I spend the next thirty minutes trying to get my mind back under control.
Spoiler: it's a spectacular failure.
I reread the same report three times one I could recite with my eyes closed. I sort my pens by color, then by size, then mix them again. I stand up, sit back down, cross my legs, uncross them. I hate this version of myself: the one who can feel her pulse in her temples, her throat… everywhere.
By the time noon finally hits, Ethan still hasn't returned to the office.
Perfect.
Perfect.
If he thinks I'm going to run after him like some love-struck teenager…
I sigh so loudly the plant next to me looks like it's judging me.
Okay… maybe a tiny part of me would have run.
I head down alone to the café on the ground floor. The cool air of the lobby slaps me in the best way; I hoped it would erase everything his deep voice, his lingering stare, that sentence he dropped this morning like tossing a match into gasoline.
Fail again.
I order a niçoise salad I already know I won't touch. I sit in the back, near the window, scrolling through my phone without reading a word. Just to look busy. To not look like I'm waiting.
A shadow falls across my table.
My body recognizes it before my brain does.
I look up.
Ethan.
He's put his grey jacket back on the one that fits him a little too well and his face is shut tight like a locked vault. No teasing smirk, no playful challenge. Just a cold tension that's almost painful to look at.
He stays standing.
"May I?" he asks in a neutral, almost distant tone.
I shrug.
"I thought you needed to 'clear your head.'"
"I changed my mind."
He pulls out the chair and sits without waiting for permission. The scrape of metal against tile makes me jump. He's tense, rigid, hands flat on the table like he's stopping himself from clenching them.
I study him. He doesn't look like the man who nearly pinned me against the conference room wall this morning with shameless confidence. He looks… lost in his own suit.
"You're not eating?" I ask, because the silence is burning me alive.
"No."
Lie. I can tell by the way he swallows, like his throat is tight.
He stares at me. Too long. His eyes move over my face as if searching for a crack, an excuse anything to look away. He finds nothing.
"I was… too direct earlier," he finally says, voice low, rough, almost guilty.
"A little, yes."
He rubs the back of his neck something he never does. A human gesture, not a CEO's.
"I shouldn't have said that."
"Why?"
He looks up. There's surprise in his eyes. He didn't expect that question.
"Because I don't want you to feel… obliged. Or uncomfortable. Or I don't know."
I slowly shake my head.
"I don't feel uncomfortable, Ethan."
A silence. His eyes drop to my hands. They're trembling slightly on the table; I can't stop them. He looks at them like he wants to take them in his.
He doesn't.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"Maybe."
He inhales sharply.
"That's why I should stay away from you."
I lean forward, just enough that our forearms almost brush.
"And what if you don't want to stay away?"
His gaze snaps up to mine. Something breaks inside him. Just for a second. Then he pulls himself together again, jaw tightening.
"Amelia… you're seriously complicating my life."
I can't help smiling.
"You're making mine… a lot less boring."
He closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them again, it's worse. Darker. More honest.
"This isn't a game," he says, voice low.
"I know."
He runs his tongue slowly over his lower lip. My heart jumps stupidly.
"There are rules, Amelia."
"Have you always followed them?"
He looks at me. Long. Searching.
I wet my lips without thinking. His gaze follows the motion like he's magnetized. His fingers tense against the table.
I whisper:
"And what if, just once, you forgot them?"
He doesn't answer. But I see the exact moment the rope snaps. His shoulders drop by a millimeter. His eyes darken. He stands abruptly.
I frown.
"You're leaving?"
He looks at me with an intensity that roots me to my seat.
"If I stay another second, I'm going to do something I shouldn't."
I swallow.
"And are you sure you'd regret it?"
He steps toward me. Then another. He's close enough now that I feel his body heat.
"Yes…"
A breath.
"No…"
Another step.
"That's the problem."
He lowers his voice to a whisper against my lips:
"Come with me."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he hears it.
"Where?"
"Not far."
It's not a boss's order. It's a barely disguised plea.
I stand. My legs barely cooperate.
He turns and crosses the café with quick, almost angry strides. I follow. He stops in front of the private elevator—the one only upper management uses. He scans his badge. The doors slide open.
We step inside.
The doors close.
The space shrinks instantly. The air turns electric.
He stands opposite me, back against the wall, eyes fixed on the numbers above. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't even look at me. But I feel every centimeter between us like a burn.
"Ethan…"
"Don't say anything."
His voice is raw, barely controlled.
The elevator climbs. Slowly. Too slowly.
Then he murmurs so quietly I think I imagined it:
"Why can't I get you out of my head?"
I answer without thinking:
"Maybe because you don't really want to."
His hands tighten on the railing behind him. His knuckles go white.
"Stop reading me like that."
"Then tell me what you really want."
The elevator stops. DING.
The doors hesitate a second before opening, like even the machine is unsure.
He finally turns toward me.
His eyes are black. Burning.
He steps forward. Just one step.
His voice is a breath against my lips:
"I want you."
A beat.
"Much more than I should. Much more than I'm allowed to."
Then, suddenly, he hits the "open" button and steps out into the empty hallway.
He disappears around the corner without looking back.
I stay alone in the cabin, legs weak, heart wrecked, knowing with absolute certainty that the line he refused to cross…
he just obliterated it.