One Night, Wrong Man

Chapter 4 — Impulse

-POV Derby

I spent most of Thursday morning pretending my life hadn’t become significantly more complicated over the course of a single night.

By the time I slipped into a seat near the back of the conference room, my presentation was already open on my laptop. The slides waited patiently on the screen, untouched. I kept scrolling anyway, not because I needed to review anything, but because it gave my hands something to do while my brain replayed a very different set of memories.

Then, the heavy double doors opened, and the casual chatter in the room evaporated instantly.

Jordan Vasquez walked in.

He didn’t just enter a room. The conversation died around him before he even reached the table.

Dressed in a charcoal bespoke suit that somehow made everyone else look underdressed, he seemed worlds away from the man I’d spent a reckless night trying not to think about. Back then, he’d been warm skin, rough hands, and a voice low enough to settle somewhere beneath my ribs. Today, he was Jordan Vasquez, CEO of Vasquez Holdings, the man currently steering a merger that could wipe out my entire department with the stroke of a pen.

For one ridiculous second, I caught myself searching for something familiar. A crack in the armor. A hint that he remembered.

There was nothing.

His gaze landed on me at last, and every muscle in my body locked up.

Stupid.

I’d actually expected something.

All week, seeing him again had felt like a problem waiting to happen.

Jordan, apparently, hadn’t received the memo.

But Jordan looked away as naturally as he looked at everyone else in the room, already focused on the meeting before it had even started.

Meanwhile, I was sitting there trying to figure out why that bothered me more than it should.

A sharp, ugly pang of irritation flared deep in my chest.

*Fine,* I thought, gripping my stylus a little too hard. *Two can play that game.*

For the next forty-five minutes, I forced myself to focus on the presentation. Acquisition timelines, integration targets, structural changes. It was dry, corporate, and completely exhausting. But every time Jordan spoke—his voice low, gravelly, and infuriatingly calm—my brain kept replaying the way that exact same voice had sounded when he was buried deep inside me, whispering filthy, breathless promises into the dark.

"Any final questions regarding the third-quarter integration phase?" the lead presenter asked, looking around the room.

The smart thing to do was to keep my mouth shut. The safe, logical, career-saving move was to blend into the background. But looking at Jordan’s perfectly detached, untouchable expression, something toxic and impulsive snapped inside me. I was tired of being the girl who shrank into the corner. I was tired of being invisible.

I raised my hand. "I have a question, Mr. Vasquez."

A few people turned to look at me. Jordan’s eyes locked onto mine instantly. For a fraction of a second, the corporate mask slipped, his jaw tightening just enough for me to know I’d hit a nerve.

"Go ahead, Ms. Odellia," he said, his voice smooth, but there was a new, dangerous edge to it.

"The timeline feels incredibly aggressive for the assistant staff," I said, leaning forward, matching his unblinking stare. "It seems like Vasquez Holdings expects absolute submission from day one, without actually considering if the current structure can handle the weight."

The room went dead silent. You could practically hear the air conditioning humming. It was a professional question, but the subtext was dripping with venom, and Jordan knew it.

"Submission isn't the goal, Ms. Odellia. Efficiency is," Jordan replied, his gaze burning into mine, dark and intense. "And in my experience, those who can’t handle the initial weight usually weed themselves out before the real work even begins."

"Or perhaps your expectations are just unrealistic," I countered softly, refusing to back down.

A collective breath seemed to hold in the room. Jordan didn't answer immediately. He just stared at me, his eyes tracking the subtle rise and fall of my chest, observing my defiance like a scientist looking at a sudden, fascinating anomaly.

"We'll see," he murmured finally, breaking the eye contact to close his folder. "Meeting adjourned."

People started packing up, whispering and rushing out the door. I waited, slowly closing my laptop, my fingers trembling slightly from the sheer adrenaline rush of what I’d just done. I was an i***t. A chaotic, impulsive i***t.

I stood up, grabbing my bag, intending to make a run for the elevators before the panic fully set in. But as I turned toward the exit, a tall, imposing shadow blocked my path.

Jordan stood right in front of me. The scent of his expensive cologne—sandalwood and cold iron—flooded my senses, instantly making the massive conference room feel suffocatingly small.

"That was quite a performance, Derby," he said, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur that made my skin prickle.

"I was just asking a question, Mr. Vasquez," I replied, tilting my chin up, keeping my voice cool. "Isn't that what this merger is about? Alignment?"

Jordan took a half-step closer. He didn't touch me, but the sheer physical proximity was overwhelming. He leaned down slightly, his breath brushing against my ear. "Alignment? You spent the last hour radiating pure fury from the back row. You're not mad about the timeline, sweetheart. You're mad because I didn't call."

Heat crawled up my neck, which only made me more irritated. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

"Am I wrong?" He challenged, shifting his weight, his dark eyes dropping to my lips before locking back onto mine. He looked dangerous, a predator who had just realized his prey was trying to bite back. "You snuck out of my bed at four in the morning without a word. And now you're picking fights in my boardroom."

"Because this whole thing is a disaster," I whispered, the raw truth slipping out before I could stop it. I looked around the empty room, my anger flaring up again. "You're the CEO. You're engaged, Jordan. I saw the news. This... whatever happened between us, it shouldn't have happened."

Jordan’s expression shifted, the cold corporate wall completely cracking to reveal something dark, heavy, and intensely focused. "But it did."

"It was a mistake," I said, my voice shaking slightly as I tried to step around him. "Let's just leave it at that. A one-time mistake."

Before I could take a step, Jordan’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute, trapping me entirely within his space. The heat of his palm against my skin felt like oil meeting a flame.

"This is a mistake," I repeated, my voice dropping to a breathless whisper, my eyes wide as I looked at his hand on my wrist, then up to his face.

Jordan didn't let go. His thumb grazed the roaring pulse point in my wrist, his gaze dark, heavy, and completely unbothered by the consequences.

"I know," he murmured.

End of Chapter 4