Deadline, Redline, Matrimony

Chapter 6

The folder with Roslina’s rules still felt like it was burning through my hand when I heard footsteps in the corridor.

They weren’t heavy. They weren’t hurried. They were measured. This was the sound of someone who owned the place. Not one of us mere workers. That narrowed it down to two options — Roslina or her son, David. One thing was clear: they weren’t heels.

And, somehow, that was worse.

David entered the room like he owned the floor — and he did. The walls too. To be fair, he technically owned the floor, the walls, and the oxygen we both shared. Truth be told, I was taking less oxygen.

I didn’t look at him.

Not once.

Not a flicker of eye contact.

I made it very clear I was deeply, spiritually invested in my clipboard.

Because that’s what professionals do.

He paused in the doorway, silent for a beat too long, like he was savoring the fact that I wouldn’t look at him.

It amused him — I could feel it.

“Good morning,” he said, voice smooth, casual, irritatingly at ease.

My first urge was to bow like he was royalty or perform a grand salaam like a court jester. Instead, I swallowed it whole, standing straighter, pretending I was immune, but I stopped myself before going overboard.

I nodded once, still staring at my clipboard as if it might sprout wings and save me from this moment.

“You’re ignoring me,” he said finally, almost playfully.

Like I can. Ignore. Him. In front of his mother. No chance.

His protector was watching even when nobody was watching. This guy — God knows I swear — needs no protection. If anything, we need protection from him.

“I…” My voice started out like a sheep’s bleat, which made me shut up faster than Usain Bolt. One of my eyes betrayed me, flicking up just long enough to see the smirk on his face before I dropped it again.

“No,” I said. I wanted to add “sir” too, but it somehow got stuck in my throat. Instead, I continued crisply, “I’m working.”

Which, technically, was true — working on pretending he didn’t exist, until he did now.

The corner of his mouth tilted — just slightly, just enough for me to see it without looking at him fully.

“Follow me,” David said.

There was no question in his voice.

“To the lobby. I want to discuss the structure.”

I obeyed. Because that’s what “professionals” do. Even if real professionals would’ve said, “Give me a moment to prepare.” No, I just followed, like a mere employee whose paycheck — and portfolio — depended on the approval of the boss’s son.

Clipboard tucked to my chest, I walked after him like the world’s most underpaid assistant.

Roslina’s watching eyes burned into my back — I could feel her at the window, pretending not to observe, but absolutely observing. She didn’t try to stop me. I felt like I was being smuggled from one gangster to another. One demanding a liver, the other a kidney.

The hallway stretched long, the air between us taut.

David glanced over his shoulder once.

“You don’t have to look so tense,” he said lightly. “I don’t bite.”

You do. I vividly remember you do. I had marks for a week, you son of a… Roslina.

I didn’t answer. My focus stayed on the clipboard, on the marble floor, on anything but him.

But I felt it — the weight of his presence in front of me, the way he filled the hallway without even trying.

In the lobby, he turned, catching my eyes for the first time since he’d walked in.

“I need the lobby plan in ten minutes,” he said, like he was asking me to pass the salt.

Ten. Minutes.

Son of a be—ich.

My stomach dropped. The heat rose.

“And,” he added, a little smirk touching his mouth, “I’ll walk you through it personally.”

Personally.

The word landed between us like an iron weight.

I nodded again, too quickly, too tightly.

“Fine.”

Inside, my pulse was a drumbeat: ten minutes, ten minutes, ten minutes.

I could feel Roslina’s gaze even from here — her son, her rules, her silent tests.