"What's Mr. Ashcroft really like?" Rhea asks once they're back from lunch. Tessa hasn't returned yet. The floor feels quieter without her.
Julian leans back in his chair, considering. "Private. That's the word everyone uses. No one actually knows him."
Rhea nods. "How long have you worked here?"
"Three years." He glances at her, curious now. "Why?"
She shrugs lightly. "I thought since you're close to him, you might know more. About his life. Relationships."
Julian lets out a small laugh. "I don't think he does relationships. At least not publicly. No one's ever shown up claiming to be anything personal."
"What about the last executive assistant?" she asks carefully. "How was she?"
He blinks. "He," Julian corrects. "You're the first woman in that role."
Rhea's brows lift. "Really?"
He nods. "So now I'm curious. Why the interest in Mr. Ashcroft?"
She smiles, measured. "I work for him. It helps to know someone's preferences."
"That's fair," Julian says. "But trust me, no one here knows anything beyond work."
That only deepens the unease curling in her chest.
The elevator dings. Tessa strides in, bright smile in place.
"You two rushed back for nothing," she says. "Mr. Ashcroft's out on a lunch appointment."
She drops into her chair beside Rhea. "Julian, don't train her to disappear during lunch. This is when people actually talk."
She turns to Rhea. "If you stay on this floor always, you won't meet anyone."
Rhea nods, instinctively reaching for her glasses - then stopping herself mid-motion. A chill runs through her.
"I'll stay back next time," she says.
Tessa grins. "Good. Oh, and someone from marketing asked about you."
Julian stiffens. "Tessa!"
"What?" she shrugs. "He said he's interested."
"I don't think Rhea's looking," Julian says.
"How do you know?" Tessa presses. "He's handsome. Stable. Normal."
"And is that your assignment?" a voice cuts in.
The air tightens.
Mr. Ashcroft stands in front of them.
Everyone straightens instantly.
"Next time I hear anything that isn't work-related on this floor," he says calmly, "someone will be leaving."
Tessa nods quickly, color draining from her face.
He turns to Rhea. "You. Come with me."
She's on her feet before she thinks.
Inside his office, the door closes with a soft click.
Too soft.
He turns suddenly and pulls her back against it. The impact is controlled but firm. Her breath catches.
Her mind scrambles. What did I do?
"I'm adding a rule," he says.
Rhea's gaze drops instinctively.
"Look at me."
He lifts her chin with two fingers. Not rough. Not gentle.
She meets his eyes and shivers.
"I don't share," he says.
Confusion flickers across her face. "Sir?"
His hands slide down, pinning her wrists lightly against the door.
Her breath stutters, a sound escaping her before she can stop it.
"I don't share what's mine," he repeats, stepping closer until the space between them disappears.
Understanding settles, heavy and unmistakable.
"Yes, sir," she whispers.
For a moment, he leans in, close enough that her lips part in expectation, her body bracing for a line to be crossed.
Then he stops.
Steps back.
Control snaps back into place like nothing happened.
"You're dismissed," he says, already turning away.
Rhea doesn't hesitate. She opens the door and leaves, pulse racing, skin still burning where he never touched her.
Behind her, the door closes.
And she knows. That wasn't a warning.
It was a claim.
—-----------
Rhea walks half a step behind Mr. Ashcroft into the boardroom, clutching her iPad and notebook tight against her chest. The long, structured dress she wears brushes her knees as she moves; modest, deliberate, safe. She'd made sure of that.
The room is already full.
The room holds about twenty executives. Men and women. Older. Experienced.
They rise when Dominic enters. Conversation stops. Chairs scrape quietly as they wait for him to sit at the head of the table.
He does.
Only then do they sit.
Rhea remains standing at his left side.
"Sit," Dominic says without looking at her.
She sets the iPad down and shifts, searching for an open chair.
"Stay."
The word stops her cold.
The room remains silent. No one looks at her directly, but she can feel the awareness: measured, curious.
Mr. Ashcroft lifts his head. "A chair," he says calmly.
An assistant moves at once, bringing one forward.
Rhea steals a glance at him.
He doesn't want her bending. Doesn't want her exposed.
He corrects her behind closed doors but in public, he shields her.
The chair is placed beside him.
He waits until she's seated.
Everyone waits.
Only then does he say, "Proceed."
The meeting exhales.
Mr. Blackwood from marketing steps forward, jacket already off, sleeves rolled as if this is a confrontation instead of a presentation.
The screen behind him lights up with the Axiom Automotive logo: clean, restrained, unmistakable.
Rhea opens her notebook. Her posture mirrors discipline now. She doesn't write yet.
She watches.
"Good morning everyone," Mr. Blackwood begins. "What you're about to see isn't just a product. It's a shift in how Axiom defines performance."
The screen changes.
A vehicle silhouette rotates slowly, light tracing its lines with surgical precision. A ripple moves through the room, interest sharpened, controlled.
Dominic doesn't react.
He sits still, hands folded loosely on the table, expression unreadable. The kind of stillness that commands attention without asking for it.
"For eighteen months," Mr. Blackwood continues, "engineering, data analytics, and marketing have been aligned around a single objective which is anticipation."
Rhea starts writing, pen moving quickly now. She glances up, tracks the slide change, then back down.
Habit pulls at her fingers and she adjusts her glasses…
The pressure is immediate.
A hand settles on her thigh. It doesn't squeeze. It doesn't move. It simply claims the space, his palm searing through the fabric of her dress.
Her breath catches. She stills, her pen hovering mid-word. "Mr. Ashcroft," she murmurs, her voice a ghost of a sound.
He doesn't look at her. His attention remains fixed on the market projections, his jaw relaxed, his posture unchanged.
"This," Mr. Blackwood says, "is the AX-9."
Charts replace the image: market projections, consumer behavior maps, lines rising with ruthless clarity.
The hand doesn't move. It is the restraint that is unbearable. It is the silent promise of what he could do in front of everyone. Rhea forces her breathing to stay steady and resumes writing, though every nerve in her body is screaming, acutely aware of the rule he is breaking without appearing to move a muscle.
Public control. Private consequence.
"Our competitors sell power," Mr. Blackwood says. "We're selling intuition. The AX-9 doesn't just respond to its driver, it learns them. Handling, energy use, even the cabin environment adjust in real time. It doesn't feel automated."
Rhea lowers her gaze to the page, pen poised.
Then Dominic's hand shifts.
The fabric of her dress tightens as his fingers slide upward, deliberate and unhurried.
He bunches the silk in his fist, pulling it back until his hand reaches the bare, raw skin of her inner thigh
Her breath falters.
The pen wavers, ink dragging unevenly across the page. Without turning his head, he leans closer. His voice is a private, lethal rasp.
"I'll want today's brief immediately after this meeting," he says. "So you will continue writing Fragile."
She nods once, sharply, fighting to steady herself.
Across the table, one of the executives leans back. "And the risk?"
Mr. Blackwood doesn't hesitate. "The risk is playing safe and calling it innovation."
Rhea writes faster now, words blurring, her grip tightening as Dominic's hand moves unhurried, deliberate, testing her composure.
Her shoulders stiffen. She braces against the edge of the table, grounding herself.
Blackwood continues. "We tested the message across six demographics. The reaction wasn't excitement. It was recognition. People didn't feel forced to. They felt understood."
A tremor runs through her as Dominic's fingers reach the lace edge of her panties. He doesn't hesitate. He hooks the fabric, tugging it aside to find her unprotected, aching heat.
She parts her legs instinctively, a silent plea for him to stop…or to finish it.
Her pen slips, clattering softly against the large desk.
"Ahhh…"
The moan is soft, but in the sterile silence of the boardroom, it sounds like a gunshot. Every head turns. Twenty pairs of eyes land on her.
"I'm sorry," Rhea murmurs, dipping her head quickly, her face flaming with a mixture of shame and arousal.
"Continue," Dominic says calmly, his expression a mask of stone.
Blackwood resumes without question.
Under the table, he dives into her. His fingers invade her completely, shifting her lace aside to claim the very center of her being.
Rhea presses her lips together so hard she tastes blood.
Why now? Why here?
She cannot react. She cannot move. She is being hollowed out in front of the world's most powerful people. It is psychological torture disguised as a touch.
The final slide appears on the screen.
"The car that knows you."
Silence follows, not uncertainty, but consideration. Decisions forming behind careful eyes.
Rhea stares at the page, hands trembling, body caught between obedience and reaction. She forces herself to breathe evenly, to stay still, to endure.
"You stopped writing," Dominic murmurs, his eyes still fixed forward on the dark screen. "That's noted."
Her throat tightens.
"We'll address it later."
The screen goes dark.
Applause breaks out around the table.
Rhea flinches at the sudden final thrust of his fingers, gripping the desk as she regains control.
Her throat tightens as he withdraws his hand, the sudden absence of him leaving her cold and gasping for air.
She doesn't look at him. She doesn't need to. She knows this wasn't an act of passion. It was an instruction. And she has failed it.
And as Mr. Ashcroft said... disobedience brings consequences.