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I inhale, steadying myself. Behind me, Nick’s chuckle grows, barely contained.

“Man, you should calm down a little,” he says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Irina introduced three people to you, and all three look like they want to bolt and hide somewhere.”

Without looking at him, I jab my elbow into his ribs. He laughs loud enough for the entire floor to hear. Jesus. It’s like a damn marketplace, not a corporate office.

I decide it’s best to end this circus quickly, turning toward the elevator just as a woman struggles to step out, her arms wrapped around a precarious tower of boxes that threatens to collapse with every careful step she takes. Her dress is far too short for a workplace—not inappropriate, but distracting enough to draw attention—while the silver heels she’s wearing look impossibly high, forcing her into a slow, unsteady balance that makes it clear she’s one wrong move away from losing control.

One of the boxes shifts dangerously, and a lawyer steps in immediately to steady the stack, no doubt out of politeness rather than any particular interest, his movements quick but measured as he helps her set them down.

Frustration builds quietly as I tip my head back for a brief second, exhaling under my breath, already deciding this needs to be dealt with now. I have no interest in meeting the head of a company that means nothing to me, and even less patience for whatever logic led her here, on the executive floor.

By the time I look back, the boxes are already resting on the nearest desk, and for the first time, I can see her face.

Everything in me stills as our eyes meet.

“There’s no need for introduction,” Irina says, sarcasm curling smoothly through her voice. “You already know each other, as you can see.”

Thalia.

She’s the manager of the events company.

The realization lands instantly, but what holds my attention isn’t the information—it’s her. The way her breath falters almost immediately, the subtle tension gathering in her shoulders, the way her gaze slips away from mine as if holding it for too long would expose more than she’s willing to show. She shifts her weight, almost unconsciously, like she’s trying to find a position that feels stable—and failing enough for me to notice.

What the hell is she doing here?

“Welcome to our floor, Thalia,” Nick says cheerfully, stepping forward to hug her.

She smiles, warm and polite, returning the gesture, but her eyes don’t find mine again, not even by accident, and there’s a tightness beneath that smile, something restrained in the way her fingers briefly press against his back before she lets go, already pulling herself back into a safe, distant place.

Since we came back, I haven’t seen her. We haven’t spoken. Her message that night on the island was crystal clear—she wants a family, a home, a life built on stability. Probably two or three kids running around.

And as I’ve told myself since the first night we ended up in the same bed, there can’t be anything more between us. I won’t give her false hope. I won’t let her build expectations on something that doesn’t exist.

Still, my body remembers. My mind follows. For the first time in my life, that night at the club, I felt this sort of possessiveness. Not jealousy, just that raw, instinctive need to claim her. Because we’re good together. Too damn good.

I almost went over there, ready to drag her out of his arms and probably punch the bastard until he hit the floor.

But instead, I turned away and left. Because Thalia can sleep with whoever she wants. So can I.

“Congratulations on the new post,” Nick says.

She answers him, but I don’t follow a single word, not because I can’t, but because I choose not to. I’ve already spent more time on this than necessary.

“We have a meeting in two minutes, Ethan” Irina says, passing by me on her way to the conference room.

Thalia remains behind for a brief moment, alone now, and I can feel the change in her awareness the second the space clears, the way her posture adjusts again, subtle but telling, like she’s suddenly too conscious of where I am, of how close I might pass.

“Thalia,” I say as I move past her.

“Mr. Hardy,” she answers, her voice firm but not entirely steady, the formality sitting off, like it doesn’t belong between us. For an instant, her eyes lift to mine, then slip away again just as quickly.

I don’t slow down.

I don’t stop.

If she wants distance, if she wants to reduce everything between us to a clean, professional, and meaningless relationship, then that’s exactly what she’ll get.

THIRTY-THREE