Hostile Takeover
655 Words
The conference room smelled like money and men's cologne.
I hated both.
I sat across from Knox Vance at Westlands Holdings' mahogany table, leather jacket swapped for a black blazer that cost more than most people’s cars. He sat at the head. CEO energy. Too close. His thigh brushed mine under the table and didn’t move.
Hostile takeover. That’s what Richard from Legal called it when he begged me to come.
Hostile was the only word that mattered.
“Prosecutor Wanjiru,” Richard cleared his throat, sweating through his Armani. “Mr. Vance is offering to cooperate fully with the investigation, provided you—”
“Provided I what?” I cut in, spinning my gun—my phone—on the table. Old habits. “Drop the case? Sleep with him? Call him Daddy?”
Six board members choked. Knox didn’t flinch. His grey eyes stayed on me, amused. Dangerous.
“Provided you recuse yourself from the Westlands case for six months,” Knox said, voice like gravel and sin. “A sabbatical. You keep your record. Your conviction rate. I just... handle my company. Without you breathing down my neck.”
Lies.
Men like Knox Vance didn’t do without. They took. They owned.
“You want me off the case.” I leaned forward, letting him see down my blazer. A weapon of my own. “You put a gun to my head at Railways Godown 48 hours ago. Told me to trust you. Now you want to play innocent CEO?”
His jaw ticked. Good. Hit a nerve.
“That gun was for show, Miss Wanjiru.”
“Bullshit.” I stood, planting both palms on the table. The room went dead silent. “You had me at gunpoint in front of Mwangi’s men. Now you want to negotiate? What’s next, Knox? A ring? A baby? The whole damn indictment dropped because you can’t handle me?”
I expected denial. Anger. That cold mask he wore like armor.
Instead, Knox Vance stood too. Slowly. Deliberately. He caged me against the table, his body heat searing through my blazer, his mouth at my ear.
“Yes.”
One word. Raw. Honest. It punched the air from my lungs.
The board members scrambled, muttering about “privacy” and “prosecutorial misconduct.” The door slammed. Locked.
Now it was just me, him, and 20 years of hate that felt too much like hunger.
“You want a ring?” His thumb brushed my bottom lip, calloused from bike grips and violence. “I’ll put one on you, Aria. Right. Here.”
His other hand slid up my thigh, under the table, under my skirt. No hesitation. No permission.
“You want a baby?” His teeth grazed my earlobe. “I’ll put one in you. Tonight.”
My breath hitched. Traitorous body. I hated him. I wanted him.
“And the case?” I gasped as his fingers found lace. “You want me to walk away?”
Knox’s laugh was dark. Unhinged. “Aria, baby... I already own you. The case is just paperwork.”
His phone buzzed. Mine buzzed. The whole damn table vibrated.
We ignored it.
His fingers hooked in my panties. Ripped. The sound was obscene in the corporate silence.
“Knox—”
“Negotiations are over, Prosecutor,” he growled against my throat. “Now we’re settling my terms.”
The door handle rattled. Someone knocked.
“Mr. Vance? Prosecutor Wanjiru? The press is here for a statement on the Westlands indictment—”
Knox didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down. He hiked me onto the mahogany table, scattering files, evidence bags, Richard’s sad Armani dreams.
“Let them watch,” he said, eyes black with lust and ownership. “I want the whole world to know who’s prosecuting Westlands Holdings.”
And who owns me.
He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.
Hostile takeover complete.
- Writer
