It's 9 PM when Dominic appears in my office doorway.
Everyone else left hours ago. The floor is silent except for the hum of ventilation and the distant sound of traffic far below. I should have left too. Marcus is expecting me. Again.
I didn't leave because I knew Dominic was still here.
"Come to my office." His voice is calm. Professional. "I have something I want your opinion on."
I should say no. Should grab my bag and leave. Should go home to my fiancé who's been suspicious and hurt and increasingly aware that something is wrong.
I stand up immediately.
His office is dimly lit—just the desk lamp casting a warm glow across polished mahogany. The city lights glitter through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, creating a backdrop that's both intimate and isolating.
"Close the door."
I do.
The click echoes in the quiet space.
Dominic is sitting at his desk, reviewing documents spread across the surface. He doesn't look up when I approach.
"The Singapore expansion." He gestures to the papers. "I need your analysis. Something isn't adding up."
I move to stand beside his desk, leaning over to review the financial projections. Numbers. Charts. Market analysis. It all looks straightforward.
Too straightforward.
"What specifically are you concerned about?" I ask, scanning the documents.
"The third-quarter projections." His voice is neutral. "They seem optimistic given the current political climate."
I pull the relevant pages closer, genuinely analyzing the data. He's right—the projections are aggressive. Probably unrealistic. I start mentally recalculating, considering alternative scenarios.
I'm so focused on the numbers that I don't immediately notice he's not looking at the documents anymore.
He's looking at me.
"You're so beautiful when you're focused like this."
My hand freezes on the paper.
"Dominic—"
"The way your brow furrows. The way you bite your lower lip when you're thinking. The way you forget to breathe when you're solving a problem." His voice is soft, intimate. "I could watch you work for hours."
I straighten, creating distance. "You asked me here for the Singapore analysis—"
"I asked you here because I wanted you here." He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving my face. "The analysis was an excuse. A very thin excuse. We both know the projections are fine."
My heart is racing. "Then why—"
"Because it's late. Because everyone's gone. Because for once we're alone without meetings or schedules or pretense." He stands slowly. "Because I'm tired of finding excuses to touch you in public when what I really want is to touch you in private."
He walks around the desk toward me.
I should leave. Should create distance. Should do literally anything except stand here waiting for him.
I don't move.
"Tell me to leave, Dominic."
"No." He stops in front of me. "You tell me to stop. You tell me you don't want this. You tell me you'd rather go home to Marcus than stay here with me."
I can't. I can't say those words because they'd be lies.
His hand reaches out, fingers brushing my cheek. "Two weeks. Two weeks of touching you casually. Professionally. Always with an audience. Always with plausible deniability."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "But there's no audience now, Bella. No pretense. Just you and me and the truth we've been avoiding."
"This is wrong—"
"You keep saying that." His other hand finds my waist. "But you don't leave. You don't pull away. You don't do anything except stand here wanting me to keep touching you."
He's right. God help me, he's right.
"What do you want from me?" My voice comes out breathless.
"Everything." His hand slides from my waist to my hip. "I want everything you've been giving Marcus. Everything you've been denying me. Everything you've been running from for three years."
He guides me backward until my thighs hit the edge of his desk. I'm trapped between him and the solid wood, nowhere to go, no escape.
"Sit."
"What?"
"Sit on the desk, Bella."
I should refuse. Should maintain some illusion of boundaries. Should prove I still have control over this situation.
I sit.
He moves closer, standing between my legs, his hands on either side of me on the desk surface. Not touching me, but caging me.
"This is what I've wanted for two weeks." His voice is rough now, losing that controlled politeness. "You. Here. With no barriers between us. No excuses. No meetings to interrupt us."
His hands move to my knees. Slowly. Deliberately. Giving me time to stop him.
I don't stop him.
"Tell me about Marcus." His hands slide up slightly, resting on my thighs over my skirt. "Tell me what he gives you that I don't."
"Safety. Normalcy. A life that isn't—"
"Obsessive?" His smile is dark. "Intense? Consuming?"
"Yes."
"And do you want those things?" His hands move higher, inches at a time. "Do you want safe and normal and boring?"
"I should—"
"That's not what I asked." His grip tightens on my thighs. "Do you want those things? Or do you just think you're supposed to want them?"
I don't answer.
"That's what I thought." His hands continue their slow journey upward. "You don't want Marcus's safe world. You want this. You want intensity. You want to be seen and known and consumed."
"Dominic, please—"
"Please what? Please stop? Or please don't stop?"
His hands reach the hem of my skirt, and he pauses there. Waiting. Testing. Seeing if I'll push him away.
I grip the edge of the desk instead.
"That's what I thought." His voice is satisfied, victorious. "You're not going to stop me. You're going to sit there and let me touch you and finally admit what you've known for two weeks."
"Which is?"
"That you're mine." His hands slide under my skirt, palms warm against my bare thighs. "That you've been mine since the moment you kissed me back. That this engagement is a lie you're telling yourself."
I gasp as his hands move higher.
"Dominic—"
"Say it." His fingers find the edge of my underwear. "Say you're mine."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His thumb traces patterns against my inner thigh. "You just have to be honest. Something you've been avoiding for weeks."
My breathing is ragged. My entire body is trembling. Every nerve is focused on where his hands are, where they're going, what's about to happen.
"I'm engaged—"
"You're mine." His voice is absolute. "The ring on your finger is irrelevant. Marcus is irrelevant. Everything is irrelevant except this moment right now where you're about to admit the truth."
His hand moves higher, and I feel his fingers brush against—
A phone rings.
His phone.
We both freeze.
The spell breaks.
He steps back, pulling his hands away, running them through his hair in frustration. "Don't move."
He answers the phone. "What?"
His expression shifts. Goes cold.
"Where?" Pause. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He ends the call and looks at me. "Emergency at the Singapore office. I have to go."
I slide off the desk on shaking legs. "Of course. I should—"
"Stay." It's not a request. "Wait here. I'll be back in an hour."
"Dominic, I can't just—"
"Wait. Here." His eyes are dark, commanding. "We're not finished with this conversation."
He grabs his jacket and leaves.
I'm alone in his office, my skirt wrinkled, my body still trembling from where his hands were, my mind spinning with what almost happened.
I should leave. Should go home. Should put distance between myself and whatever this is becoming.
But I sink into his chair instead.
And I wait.
Because he told me to.
Because I want to finish what we started.
Because I'm not strong enough to walk away anymore.
I pull out my phone to text Marcus an excuse. Another late night. Another lie.
But there's already a message waiting from him.
Marcus: We need to talk. Tonight. I know something's going on. I'm done pretending I don't see it.
My stomach drops.
Before I can respond, another text comes through.
Marcus: I'm coming to your office. Right now. We're having this conversation whether you want to or not.
No.
No, no, no.
He can't come here. Not now. Not when I'm in Dominic's office with my skirt wrinkled and my lips swollen and the evidence of what almost happened written all over my face.
I look around frantically. Dominic's jacket is draped over his chair. His cologne lingers in the air. His desk is still covered in the pretend-work documents he used as an excuse to get me here.
Everything in this room screams what we were about to do.
My phone rings.
Dominic.
"Marcus is coming to your office," he says without preamble. "I had security alert me if anyone used the elevator after hours. You need to leave. Now."
"How did you—"
"I'm always watching, Bella. You know that." His voice is tense. "Get out of my office. Go to yours. Fix your appearance. And do not tell him what almost happened here."
"Dominic—"
"This isn't over. But we need to handle Marcus first. Go. Now."
The call ends.
I grab my bag and rush to my office. Pull out my compact. Fix my hair. Straighten my clothes. Try to compose my face into something that doesn't scream "I was just about to let my boss's hands go places they should never go."
The elevator dings.
Marcus steps out.