The Tuesday board meeting was the most important of the quarter.
Isabella had prepared for days, triple-checking every number, every projection, every slide. Liam had assigned her to present the quarterly market analysis—a task usually reserved for senior analysts, not secretaries.
It was a test. She knew it. Everyone knew it.
Either he was setting her up to fail publicly, or he was giving her a chance to prove herself.
Isabella chose to believe the latter, even though Liam had barely spoken to her since Saturday's kitchen confrontation. Back to cold professionalism. Back to "Ms. Hart" and clipped commands. Back to pretending nothing had happened.
But she'd felt his eyes on her. Multiple times. When she thought she wasn't looking. When she was focused on her computer. When she reached for files on the high shelf and her blouse rode up slightly.
He was watching her.
And she didn't know what it meant.
Now, standing at the head of the massive conference table with twelve board members staring at her—including Liam's uncle Marcus, who looked amused, and several others who looked skeptical—Isabella forced herself to breathe.
"Good afternoon," she began, her voice steady and professional. "I'll be presenting the quarterly market analysis with projections for Q4."
She clicked to the first slide, and launched into her presentation.
She was flawless.
Every number perfect. Every transition smooth. Every answer to their questions precise and confident. She'd prepared for this, knew the data inside and out, and she let her competence shine through.
But what she couldn't ignore was the weight of Liam's gaze.
He sat at the far end of the table—his usual position of power—but he wasn't looking at the slides on the massive screen. Wasn't following the data points or reviewing the printed materials in front of him.
He was watching her.
Isabella could feel it like a physical touch. The intensity of his focus. The way his eyes tracked her movements as she gestured to the screen, as she walked along the table to hand out supplementary reports, as she answered questions with calm authority.
She stumbled once—just a tiny hesitation when she felt the heat of his stare particularly strongly—but recovered immediately.
"Ms. Hart," one of the board members interrupted, "these projections seem optimistic. What's your confidence level on the Asian market expansion?"
"Eighty-seven percent," Isabella replied without hesitation. "Based on current trends and the political climate analysis I've included in appendix C. However, I've also prepared conservative projections at seventy percent confidence, which you'll find in appendix D."
"Thorough," the board member admitted grudgingly.
Isabella allowed herself a small smile and continued.
She was halfway through the presentation when she made the mistake of looking directly at Liam.
Their eyes met across the long table.
And everything stopped.
For a fraction of a second—maybe less—the professional mask he wore so carefully slipped. Something hot and intense flashed in his gray eyes. Something possessive and proud and hungry that made Isabella's breath catch.
He was looking at her like... like she was his.
Not his secretary. Not his employee. Not even his contract wife.
His.
The intensity of it sent a shiver down her spine, heat pooling low in her stomach. She couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe. Could only stand there, frozen by the raw want in his expression.
Then someone coughed, and the spell broke.
Liam's mask slammed back into place, his expression returning to cold neutrality. He looked down at his papers as if nothing had happened.
But Isabella's hands trembled slightly as she clicked to the next slide.
She'd seen it. That flash of something real. Something dangerous. Something that definitely wasn't just basic human decency or professional concern.
She finished the presentation on autopilot, her mind still reeling from that look, from the heat in his eyes, from the way her body had responded to his possessive gaze.
"Excellent work, Ms. Hart," the board chairman said as she concluded. "Very impressive analysis."
"Thank you, sir."
"Black, I have to say, your secretary is remarkably competent," another board member added. "Most impressive presentation we've seen from support staff."
"Ms. Hart exceeds expectations," Liam said coolly, not looking at Isabella. "That's why she works for me."
The words were professional, appropriate. But there was an undercurrent to them—a possessive edge that made Isabella's pulse race.
"Well, she certainly knows her material," Marcus Black spoke up for the first time, his eyes moving between Isabella and Liam with calculating interest. "Though I have to wonder if there's any bias in these projections, given her... proximity to leadership."
The implied accusation hung in the air.
"The data is sound," Liam's voice dropped to something dangerous. "If you'd like to challenge the methodology, Marcus, feel free to present your own analysis."
"Oh, I'm not challenging the data," Marcus said smoothly. "Just making an observation about the... dynamic in the room."
Isabella's stomach dropped. Did he know? Had he figured out—
"Ms. Hart has access to the same information as our senior analysts," Liam continued, his tone ice. "If her presentation is superior, it's because she's better at her job. Nothing more."
"Of course," Marcus said, but his smile suggested he didn't believe it. His eyes lingered on Isabella. "Nothing more."
The meeting concluded with approvals for her projections and several board members complimenting her work. Isabella gathered her materials with shaking hands, hyper-aware of the tension in the room.
As people filed out, Isabella felt someone step close behind her.
"Excellent work, Ms. Hart," Marcus murmured, too quietly for others to hear. "Very... illuminating."
He walked away before she could respond, leaving Isabella with a sick feeling in her stomach.
The conference room emptied until only she and Liam remained. Isabella finished packing up her laptop, not looking at him, not trusting herself to speak.
"Ms. Hart."
She turned. Liam stood at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable.
"Yes, Mr. Black?"
"Your presentation was..." He paused, and something flickered in his eyes. "Exemplary. Well done."
It was the closest thing to praise she'd gotten from him in weeks. Isabella's heart did something stupid and hopeful.
"Thank you, Mr. Black."
"However," Liam continued, his voice hardening, "in the future, maintain better eye contact with the board members during presentations. You were... distracted at one point."
Distracted. Because he'd been staring at her. Because their eyes had met and the world had stopped spinning.
"Of course," Isabella said quietly. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't."
He walked past her toward the door, and Isabella caught that scent again—his cologne, the one that had surrounded her when he carried her, when he cared for her.
"Ms. Hart," Liam said from the doorway, not turning around. "You exceeded every expectation today. I..." He stopped, his shoulders tense. "I'm glad I gave you this opportunity."
Then he was gone.
And Isabella stood alone in the empty conference room, her materials clutched to her chest, her heart racing from one stolen glance that had said more than any words could.
But as she walked back to her desk, she couldn't shake the memory of Marcus's calculating smile.
The smile of a man who'd seen something he shouldn't have.
The smile of a man planning to use it.