CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Twenty Nine: The ink and the Alibi

Abigail Macron

The sterile, digital chime of the intercom system didn't just break the silence—it felt like a physical blow to my chest. Caleb’s hand dropped from my mouth, but his dark, dilated eyes remained locked on mine for a single, frozen second as the assistant's voice hovered in the air between us.

Caleb didn't panic. The icy, clear discipline that made him a legend in the corporate world reasserted itself with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency.

He stepped back from the desk, his movements smooth and silent. With his left hand, he adjusted and fastened his trousers, while his right hand immediately reached for the intercom button on the slate console. He didn't answer right away—he waited exactly three seconds, drawing in a deep, stabilizing breath that completely cleared the ragged edge from his voice.

"Tell him we're printing the final riders now, Sarah," Caleb said, his voice a flawless, commanding baritone that showed absolutely no trace of the primal chaos that had just filled the room. "Have him meet us in the small conference room in five minutes. I want the legal team to have the hard copies ready for signature."

"Understood, Mr. Macron. I'll let him know."

The line went dead with a soft beep.

"Move, Abby," Caleb whispered harshly, his professional mask fully in place as he turned his back to me, tucking his white dress shirt back into his trousers and smoothing down the charcoal wool of his waistcoat.

I came off the slate desk, my legs shaking so violently that my heels almost slipped on the polished marble perimeter of the floor. My black pencil skirt was a twisted, wrinkled band around my hips, and my tailored blazer was completely open, the silk lining sticking to the sweat-slicked skin of my stomach.

I quickly pulled my skirt down, smoothing out the fabric as best I could with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. I looked down at the dark gray carpet—the leather blotter was crooked, and a few printed tech reports had drifted onto the floor. I dropped to my knees, gathering the papers with frantic, uncoordinated movements, shoving them back into a neat stack on the edge of the desk.

"Your hair," Caleb whispered, his voice dropping into a tight, urgent murmur as he stood in front of the mirrored glass wall, re-tying his silk tie with practiced, clear precision.

I reached up. The smooth, blown-out sheet of blonde hair I had walked in with was wild and tangled, several strands sticking to the damp skin of my neck. I pulled a compact mirror from my handbag, my breath catching in my throat as I saw my reflection. My lips were swollen and flushed, completely stripped of the nude gloss, and my cheeks bore the unmistakable, raw pink color of intense friction.

I was fast in brushing through the knots with my fingers, pulling my hair forward to completely shroud my face and neck. I reapplied a thick, aggressive layer of the lipstick, burying the evidence of his mouth under a pristine, corporate coat of color.

By the time Caleb turned around, he looked immaculate. Not a single silver hair was out of place. He picked up a thick, leather-bound folder from his sideboard—the actual, legitimate trust documentation that had served as our cover—and held it out to me.

"You hold the files," he commanded, his eyes dark, heavy, and completely devoid of the warmth we had shared on the desk. He was the Chief Operating Officer again, and I was just the founder's daughter. "You walk into that conference room, you sit to his right, and you sign where the legal team yellow-flagged the pages. Do you understand?"

"Caleb..." I breathed, the sheer velocity of his emotional detachment making my chest ache with a sudden, sharp hollow.

"Abigail, look at me," he hissed, stepping closer, his shadow completely enveloping me one last time before the door opened. His hand hovered just inches from my arm, wanting to grab me but restraining itself with a brutal effort of will. "The time for playing games is over. We are on the executive floor. If you falter in front of him now, we don't just lose the summer. We lose everything. Keep your head up."

He didn't wait for my response. He turned, pressed the master security release on his phone console, and threw the heavy mahogany double doors wide open.

The bright white light of the executive corridor rushed in, completely swallowing the shadows of the office. Caleb stepped out first, his long, heavy strides immediately clearing the distance toward the conference room, his posture rigid and authoritative.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, gripped the leather folder against my chest like a shield, and followed him out into the light, stepping directly back

into the minefield.