suite, your computer booted up, a fresh cup of black coffee sitting near your keyboard. Your mind is quiet, focused, and steady. You forced him to confront the truth. The ball is in his court now.

At eight o’clock, Damien’s executive assistant steps into your office. She looks bewildered, holding an official scheduling printout in her hand.

“Miss Vale?” she asks softly.

You look up from your terminal. “Yes, Evelyn?”

“Mr. Veyr just called down from his private line,” she says, looking at the paper in her hands as if she can’t quite believe the words printed on it. “He has instructed me to cancel his entire afternoon schedule. He cleared his quarterly review with the Zurich board and pushed back his four o’clock press briefing.”

You tilt your head, keeping your face completely unreadable. “Why?”

Evelyn hands you the printed memo.

“He reserved your entire evening,” she whispers. “Starting at five o’clock. His private car is scheduled to pick both of you up at the executive basement bay.”