Monday morning, Isabella arrived at the office at 6:30 AM, bracing herself for the fallout from Friday night.
She wasn't disappointed.
Liam was already at his desk when she walked in, and he didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge her. Just slid a stack of files across his desk toward the empty chair.
"Sit," he said coldly.
Isabella sat.
"The Morrison account needs a complete restructure," Liam continued, his voice flat and professional. "I want a full analysis of their financials, a risk assessment, and three alternative contract proposals. By Wednesday."
Isabella blinked. "Mr. Black, that's typically a two-week project for the analytics team—"
"Then you'll work faster." His eyes finally met hers, and they were glacial. "Or are you saying you're not capable?"
The challenge hung in the air.
"I'm capable," Isabella said quietly.
"Good. Additionally, the Chen Technologies follow-up needs to be completed—yes, I'm reassigning it back to you. I want a full report on their tech integration timeline, market positioning, and competitive analysis. Also by Wednesday."
"That's—"
"Furthermore," Liam continued as if she hadn't spoken, "the board requested updated quarterly projections for all major accounts. I want preliminary numbers by tomorrow morning. Full presentations by Thursday."
Isabella's stomach dropped. It was impossible. Literally impossible. Even working around the clock, she couldn't complete all of that in the timeline he was demanding.
"Mr. Black," she said carefully, "that's an unrealistic workload for one person in that timeframe. Perhaps if I could get assistance from—"
"No assistance." Liam's voice was sharp. "You've been underperforming lately, Ms. Hart. Consider this an opportunity to prove you deserve your position."
Underperforming. The word was a slap.
"I've never missed a deadline," Isabella said, frustration breaking through her professional mask. "My performance reviews have been exemplary. I don't understand what—"
"Then perhaps you haven't been paying attention." Liam stood, moving around his desk with predatory grace. "Your focus has been... scattered. Your priorities unclear. This is your chance to realign them."
He stopped in front of her, and Isabella's breath caught. He was so close. Close enough that she could smell his cologne, see the tension in his jaw, remember the way he'd almost kissed her.
"Do we understand each other?" Liam asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Perfectly," Isabella whispered.
This was punishment. For Friday night. For almost making him break his own rules. For making him want something he couldn't allow himself to have.
"Good. Get started." Liam returned to his desk, dismissing her.
Isabella gathered the files with shaking hands and left.
The next three days were hell.
Isabella worked eighteen-hour days, barely sleeping, surviving on coffee and stubbornness. The workload was crushing, designed to break her, and she knew it.
But she refused to break.
She refused to give Liam the satisfaction of proving his point—whatever that point was. That she was weak? That she couldn't handle the job? That Friday night had been a mistake?
She'd show him exactly what she was capable of.
Liam was icier than ever. Every interaction was professional to the point of cruelty. He critiqued her work with surgical precision, finding flaws in everything she submitted. Nothing was good enough. Nothing met his standards.
And through it all, Isabella felt his eyes on her.
Watching. Always watching.
On Tuesday afternoon, Isabella was hunched over her desk, her back screaming from hours in the same position, when she felt presence behind her.
"Your posture is atrocious," Liam's voice said coldly. "You'll damage your spine sitting like that."
Before Isabella could respond, his hands were on her shoulders—firm, warm, burning through the thin fabric of her blouse.
Isabella froze, her breath stopping, every nerve in her body suddenly hyperaware of his touch.
"Shoulders back," Liam commanded, his hands pressing gently but firmly, straightening her posture. "Chin up. Screen at eye level, not angled down."
His fingers adjusted her position with clinical precision, but there was nothing clinical about the way her body responded. Heat flooded through her. Her pulse raced. She could feel the warmth of his body behind her, could smell his cologne, could remember the way those same hands had cupped her neck on Friday night.
"Better," Liam said, his voice rougher now.
His hands lingered for a moment—one second too long to be purely professional. Isabella felt his fingers tighten slightly on her shoulders, felt the tension radiating through his touch.
Then he jerked away as if electrocuted.
"Get back to work," he said harshly, already walking away. "And maintain that posture. I won't have you claiming worker's compensation for preventable injuries."
He disappeared into his office before Isabella could respond.
Isabella sat frozen at her desk, her shoulders still tingling where he'd touched her, her body aching for more contact, her mind reeling.
He couldn't even touch her shoulders without pulling away like she'd burned him.
By Wednesday night, Isabella had completed the impossible.
The Morrison analysis was done. The Chen report was finished. The quarterly projections were ready. Everything Liam had demanded, completed to his exacting standards, delivered on time.
She'd barely slept. Barely eaten. Her eyes burned, her head pounded, and her hands shook from too much coffee and too little rest.
But she'd done it.
At 11:47 PM, Isabella sent the final email with all deliverables attached and collapsed back in her chair, exhausted beyond measure.
She'd proven herself. Again. Shown that she could handle anything he threw at her.
Now maybe he'd stop punishing her for a moment that never even happened.
Isabella packed up her things, ready to go home and sleep for twelve hours straight. The office was empty, silent except for the hum of computers.
She was reaching for her coat when a shadow fell across her desk.
"It's still not good enough."
Isabella's heart stopped.
Liam stood in the doorway of his office, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, looking as exhausted as she felt. But his eyes were dark, intense, locked on her with an expression she couldn't read.
"What?" Isabella whispered.
"Your work," Liam said, his voice dangerously low. "It's still not good enough."
Isabella's exhaustion transformed into fury. "I completed everything you asked for. Every single requirement. On time. To specification. What exactly isn't good enough?"
"The Morrison analysis lacks depth in section three. The Chen report needs additional market data. The projections—"
"Are PERFECT," Isabella interrupted, standing up, her patience finally snapping. "They're perfect, and you know it. You're just—" She stopped, breathing hard. "You're just punishing me."
"Punishing you?" Liam's voice was soft, dangerous.
"For Friday night. For almost—" Isabella couldn't say it. "For making you feel something you don't want to feel."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Liam's jaw clenched. "My standards are not negotiable, Ms. Hart."
"Your standards are impossible. And we both know this isn't about my work." Isabella was too tired to maintain her professional mask anymore. "This is about control. About punishing both of us for wanting something we're not supposed to want."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" Isabella grabbed her bag, done with this conversation, done with his games. "I'm going home. If you have actual, legitimate feedback on my work, email it to me. Otherwise—"
"You're coming with me," Liam cut her off.
Isabella stopped. "What?"
"We're finishing this at the penthouse." Liam's voice was hard, controlled, but something flickered in his eyes—something dark and hungry. "If your work isn't good enough, we're fixing it tonight. Together."
"It's almost midnight—"
"Then we'd better get started."
It wasn't a request. It was a command. And despite the exhaustion, despite the anger, despite everything, Isabella felt a thrill of something dangerous run down her spine.
Being alone with Liam at the penthouse. Late at night. Both of them exhausted and raw and too tired to maintain their masks.
This was either going to end in another almost-kiss.
Or in something far more devastating.
"Fine," Isabella said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Let's finish this."
Liam's eyes darkened further. "Let's."
But neither of them moved, and Isabella had the distinct feeling they weren't talking about work anymore.