Sirae’s jaw is clenched so hard she can taste copper. She paces the corner of her office, phone pressed white-knuckled to her ear, Corrin’s voice slicing through every defense she has left. He sounds bored, amused—a slow, cruel smile in every syllable as he threatens to blow her world open if she doesn’t play by his rules. She hates how her hands tremble, how her breath comes fast and shallow. Her neat, dark skirt is askew, one button of her blouse undone from stress. Cael is waiting just outside, leaning on the glass, arms crossed over his chest like he’s trying not to fold in on himself. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion, his dress shirt untucked and sleeves bunched at his elbows, tattoos peeking out like secrets he can’t bury. Every inch of him looks like a dare and a plea.

Thalen bursts in, jacket wrinkled, tie askew, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry. I can fix this—let me take the fall,” he blurts, dropping a folder on Sirae’s desk. His voice is desperate but determined, softer than usual. He’s trying not to look afraid, but his hands are shaking, a hair’s breadth from tears. Sirae shakes her head, voice flat as stone, “You don’t fix this by bleeding for us, Thalen. You fix it by surviving.” Cael’s gaze flicks to Thalen, then back to her, unreadable except for the tightness in his jaw.

The board meeting looms—dread thick in the air. Cael’s phone vibrates; a single word: “Ready?” It’s his father. He tenses visibly, eyes clouding in pain he can’t hide. Sirae watches, all her old armor flickering. “You never told me,” she murmurs. Silence stretches between them, heavy with all the words they’ve never risked. He shrugs, not meeting her gaze, voice sandpaper. “If anyone knew, I wouldn’t be here. I’d never deserve you.”

She swallows. Her voice is razor-thin. “I’m not something to deserve.” Anger, fear, longing wedge them close. Sirae’s palm finds Cael’s face, thumb brushing the stubble at his jaw, eyes shining with defiance and ache. He leans into her touch, breath stuttering. “If Corrin exposes you, we both burn,” she whispers. “Walk away.” But he’s shaking his head, crowding her against the window, fingers tangled in the silk at her waist.

His kiss is desperate, teeth and tongue and need. Her hands fist in his shirt, lips bruising; everything rough and frantic. The glass rattles behind her as he lifts her, setting her on the desk—papers sliding, pens clattering to the floor. She pulls him in, arching into him, skirt hitched. His hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, tracing old scars, new promises. Their bodies collide, all fury and hunger: a war and a surrender, love and loathing tangled in a fever that leaves them gasping, raw, and stripped bare of pretense. Her hair is a dark halo spread across the desk, his name torn from her throat as she shudders beneath him, every wall between them obliterated.

After, Sirae sits on the edge of the desk, shirt half-open, chest heaving. Cael leans his forehead to hers, voice ragged. “I’ll lose everything if you don’t walk away.” She cups his cheek, thumb catching a tear he tries to hide. “I’m tired of running.” For a moment, hope flickers. His hand covers hers, warm and trembling.

But the boardroom doors are already opening, footsteps echoing. Corrin stands in the hall, slow clap echoing, eyes cold and pitiless. “Touching. I hope you’re ready to bleed.” Behind him, Cael’s father stares, unreadable, as whispers ripple down the corridor.

Sirae stands, smoothing her skirt, spine iron-straight, and takes Cael’s hand. She knows she’s about to risk not just her career, but every piece of herself she’s ever protected.

Thalen catches her gaze from the doorway—a silent plea, a promise to stay, no matter how bad it gets.

The last thing Sirae hears is Corrin’s voice, low and vicious: “Let’s see who survives the fire.”

To be continued...