Chapter 4: The Office Of Secrets
1185 Words
Léa didn’t dress to impress.
She dressed for war.
A fitted black blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, hair pulled into a sleek bun, the kind that made men underestimate her until it was too late. No jewelry—just her spine, straight as steel, and her eyes, sharper than the knives in the Devereux kitchens.
By the time she reached Bastien’s private office, it was 11:02 a.m.
She knocked once. The door was already ajar.
Inside, the space was dark wood and heavy glass, books lined in brutal symmetry, and a scent that was distinctly Bastien—something like smoke and expensive ink. He sat behind a massive desk, sleeves rolled, no tie, a cup of espresso steaming at his elbow.
He didn’t look up.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You’re lucky I came at all,” she replied, stepping in.
His gaze lifted, slow and deliberate. And then… paused.
His eyes dipped over her, not lecherous—clinical. Appreciative. As if cataloguing each detail for future use.
“You dressed like you’re expecting a fight,” he said.
She shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
“Good,” Bastien said, standing. “Because what I’m about to show you will either turn you into an ally… or an enemy.”
She held his stare. “Let’s find out which.”
He moved to a panel behind the desk and pressed his thumb to a hidden scanner. The bookshelf beside it slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a narrow hallway.
Léa blinked. “You have a secret hallway behind your office?”
“Every villain should,” Bastien murmured, motioning her forward.
She followed.
Down the corridor was a smaller room—dim, filled with filing cabinets, screens, and surveillance monitors. One showed a view of the vineyard. Another, a live feed from what looked like a dock. Another… the cellar.
“This is how you watch everyone?” Léa asked, arms crossed.
“This is how I stay alive.”
He handed her a file.
Her breath caught.
Inside were photos—of her. At the café near her apartment. Walking to class. Even one of her and her father, from when she was a child. A carnival, a red balloon in her hand.
Her fingers shook as she flipped to the next page.
“Why do you have this?”
“Because ten years ago, your father started asking questions about the Devereux weapons contracts,” Bastien said. “Six months later, he vanished. We didn’t kill him. But someone wanted it to look like we did.”
Léa stared down at the photo of her father.
Alive. Smiling. Unaware.
She looked up, voice barely steady. “And you waited a decade to tell me this?”
“I didn’t know who you were until the night of the party.”
“And now that you do?”
Bastien stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Now I want to keep you alive.”
There it was again—that maddening calm, like he had the world’s pulse on a string and knew exactly when to pull.
“You think protecting me gives you a right to me?” she asked.
“No,” Bastien said. “I think wanting you makes me reckless.”
Léa’s heart stuttered.
He was close enough now that she could smell the cedar of his cologne. She could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the tension in his jaw, the way he was trying—so hard—not to touch her.
And she should’ve stepped back.
Should’ve said no.
Instead, she asked, “Then why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
A beat passed.
Then Bastien’s hand slid around her waist and pulled her in, fast and unforgiving. His mouth crashed to hers with a precision that stunned her—no fumbling, no hesitation. Just heat and command, lips devouring hers like she was the only thing left to ruin.
And God, it felt dangerous.
Her hands gripped his shirt, fingers curling in the fine fabric, and for a moment, she forgot everything—the cellar, Cassian, the danger, the blood.
For one kiss, she let herself fall.
But Bastien broke away first, breath harsh against her cheek.
“This can’t happen again,” he said, voice low and raw.
Léa smiled, lips swollen. “Then you shouldn’t have started it.”
She turned and walked out, leaving the file on the desk.
But her knees were still shaking.
—
Léa’s heels clicked down the hallway like punctuation marks to a sentence she hadn’t quite finished. Her body was humming, heart a traitor thudding behind her ribs, and her lips still tingled from Bastien’s kiss.
No. Not a kiss. That was a storm wrapped in silk.
She made it to the elevator, pressed the button with more force than necessary, and exhaled.
What the hell was she doing?
Sleeping with the enemy was one thing. Falling for him? That was war against herself.
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped in—only to jolt when a figure leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Cassian.
Of course.
Of course.
He looked her over—black blouse wrinkled from hands that weren’t his, her neck flushed, lips slightly swollen. His jaw clenched.
“Nice of you to finally come upstairs,” he said.
She stayed silent, but the elevator doors closed, trapping them in a box of tension.
Cassian pushed off the wall. “You kissed him.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You were watching me?”
“I always watch you.”
That shouldn’t have made her heart flip. But it did. Damn him.
“Then you know it wasn’t your business.”
He stepped closer. “He’s not your answer, Léa.”
“And you are?” she asked, chin tilted.
He didn’t flinch. “I never lied about who I am. Bastien? He’ll pretend he can control this until he ruins you.”
Cassian’s hand slid to her waist, slow but sure, like he knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help it. “You think I’m chaos, but baby—you like chaos. You crave it. You are it.”
Her back hit the elevator wall with a soft thud.
Cassian caged her in, both hands braced beside her head. His scent was leather and smoke, wild and untamed—so different from Bastien’s cool precision. Everything about him screamed danger with a touch of desperation.
“I don’t want to ruin you,” he said, voice low. “But I will if you don’t stop looking at me like that.”
She held his gaze. “You already did. The night we met.”
The air cracked like lightning. Cassian’s lips hovered near hers—barely touching, but charged like fire waiting to ignite.
The elevator stopped with a ding, doors sliding open.
Léa ducked under
his arm and walked out.
“I’m not yours to ruin, Cassian,” she said over her shoulder.
But inside, her pulse was chaos.
Because part of her wanted him to try.
- Writer
