CHAPTER 7
1046 Words
I clutched the velvet box, heart still hammering, as the footsteps stopped outside the study door. Killian cracked it open, voice like ice. “Not now. Car’s downstairs. We’ll be down in five.” The heels retreated fast. He shut the door and turned to me, eyes flat. “Get dressed. We’re going to the office. First test, Seraphina. Sit where I put you, speak when I say, or the debt gets called before lunch.”
I shoved the box into the robe pocket. “Office? You threaten my family over coffee and now you want to parade me around Wall Street? I’m not your damn trophy.”
He stepped so close I had to tilt my head. “You’re whatever I need today. Change. Or I drag you down in that robe.”
I spun away, jaw tight, and threw on a black pencil dress and heels that pinched like shackles. Ten minutes later we were in the private elevator, his hand locked on my lower back the whole ride to the SUV.
The drive was dead silent. At the tower lobby heads turned, but Killian marched me straight through security and into the top floor boardroom like I was luggage.
“Corner chair,” he muttered as the doors closed. “Not one word.”
I sat. Twelve suits filled the long table. At the end, a silver haired man, Cartwright, leaned back smirking.
Killian took the head seat, unbuttoned his jacket, and went straight for the throat. “You begged for this merger, Cartwright. Now your numbers are off by thirty percent?”
Cartwright’s smirk slipped. “Market volatility, Vane.”
“I know about your offshore accounts, your padded contracts, and your wife’s sudden stock buys before the leak,” Killian cut in, voice low and lethal. He slid one sheet down the table. “Sign the new terms, twenty cents on the dollar, or I bury you before lunch. Your board will thank me.”
Cartwright’s face flushed red. “You can’t prove.”
“I already did.” Killian leaned forward. “Sign or get the hell out.”
The room went pin drop quiet. One suit tried to speak. “Killian, maybe we can.”
“No.” Killian’s eyes never left Cartwright. “Sign.”
Cartwright snatched the pen and scribbled so hard the paper tore. He shoved it back and stood, chair scraping. “This isn’t over.”
“It is for you,” Killian said, already stacking files. “Security will escort you out. Meeting adjourned.”
Everyone filed out fast. The second the door clicked, Killian stood. “Stay here. Five minute call.” He disappeared into the private lounge off the side.
I waited exactly ten seconds before I slipped after him. The lounge was quiet, dark wood, leather, bar cart. And against the far wall sat an antique cello, glossy and perfect, bow resting beside it. My fingers itched.
I crossed the room, lifted the instrument between my knees, and rested the bow on the strings. Just one note. One tiny note to feel alive again.
The low hum vibrated up my arm. The lounge door slammed open.
Killian filled the frame, eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
I froze. “I was alone. It was just sitting here. I didn’t touch anything else.”
He crossed in three strides, took the cello from me, and set it back against the wall like it was glass. Then he grabbed my wrist and yanked me up. “My rules, Seraphina. You don’t touch a damn thing unless I say.”
I jerked free, cheeks burning. “It’s a cello, not classified files! You drag me here, make me watch you destroy a man, and I can’t even breathe without permission? What kind of monster are you?”
He backed me up until my thighs hit the edge of his massive desk in the main office. “The kind who owns you.” He lifted me by the waist and planted me right in the middle of his scattered files. “Stay.”
I tried to slide off. His hands clamped my hips. “I said stay.”
My breath caught. He let go, walked around to his chair, and sat like nothing happened. Then he picked up a file and started working.
Every time he reached for a folder on my left, his fingers brushed the side of my thigh, slow, deliberate. Not grabbing. Just grazing. Heat shot straight through me.
I gripped the desk edge. “Stop that.”
He didn’t look up. “Stop what?” Another reach, another brush, higher this time.
“You know exactly what. This is your power play? Sitting me here like furniture while you.”
“While I remind you who sets the rules?” He finally met my eyes, voice dropping. “You almost played that cello like it belonged to you. Nothing in this building belongs to you until I say it does.”
My pulse hammered. “I hate you.”
“Good.” He reached again, fingers lingering longer on bare skin above my knee. “Hate keeps you sharp. Keeps you from slipping in front of the next boardroom full of sharks.”
I leaned forward, voice shaking. “And what if I do slip? What if I walk out right now and scream the truth to every analyst on this floor?”
He set the file down, stood, and planted both hands on the desk on either side of my thighs, caging me in. His face was inches from mine. “Then your mother loses the house by dinner and your sister’s debts get sold to people who don’t do payment plans.”
The air crackled. His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second before snapping back up. My skin burned where he’d touched.
He leaned in until his lips brushed my ear, voice rough and low.
“If you want to play,” he whispered, “you’ll play for me tonight.”
My stomach dropped. The words hung between us, heavy and electric, while his hands stayed braced on the desk and my heart tried to punch out of my chest.
- Writer
