Zevan slams the glass door behind him, breaths hot, suit jacket askew, eyes wild—a storm bottled in his tall, disheveled frame. His jaw is set hard, but his hands are trembling. Caelix stands across the hardwood, sun bleeding through the blinds onto his crisp shirt—every button, every strand of dark hair, immaculate except for a single crooked collar. He folds his arms, hiding shaking fingers, but his tight smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You think I’d just let you humiliate me?” Zevan’s voice is low, fraying at the edges. He looks ready to bolt or explode, uncertain which. Rysa, caught between them, stands rigid in a black pencil skirt and sweat-damp silk, knuckles white against her phone. She’s not running; she’s daring the blast. There’s a flash in her dark eyes—fear, yes, but hunger too. The air crackles.

“You embarrassed yourself,” Caelix snaps back, leaning into Zevan, chin up, lips twisted sardonic. His handsome features harden as he spits each word, but his gaze flickers to Rysa, pleading and possessive. For a flicker, Rysa’s lips part. Her pulse is visible at her throat.

Zevan’s fists clench. “You screwed me over. Both of you.” He flicks his gaze, wounded, to Rysa. The faint trace of an old dimple reappears, then vanishes when he sees her flinch.

Rysa steps forward. She smells like rain and old bourbon, hair half-falling from its knot. “Stop. I’m tired of choosing, tired of pretending I’m not wrecked by both of you.” She trembles as she looks up at Zevan, then over at Caelix, who blinks furiously and lets out a broken laugh.

There’s a thud as Zevan kicks a chair. “None of this was real to you?” he asks, voice cracking, words aimed at Caelix but wavering toward Rysa. His cheeks flush with anger, but his eyes shine with unfinished grief.

“Real?” Caelix echoes, voice raw, the mask gone in a blink. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and it hits Rysa—he’s as scared as any of them.

Rysa’s voice is a whisper but cuts through everything. “Kiss me or walk away. But I’m done feeling ashamed.” She steps between them, fingers threading through Zevan’s tie, tugging him closer. Zevan’s breath stutters. Caelix hesitates; then, anger and longing twins, he closes the gap, hand sliding to Rysa’s waist, other tugging Zevan with trembling urgency.

What begins as rivalry dissolves, for a fragile moment, into surrender—mouths crashing, hands roaming; Zevan’s fingers in Rysa’s hair, Caelix’s palm against Zevan’s neck, Rysa’s breath hot against them both. Need, apology, rage—everything is spoken in heat and desperate touch. Someone laughs, someone cries, nobody lets go. Their bodies tangle against the boardroom table, suits rumpled, Rysa’s blouse undone, Zevan’s lips raw, Caelix’s rings scraping her skin—each touch a confession and a plea.

For three heartbeats, they’re only desire and regret, all boundaries abandoned for bruised, vulnerable closeness. Secrets burn between their bare skin; forgiveness is begged, not spoken. They fall together, a heap of tangled limbs, silent but for gasps and whispered names.

Down the hall, Theron walks with his shoulders squared for the first time, Miris trailing anxiously. He clutches stolen files to his chest, heart racing, sure that, for once, he can do something brave. As giggles and moans leak through the glass, he hesitates—then pushes open the forbidden door to the executive suite, stepping beyond the invisible line that’s always held him back.

A ping reverberates through every phone in the office—a mass text. The subject line stings: “FYI: Love, Lies, & Leverage.” Attached is the explicit, damning sex tape of Caelix and Rysa, shot in secret, already spreading like wildfire. Zevan’s face drains of blood as he stares at his screen, the whole world tilting, realizing everything is crashing.

To be continued...