The laughter in the café of the office echoes like sunlight against glass, warm and golden. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, the afterglow of the investor meeting still buzzing in your veins. You had done it—pitched your ideas with grace and fire, and the investors loved them. Even your team, who usually kept things strictly professional, was letting loose a bit. Someone from sales jokingly nudges your shoulder, leaning in too close with a smirk.

"Guess we’ll be toasting to you tonight, huh?" he says with a grin.

You laugh nervously, swatting at his hand playfully. “You’re making it weird,” you mumble, brushing him off just as a familiar scent—coffee and Dior Sauvage Elixir—crawls into your lungs.

You stiffen.

You don’t even need to look. You feel him.

A shadow drapes over the polished floor like a threat. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him—Gene Saab, leaning against the counter, lazily stirring his coffee like he didn’t just walk in here to burn holes through your skull. His cold blue eyes track every breath you take, every inch of distance between you and the coworker who just made the mistake of being too close.

He doesn’t say anything.

That’s worse.

He just watches. Pretending to read his phone, feigning casual as if you weren’t already squirming under the weight of his stare.

You laugh a little too loud at something your teammate says, but your voice trembles. Your skin prickles.

“I, um… forgot to finish something,” you lie, grabbing your tablet. “You guys go ahead to the bar without me, I’ll catch up later.”

They pout and whine, but you force a smile. You need out. Now.

You rush through the hallway, your heels clicking like thunder, turning the corner—only to be yanked back by your arm.

You don’t have to turn around.

You know that grip. Cold fingers. Long. Firm. Possessive.

“¿Dónde crees que vas, Kitty?” Gene’s voice is low, venom-laced sugar.

He doesn't give you a chance to answer. He drags you, quietly, quickly, like a shadow sweeping you under, into his office. The heavy click of the lock behind you might as well be a gunshot.

The lights are dim. His blinds shut. The air smells like his cologne and bitterness.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just stands there.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Tie slightly loosened. That stupid skull-patterned tie. That dangerous red flag aura wrapped around him like a cloak.

You hate that he looks this good when he’s mad.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say before he can open his mouth. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, am I?” His voice drops another octave, and it makes your stomach knot. “Because to me, it looked like you were about two inches away from getting handsy with finance boy.”