Zevan looked like he’d slept in his jeans—dark stubble threatening to outrun the five o’clock shadow on his jaw, sleeves shoved up baring his forearms, that lazy-cocky smile curling every time Rysa shot him a pointed glare. Her fitted charcoal blazer and cherry-red lipstick said she owned the floor, but only someone looking close would see the nervous bite at her lower lip or the way her hands curled into fists when he laughed. Across the conference table, Caelix’s perfectly tousled hair and silver-stitched suit jacket gleamed; his ankles crossed, one polished boot tapping a silent rhythm, eyes never leaving Rysa as he leaned back with easy charm. He looked like dominance incarnate. He looked at her like a dare.

A client’s voice droned, but Rysa and Zevan volleyed pointed ideas—forceful, escalating, even as their legs bumped under the table and neither apologized. Heat built, sent electricity up Rysa’s spine. She snapped her pen shut, angled a smirk at Caelix. “Maybe someone in Strategic could close, for once, instead of posturing.” Caelix’s smile unfurled, slow and dangerous, while Zevan flashed her a wink, silent challenge in his eyes.

After the meeting, Zevan slouched against the corridor’s glass, arms folded, trying to breathe cool. Rysa approached, her skirt hugging every stride, hair glossy and wild from frustration. He toyed lazily with her lanyard, his finger circling the badge loop until her breath caught. “You’re competitive,” he murmured. “I like it.” She set her jaw, but her blush said everything. “Win the account, and maybe I’ll let you buy the next round,” she fired back, voice low. He didn’t look away, didn’t back up, grinning as if he’d already won.

By noon, Zevan and Rysa poured everything into the pitch—argumentative, brilliant, sparking like live wires. Caelix watched, seated just behind—tie loosened, watching with hooded eyes, jaw clenched, lips caught between amusement and hunger. When Rysa left to cool down, Caelix found her in the glass-walled conference nook. He stepped in, tall and close; his hand skimmed her waist, his voice velvet: “All that fire—why waste it fighting him?” She turned, breath tight, lips inches from his; her heart flip-flopped at the glint in his gaze, the heat rolling off him.

He traced her cheek, temptingly slow, and pressed her back against the glass. The world narrowed to his thumb caressing her jaw, his lips just brushing her ear—voice barely more than a growl. “You could have anyone. Let him watch you choose.” His fingers traveled down, igniting every nerve. She gasped, desire and fear tangling as he spun her so the whole office might see—but only Zevan did, stalking in, eyes blazing. “You two look busy,” he bit out. Caelix withdrew, all swagger and danger, as Rysa caught her breath, cheeks flushed, heart stuttering.

Just outside, Theron hovered, hunched in his too-big shirt, clutching a mess of tangled cords and notes. He’d seen too much—Zevan and Rysa tangled in the breakroom, her head thrown back, their laughter dissolving into hungry kisses. His stomach flipped, shame prickling his skin, but longing rooted him in place. He wished, just once, he could be the one wanted, not invisible. Miris Falco spotted him, raised a brow, then breezed past, their teal nails clacking on a clipboard. “HR violation roulette’s in full swing today. Stay hydrated, sweetie.” Theron managed a grateful smile, storing away the kindness.

Back in the lounge, Caelix intercepted Zevan, his smile a blade. “Jealousy’s not your color,” he murmured, voice low enough to cut. Zevan’s fists balled as he brushed by, anger pulsing through his veins—hating how Rysa looked at both of them, hating his own weakness more.

That night, Zevan drank too much at the after-hours bar. Caelix appeared at his side, all silk and sharp teeth, listening as Zevan let slip a jagged piece of his secret, voice weighted with regret. The city lights blurred behind them, the air thick. Caelix feigned sympathy, phone angled subtly beneath the bar, recording every desperate syllable. When Zevan stumbled away, Caelix’s smile faded—just for a heartbeat—before ambition returned to his face.

Hours later, Rysa sat alone in a shadowed corner, unreadable, lips bitten raw. Her phone buzzed. One new message: a silent, unsaved number. The subject line: “What did you steal?”

To be continued…