Chapter 32 Checkmate
After spending five minutes lecturing Sylvie on the precise, ninety-degree orientation of my fountain pens, which she had the nerve to move two inches to the left, I spent the better part of the morning failing a basic human task: keeping track of the time.
Normally, my day is a high-speed chase. I’m usually clawing for more minutes, wishing for an eighth day of the week to bury myself in. But today, the clock is a sadistic, crawling thing. The seconds don't tick, they drip, slow and agonizing, like a leak in a basement.
At eleven, I was pacing the length of the floor, trying to digest a merger proposal, only to realize forty minutes later that I’d been reading the same three paragraphs over and over. By noon, I found myself standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the oak grove with a pair of high-powered binoculars I tell myself are for "bird watching," searching for a flash of a white shirt among the leaves. I even rearranged the digital files on my desktop by file size just to feel a sense of order that my skin was currently lacking.
At some point, I was on a call I should've cared about....I didn’t. I ended it early under the pretense of “circling back with notes.”
There will be no notes.
It’s nothing, I told myself. A side effect of the pill. A lack of REM cycle.
But twenty minutes before one, which is the official start of the lunch break, something shifted.
My foot started tapping frantically against the mahogany of my desk. Every time I pictured Kaden walking through that heavy oak door, my heart didn't just spike, it performed a violent, clumsy roll in my chest. My palms felt damp, a cold sweat breaking out at the base of my neck that had nothing to do with the temperature.
It wasn't the thrill of the hunt. This felt thin. Flimsy even. My shoulders felt too tight. My skin felt too aware.
It wasn’t anticipation either, not exactly, I know what that feels like. I’ve felt it around him more than once. That sharp, heated edge. That pull that settles low and burns. This was different. It took me a second, maybe two. And then the realization hit me like a physical blow.
Nerves?...
I let out a short, humorless breath, shaking my head once like I can physically dislodge the thought. I'm almost offended by the suggestion.
Nerves are for interns and people who don't have a nine-figure liquid net worth. I don’t get "nervous" about a bartender with a chip on his shoulder and a talent for making me lose my mind. I’m simply experiencing a physiological reaction to a high-stakes brand transition.
It’s adrenaline.
It’s a tactical concern regarding the stability of my campaign.
But as the clock hand finally touched the hour, I found myself straightening my tie for the twentieth time, my reflection in the glass looking back at me with eyes that knew exactly what a liar I was.
The crystal decanter at the corner set up still feels like a magnet. It’s tempting, dangerously so, but I fight the impulse. Drinking during business hours is a violation of the very system that keeps me upright, and God knows I’ve rearranged my internal architecture enough already. Still, the thought of two glasses of the hard stuff to dull the sharp edges of my nerves is a temptation I have to physically mute.
I sit, my laptop open, a spreadsheet of logistics on the screen that might as well be written in Ancient Greek for all the sense it’s making. I’m listening. Every nerve ending is tuned to the hallway.
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen.
By the time the thirty-minute mark hits, the irritation begins to burn through the haze of my anxiety. He’s not coming.
It’s a calculated act of rebellion, a small, petty way to claw back the power I took earlier. There's only thirty minutes left of his break, and the silence in the corridor is starting to feel like a personal insult.
I shake my head, dark amusement curling in my gut as I reach for my phone. I’m halfway through drafting a text, something cold, something to remind him exactly how this works, when the sound finally registers.
Footsteps.
I set the phone aside and instantly fix my gaze on the laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys. I have no idea why I’m pretending.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. Silence follows. I glance at the clock, and the seconds that were dragging all morning are suddenly sprinting. My heart gives a treacherous, uneven thud. I’m halfway out of my chair, intent on wrenching the door open myself to end the suspense, when I hear the click of the latch.
The door swings open...a slow inch, then the rest, and Kaden steps in.
He’s changed.
The damp, white "craftsman" shirt is gone, replaced by a fitted black short-sleeved knit that clings to his chest and shoulders like a second skin. It’s tucked into dark blue jeans, held by an expensive looking leather belt...ending in polished brown boots.
He looks less like a laborer and more like a threat.
I lean back in my chair, steepled fingers hiding the slight tremor in my hands.
"Tell me, Kaden," I start, my voice sliding back into its usual tone. "Did the concept of knocking disappear along with your sense of punctuality?"
He doesn't flinch. He closes the door behind him with a soft, ominous thud and leans against it, crossing his arms. The black fabric of his shirt stretches dangerously over his biceps.
"Sorry," he says, his voice dripping with a dry, lethal sarcasm. “Didn’t realize I was addressing the king of morals. Next time I'm summoned to the throne room I’ll make sure to give you enough time to compose yourself."
I let out a subtle, dry chuckle that barely vibrates in my throat. I lean back, the leather of my chair creaking under the weight of a man trying very hard to look like he isn't vibrating with static.
"Come closer."
He doesn't budge. He stays anchored against the door, his arms still crossed.
"I’m good right here. I can hear your ego perfectly fine from this distance."
"Scared?"
He holds my gaze, his eyes tracking the way I’m watching him with a terrifying, clinical focus. "After the way you bolted," he starts, his voice dropping into a tone that makes the hair on my arms stand up, "I think I’m the one who should be asking you that."
I blink, my expression smoothing into a mask of indifference. "I haven't the slightest idea what you’re referring to. I had a pressing engagement. My time is choreographed. Surely you’ve realized that by now."
He scoffs, a sharp sound of disbelief. "Right. Of course." Then, much to my surprise, he pushes off the door. He takes a slow step forward, then another...until he’s standing just in front of my desk.
He takes me in. Then a small, devastating smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” he asks. "Did I taste a little too good, Bastian?"
His voice is like velvet over gravel.
"Did you freak out when you realized you’d never get enough? That you’d have to keep crawling back for more?"
I’m rattled. The directness of it is a physical strike, but beneath the panic, there’s a spark of genuine, dark intrigue. I didn't think he had the nerve to say it aloud.
"Well, well," I drawl, tilting my head as I look up at him. "It seems you’ve finally grown a pair, Kaden. Even if it's delusional."
He leans down, bracing his hands on the edge of my mahogany desk, invading my personal space until I can smell the faint, lingering scent of the distillery on him.
"I’ve always had them, Steele," his eyes burn into mine with a lethal, unfiltered heat. "You should know. You spent a good amount of time getting acquainted at the club."