The next morning, the office felt different. Every glance I exchanged with Shawn carried a weight I hadn't expected. Small gestures—his hand brushing mine across the table, the way he looked at me during a meeting—felt electric.
Charles Laurent, ever observant, had noticed the change too. He lingered in corners, subtly probing, trying to measure how far I could be influenced or unsettled. But his game was nothing compared to the silent push-and-pull with Shawn.
By late afternoon, I found myself alone with Shawn in the executive suite, reviewing sensitive data. The city stretched below us, lights blurred by rain outside the windows.
His hand brushed against mine while passing a file. This time, I didn't hesitate. A flicker of boldness surged, and our fingers intertwined briefly. Just a second, just enough to remind both of us that this connection was real, urgent, and dangerous.
We worked through the night, strategy and desire mingling. At one point, Shawn leaned closer, his lips brushing my temple, a whisper against my skin. "Catriona… careful. Don't let anyone exploit a weakness—especially yours."
"I'm aware," I replied, voice steady, though my chest heaved. "I trust you."
The words were professional, yet personal. He didn't respond verbally. Instead, his hand lingered on my back, subtle, protective, intimate. In that moment, I understood: our partnership had evolved into something more—private, urgent, and inescapable.