I shouldn’t be doing this. I really shouldn’t. I’m the CEO. I’m married. And yet here I am, glass of wine in hand, leaning a little too close to her across the dinner table. She’s new—bright, polite, impossibly sharp—and somehow completely unaware of just how much of a mess she’s making me.

She’s sitting there, fingers brushing over her napkin, eyes scanning the menu like she’s solving a puzzle. Every so often, she glances up, catching my eye for just a second, then looking away with that little flash of embarrassment that makes my chest tighten. God, she’s beautiful.

The wine is helping. Maybe a little too much. I know I need to stay composed, maintain the façade of control that comes with the title. But all I want to do is lean in, brush a strand of hair from her face, and see if she’d let me.

“Harry,” she says softly, and I glance down at her. She’s looking up at me with those wide eyes, half-smile teasing me even without meaning to. “You don’t have to keep looking at me like that.”

I chuckle, swirling my wine. “Like what?” I ask innocently, but the smirk on my lips says the opposite. “Like I might make a terrible decision?”

Her cheeks warm, and she fiddles with the edge of her sleeve. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little,” I admit. “But don’t worry—I’m in control.”

I don’t tell her that I’m not entirely sure I am. Not tonight. Not with her here, leaning just slightly toward me as if she’s oblivious to the pull between us, though I know she’s feeling it too. Every glance she gives me, every flicker of her smile, it’s electric. Dangerous. Forbidden. And I’m loving every second of it.

The band members and clients chatter around us, glasses clinking, laughter filling the grand dining room, but it’s like none of it exists. There’s only her, that subtle rise and fall of her chest, the soft curve of her neck under the light, and the way she looks at me like she’s trying not to. Trying not to what? I wonder, and I fight the urge to reach out, to touch her hand, to lean closer.

But I do anyway. Just a light brush of my fingers against hers as I reach for the wine decanter. Her hand twitches slightly, and I can feel the small, sharp electricity of it. I grin to myself, leaning just a little closer. “See?” I whisper, low enough that only she can hear. “Rules are meant to be bent.”

Her eyes widen for a heartbeat, then she laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” I murmur, voice dipping, letting the warmth of my gaze linger on her. “But you love it.”

Her laugh softens, her hand lingering near mine longer than it should. I want to say more, want to press the advantage, but I don’t. Not yet. I sip my wine, pretending to be casual, letting the tension build, letting her feel it just as much as I do.

By the time dinner winds down, I’m still standing near her, casually chatting, pretending to be engaged with someone else while every instinct in me is screaming to pull her closer, to steal a moment no one else can see. And I know—God, I know—I shouldn’t want this. But I do. I want it so badly it’s almost painful.

I glance at her one last time before the room starts clearing, and I catch that fleeting look—the one where she meets my eyes just long enough to know we both feel it. Dangerous, thrilling, and completely impossible. And in that second, with the wine warming my veins and her smile like a spark, I realize: I wouldn’t stop it even if I could.