Callen sits on the edge of his desk, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie hanging loose. There are shadows beneath his eyes, the half-wild, backlit look of a man coming undone. He rubs his thumb over a coffee stain on his paperwork, jaw clenched, mind reeling with the latest headlines. Odessa’s duplicity threatens to choke him—her message is a velvet noose: he’s hers, whether he wants to be or not.

Odessa enters, tailored blazer half-unbuttoned, dark hair tumbling around sharp cheekbones. Her eyes flick to the door behind her, then land on Callen with the kind of predatory ease that makes his spine stiffen. She drops her phone on the desk; there’s a faint, knowing smile at the corner of her mouth.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” she says, voice silk over razors.

Callen’s laugh is hollow. “You’d know. You’ve been my insomnia.”

She circles him, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, watching for that little shiver he can’t suppress. “You always crumble so beautifully under pressure.” He doesn’t answer; his jaw is set, but his resolve is a crumbling wall. Odessa leans in, her lips a breath from his ear, whispering, “You think Rysa still wants you now?”

His eyes dart away. “What do you want, Odessa?”

She slips between his knees, hands bracing against his thighs, her face so close he could count her lashes. “I want you desperate. But mostly, I want you terrified.” Her kiss is brutal, scraping need and punishment. Her hands slide beneath his shirt, nails raking over skin; he grabs her shoulders, the kiss turning hungry, reckless, both of them tumbling down the rabbit hole of need and power. It’s frenetic, explicit, all teeth and gasps and raw, angry surrender—until, breathless, she bites his ear and murmurs, “Smile for the camera, love.” Her phone catches the shudder in his face as he realizes—this is blackmail, not desire.

After, Odessa stands, smoothing her skirt, glancing at Callen’s undone belt. “Everyone has a price,” she purrs. He stares at the floor, skin burning with shame and a twisted, lingering ache.

Down the hall, Rysa paces, hair pulled into a severe knot, eyes swollen from unshed tears. Every word about Callen and Odessa echoes inside her skull. She thinks of Odessa’s hands—sharp, sure, unforgiving—and then of Callen’s mouth: the way he says her name when no one’s listening.

She finds Odessa alone in the break room, one hand wrapped carelessly around a glass of neat scotch. Odessa’s lipstick is smudged, shirt untucked, but her smile is dangerous perfection. “You here to scold or to beg?” Odessa asks.

Rysa’s voice is low, flat. “I’m done giving you that power.” She approaches, her stance rigid, but there’s a tremor beneath. Odessa studies her, then sets down the glass. Their eyes lock—history, rivalry, lust, and something rawer burning beneath the surface.

Rysa leans in, grabbing Odessa’s jaw, forcing her gaze upward. “You don’t get to break me and call it care.” Her lips crash into Odessa’s, hard and claiming, tasting bitterness and longing. Odessa gasps, then claws back, unable to hide the flicker of surprise—this time, Rysa is in control. Their bodies collide, hip to hip, Rysa’s hands pinning Odessa against the counter. Blouses pulled open, skin pressed to skin, gasps muffled by hungry mouths—this is a reclaiming, not a surrender. Odessa flinches at the tenderness in Rysa’s touch; she is naked, for a moment, beneath the games. Rysa pulls away, breath ragged. “No more lies,” she demands.

Odessa’s eyes glisten, raw. “It wasn’t all a game,” she whispers, and Rysa almost believes her.

Elsewhere, Soren sits at his desk, pale fingers jittering on the keyboard. He wears chaos in the slump of his shoulders, the hollow stare at his screen. Mirelle appears, hair damp from rain, cheeks blotchy with old tears. She stands in the doorway, hesitant, then crosses to Soren, her hands trembling as she sets her phone between them.

“I know who you are,” she says quietly, her voice splintering. “I know what you’ve done.” Soren looks up, eyes wide, and for the first time there’s no mask—only terror and longing.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he says, broken.

“Then why did you?” Her voice cracks, but she comes closer.

Soren’s confession pours out, halting, desperate. “They threatened my family…I tried to stop, but—” He’s shaking; Mirelle senses the fracture in him, the echo of her own fear. She reaches for his hand, and he clings to her as if drowning.

“Tell Callen the truth,” she whispers. “Stop hiding.”

Later, Soren finds Callen alone, still reeling from Odessa’s touch. He blurts out the truth—his double life, the threats, the betrayals. “I’ll do anything. Just don’t hurt her. Please.”

Callen’s hands curl into fists. “You broke her. You could break us all.” Soren nods, accepting his fate, tears streaking down his face.

In the empty hallway, Mirelle stands with her phone, finger hovering over the video of Soren’s confession. Her pulse races—this could destroy him, but would it free her? She hesitates, then deletes the file, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

As dawn creeps through the blinds, a new headline blazes across every screen: “BREAKING: Velcroft Campaign Falsified Records—Director Under Fire.” Odessa’s work, or something deeper?

Rysa storms into Callen’s office, eyes wild, voice shaking—“You lied to me. Again.” The space between them is electric, aching, furious.

Their world is about to explode.

To be continued...