The Liebert's Protocol

Darn the nightwear!

I hadn’t slept. Every time I closed my eyes, Andrew’s voice was a jagged loop in my head. I was still staring at the ceiling, wondering how much of my life he had actually seen on those cameras, when the door hit the stopper with a violent c***k.

The lights hissed on. I bolted upright, my heart hammering.

"Get up," Andrew said.

He was at the foot of my bed, already in a crisp dark suit. He didn't wait for a response; he reached out and ripped the duvet off the bed in one aggressive motion.

"How dare you!" I scrambled to my feet, fueled by a hot surge of rage.

But as I stood, the cold air hit my skin and I froze. I was wearing the sheer, silk-chiffon nightgown I’d bought for a night in Beijing that never happened. In the harsh overhead glare, it was completely transparent. I was standing there, practically naked, exposed to the one man I hated most.

The silence became heavy. Andrew’s gaze dropped, tracing the lines of my body. For a heartbeat, his stone-cold mask didn't just slip—it shattered. His jaw tightened, and he stayed frozen, his eyes lingering for a second too long.

He swallowed hard, his throat moving in a sharp, jagged motion.

"You p*****t!" I hissed, clutching my arms across my chest. "Am I some kid?? I'm a grown up woman, You have no right to—"

"I—" Andrew started, then stopped. He cleared his throat, his eyes snapping back to mine, but they were darker now, less clinical. He took a half-step back, his usual composure struggling to return. "Five... five minutes."

"Get out!" I yelled, my face burning with raw humiliation.

"The car," he said, his voice lower, slightly rougher. He didn't look at me again. He turned toward the door, his movements less fluid than before. "Be in the car by 5:10. Or I'll come back."

He didn't give a speech. He just strode out and shut the door with a sharp click.

**************************

The car ride was a nightmare.

The air was so thick with the memory of Andrew standing in my bedroom at 5:00 AM that I could barely swallow. He was shoved into his corner of the backseat, eyes glued to his laptop as if the screen was the only thing keeping him from losing his temper. Every time the car swerved and my knee accidentally brushed his, he didn’t just move—he shifted away so fast you’d think I had a contagious disease.

"Drink your coffee," he said. He didn't look up. His voice was flat, like he was reading off a spreadsheet. "You have bags under your eyes. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

"I haven't slept because someone decided to barge into my room while I was in bed," I snapped. My voice sounded thin and shaky, and I hated it.

The typing stopped. Andrew didn't turn his head, but his jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might c***k. "I entered that room to stay on schedule. What I saw is irrelevant. Forget it."

"Forget it? You stuttered, Andrew. You looked like you’d seen a ghost."

Finally, he looked at me. He didn't look like a "cold CEO"—he just looked tired and incredibly annoyed. He glanced at my hair, then my mouth, then back to his screen.

"The Liebert Textile Division is down four points because you decided to run off to China," he said. "The Board is currently sharing a memo about how 'unstable' you are. If you walk into this interview looking like a mess, Silas Vane will use it as an excuse to push you out of your own company. Today."

He pushed a folder across the seat toward me.

"Read the briefing. And for heaven's sake, put on some lipstick. You look pale."

"I'm twenty-three, Andrew. I know how to put on a face for a camera."

"Then do it," he muttered, closing his laptop as we pulled up to the building.

The camera flashes started hitting the windows immediately. I felt my stomach do a slow, sick roll. Andrew noticed—he always noticed everything. For a split second, his hand reached out and gripped my wrist. His skin was surprisingly hot.

"Marie," he said, his voice dropping. He wasn't being a jerk for once. "The red lipstick. Now. Don't let them see you're scared."

I didn't argue. I smeared the red across my lips, my hands shaking just enough for him to see.

"Better," he said, letting go of my arm as if he’d been shocked. "Now go out there and act like you own the place. Even if we both know you’re terrified."

He opened the door, and the noise of the reporters swallowed us.