The conference room hummed with the drone of numbers and projections. My pen hovered uselessly above the page. I was supposed to be jotting down the finer points of Q3's projected growth, but my mind had slipped backward.
I wasn't here. Not really.
I was in a bathroom wrapped in steam, lavender curling through the air, watching Adrien kneel like the act itself wasn't absurd—that the cold, unreadable CEO would strip the world bare to ease a pain I hadn't even voiced properly.
I remembered the quiet command in his voice when he'd said arms up. The way my face had burned when I realized he wasn't going to leave me to undress myself. And the way he'd touched me—not with heat this time, but with the kind of reverence that made me feel like I wasn't something to be tolerated but something to be kept safe.
