Chapter 2 - Forced Partners
886 Words
The boardroom broke into scattered murmurs the second Chairman Salvatore dismissed them. Executives gathered papers, exchanged tight smiles, and left in pairs, their voices hushed but urgent. Everyone had opinions, everyone had bets.
Lillian could hear the whispers as clearly as if they’d been spoken to her face.
“Moore and Salvatore? That’ll be bloody fireworks.”
“Three months? She won’t last three weeks.”
“He’s the heir. Why pair him with her?”
Her fingers curled tighter around her pen until the metal bit into her palm. She refused to let the sting of their doubt show.
When she rose from her chair, Matt was already standing, smoothing his suit jacket with the unhurried elegance of a man who believed time itself bent to him. His father lingered at the head of the table, watching with that hawk-like gaze, as if daring them both to disappoint him.
Matt’s eyes flicked to her. “Try to keep up, Moore. The real work starts now.”
Her spine stiffened. “If you think I came this far just to follow you around like a secretary, you’re in for a surprise.”
“Secretary?” He smirked, lowering his voice just enough so only she could hear. “That might actually be less exhausting than whatever this arrangement is.”
She bit back the first reply that rose to her lips, because Antonio Salvatore’s presence still loomed. The man hadn’t spoken since his announcement, but his silence was a weight. He was studying them, measuring them.
And she knew exactly what he saw: his son, confident, magnetic, polished; and the ambitious outsider who’d clawed her way into his empire.
Lillian gathered her things and left the boardroom without another glance at Matt. She wasn’t going to give either Salvatore the satisfaction of seeing her rattled.
---
The project was too important.
Her office was only a few doors down from Matt’s on the executive floor, an arrangement she’d once cursed. Now it felt like a cruel joke. No sooner had she dropped her bag on the leather chair than a knock rapped against her glass door.
She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“Come in, Salvatore,” she said, her tone cool.
He strolled inside, closing the door behind him as if he owned not just her office, but her air supply too. “Moore,” he said smoothly. “Since we’re partners now, thought I’d do the polite thing and extend an olive branch.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Your version of polite usually feels like an insult wrapped in a bow.”
His lips curved. “You wound me.” He dropped a slim folder onto her desk. “Preliminary ideas for the campaign. Consider it a head start.”
She opened it, skimming the neatly typed bullet points. Strong, yes, but also… predictable. Safe. Exactly what she’d expect from someone who’d never known what it was like to fight for approval.
“Interesting,” she said finally, keeping her voice deliberately neutral.
“You mean brilliant.”
“I mean safe,” she corrected. “You want to recycle what’s already worked. That’s not vision. That’s cowardice.”
His dark eyes locked onto hers, sharp enough to cut. For a moment the air between them thickened, the tension humming low and dangerous.
“You have a better idea?” he asked softly.
She leaned forward, refusing to break his gaze. “I don’t recycle. I create.”
A beat passed. Something flickered there—challenge, amusement, maybe something else. Then he laughed, low and husky, and stepped back.
“This will be fun,” he murmured, turning toward the door.
“Agonizing,” she corrected under her breath.
But he heard her. And when he glanced back, his smirk carried a heat that curled in her stomach in ways she hated to acknowledge.
---
That night, long after the floor had emptied and the city lights blinked awake outside the glass windows, Lillian was still at her desk, scribbling concepts across sheets of paper. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t let Matt outshine her, not for a second.
But when the elevator chimed down the hall, her head shot up.
Footsteps. Heavy, confident, unhurried.
Matt appeared in her doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loosened. The sight was so unexpectedly disarming—him looking less like a polished heir and more like a man undone—that she lost her grip on her pen. It clattered against the desk.
“You’re still here,” he said, voice low, almost amused.
“I could say the same for you,” she replied quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed her slip.
He leaned against her doorframe, studying her with that unnerving focus. “Careful, Moore. Burn too hard and you’ll flame out before the three months are over.”
She straightened, forcing calm into her tone. “Worry about yourself, Salvatore. I don’t need saving.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. His gaze lingered a fraction too long, tracing the line of her jaw, the determined set of her mouth.
Then he smirked again, though softer this time. “No. You don’t.”
He turned and walked away, leaving her pulse thundering and her thoughts tangled in knots.
- Writer
