The penthouse was dark and silent when they arrived.
Neither spoke in the elevator. Neither acknowledged the tension crackling between them like a live wire. They just stood on opposite sides of the car, breathing too carefully, both knowing they were walking into something dangerous.
Liam unlocked the door and went straight to the home office without turning on lights. Isabella followed, her heart pounding, her exhaustion forgotten in the face of whatever was about to happen.
The office was smaller than his corporate one—more intimate. Bookshelves lined the walls, a large desk dominated the space, and the city lights filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shadow and silver.
Liam dropped the files on his desk with more force than necessary. "The Morrison analysis. Section three. Walk me through your methodology."
"You mean the section that's perfect?" Isabella shot back, too tired and angry to play this game anymore. "The section that took me twelve hours to complete? That section?"
"If it were perfect, we wouldn't be here."
"We're not here because of my work," Isabella said, her voice rising. "We're here because you can't admit—"
"Admit what?" Liam whirled on her, his control fracturing. "That you've been distracted? That your priorities are compromised? That Friday night—"
"Was YOUR fault!" Isabella threw her bag down. "You were the one who leaned in. You were the one who touched me. You were the one who—"
"Who WHAT?" Liam moved closer, his eyes blazing. "Who almost made the biggest mistake of my life?"
The words hit like a physical blow.
"Mistake," Isabella repeated, something breaking inside her. "That's what I am to you. A mistake. A liability. Something to be managed and controlled and punished when I threaten your precious order."
"You don't understand—"
"Then EXPLAIN IT TO ME!" Isabella's voice cracked. "Stop talking in riddles and legal terms and corporate bullshit. Just tell me the truth for once in your life!"
"You want the truth?" Liam's voice was deadly quiet now, more dangerous than his yelling. "The truth is that I can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop watching you. Can't stop wanting—" He stopped, his hands clenching into fists. "And it's destroying everything."
Isabella's breath caught. "Liam—"
"Every time I look at you, I forget why I'm supposed to keep my distance," he continued, words spilling out like a dam breaking. "Every time you walk past my desk. Every time you hand me coffee. Every time you're just THERE, being brilliant and competent and—" He ran a hand through his hair, his control completely shattered. "I can't DO this. Can't keep pretending you're just my secretary when you're—"
"When I'm what?" Isabella whispered, moving closer.
"When you're everything I can't have!" The confession exploded from him, raw and desperate. "The contract says no emotional attachment. My company depends on this marriage being exactly what we agreed it would be—professional, detached, temporary. I can't afford to want you. Can't afford to need you. Can't afford to—"
"To what?"
Liam's eyes met hers, and Isabella saw everything in them—want and fear and longing and desperation.
"To feel anything real," he finished quietly.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"But you do," Isabella said softly. "You do feel something real."
"It doesn't matter what I feel," Liam said, but his voice was breaking. "The contract—"
"Fuck the contract!" Isabella's voice rose. "That contract was supposed to protect us both. Instead, it's destroying us. It's making us lie to ourselves and each other and—"
"It's the only thing keeping me from losing everything!" Liam shouted back. "My company. My legacy. My control. If I break those terms, if I admit that this—that YOU—" He stopped, breathing hard. "I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both!" Liam moved closer, and Isabella backed up instinctively until her back hit the bookshelf. "You think this is easy for me? Watching you every day? Knowing you're sleeping down the hall? Wanting to touch you so badly it physically HURTS and knowing I can't?"
He was right in front of her now, his hands braced on the bookshelf on either side of her head, caging her in. The heat of his body surrounded her, his breath coming fast and ragged, his eyes dark with want and fury and desperation.
"Then why don't you?" Isabella challenged, her voice trembling but defiant. "Why don't you stop punishing yourself—punishing US—for wanting something real?"
"Because I don't know how to want you and keep my world from falling apart," Liam said, his voice breaking. "I don't know how to have you without losing everything else."
"Maybe you can't," Isabella whispered. "Maybe that's the choice. Everything else, or me."
Liam's jaw clenched. His eyes searched her face like he was drowning and she was air. "That's not a choice. That's destruction."
"Then destroy it," Isabella said recklessly, her exhaustion and longing and two years of suppressed feelings finally erupting. "Destroy the rules. Destroy the contract. Destroy this lie we're living. Just—" Her voice broke. "Just stop pretending you don't care."
"I've never been able to pretend that," Liam admitted roughly. "Not for a single day since you walked into this arrangement. I've just been very good at lying."
His hand moved from the bookshelf to her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "What is it you want from me, Isabella?" he demanded, his breath hot on her skin, his voice desperate and demanding at once. "What do you want me to admit? That I stayed by your bed because I couldn't leave you? That I bought that bracelet specifically for you and gave a dozen others away so no one would know? That every time another man looks at you, I want to destroy him? That the pen wasn't a hotel gift—I searched three shops in Tokyo until I found something I thought you'd love? That I—"
He stopped, his control hanging by a thread.
"That you what?" Isabella whispered, her heart racing so fast she thought it might explode.
"That I'm terrified," Liam admitted, his voice raw. "Terrified that if I let myself have you, even for a moment, I'll never be able to let you go."
Isabella reached up, her hand covering his where it still cupped her face. "Then don't let me go."
"Isabella—"
"Tell me what you want," she interrupted, her voice shaking but determined. "Not what you should want. Not what the contract says. What YOU want. Right now. In this moment."
Liam's eyes closed, his jaw clenching, every muscle in his body rigid with the effort of maintaining control. When he opened them again, the raw hunger in his gaze nearly buckled her knees.
"I want to stop lying," he said hoarsely. "I want to stop pretending. I want—" His hand tightened on her face. "God help me, I want YOU."
"Then take me," Isabella whispered.
"You don't know what you're asking—"
"Yes, I do." Isabella's other hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. "I'm asking you to stop being afraid. Stop hiding behind contracts and rules and corporate excuses. I'm asking you to be honest for once. Tell me what you want from me, Liam. Tell me the truth."
Liam's control shattered completely. His forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
"What do I want from you?" he repeated, his voice rough and desperate and done. "Everything. I want everything."
"Then what's stopping you?"
The question hung between them—a challenge, a plea, a breaking point.
Liam pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes searching her face one last time. "If I do this, there's no going back. No more pretending. No more lies."
"Good," Isabella whispered. "I'm done with lies."
"Isabella." Her name came out like a prayer and a curse. "What do you want from me?"
And Isabella, throwing caution to the wind, throwing away two years of hiding and pretending and surviving on crumbs, looked into his eyes and whispered the truth:
"You. I want you."
The confession hung in the air for one breathless heartbeat.
Then Liam's mouth crashed down on hers in a searing, violent kiss that felt like finally coming home and simultaneously catching fire.
Years of suppressed longing exploded between them. His hands were everywhere—tangling in her hair, gripping her waist, pulling her against him like he'd die if she wasn't close enough. Isabella kissed him back just as desperately, her fingers clutching his shirt, his hair, anything she could reach.
It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. It was raw and desperate and furious—two years of denial finally breaking free.
Liam kissed her like he was trying to consume her, like he'd been starving and she was salvation. His teeth scraped her bottom lip, and Isabella gasped, and he used that opening to deepen the kiss until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel.
"God," Liam breathed against her mouth, not pulling away, his hands still gripping her like she might disappear. "I've wanted to do this since—"
"Since when?" Isabella gasped.
"Since always," he admitted roughly, his lips moving to her jaw, her neck, making her shiver. "Since you walked into my office for that interview. Since you signed that contract. Since every goddamn day I've had to watch you and not touch you and pretend I didn't want this."
He kissed her again, slower this time but no less intense, and Isabella felt herself melting into him, into this moment she'd dreamed about and never thought would happen.
But even as she kissed him back, even as she lost herself in the feeling of finally being wanted by the man she loved, a small voice in the back of her mind whispered a warning:
This changes everything.
And there's no going back.