Chapter 6 Better Cheekbones
Inside, my brain is doing cartwheels.
Intelligent men are my personal kryptonite, and this one just casually admitted he's basically a living super-computer. My thighs are not clenching.
They are not.
I refuse to let him see it.
"Doctors called it hyperthymesia with eidetic tendencies." His eyes narrow behind the lenses. "Every line of code, every word someone says in my presence…" he gives his temple a gentle tap. "...it sticks."
"Wow," I whisper.
"Yes." Lawrence straightens. "Wow."
"Which is why, when you decided to give your very creative review of my personality in the middle of a bistro, loud enough for half the room to hear, I remember it perfectly. High-definition in my own way."
He sits back, relaxed, while I feel like I'm melting into the carpet. "Your exact inflection on 'over-priced suit wearing.'
I wince.
"So, Miss Thorn… finish the sentence. I'm dying to hear you say it to my face."
"Mr Moore, please."
His phone vibrates silently on the desk. The screen lights up, but he doesn't even glance at it. His focus stays on me.
"Finish it, or start clearing your desk."
I fall quiet for a few seconds before taking in a shaky breath. Then, staring at my lap, I mumble the rest in one rush, pretending I hate every word when, God help me, I actually relish the chance to throw it back at him.
"…four-eyed, arrogant prick who makes me want to commit assault with office supplies."
The room goes quiet.
Lawrence is perfectly still, watching me with an unreadable look. For one second, I think I've finally done it, crossed the line he can't forgive.
And then, out of nowhere… to my utter surprise… he laughs.
It's short, rough, startled out of him like he didn't expect it either. The sound is low and alive, nothing like the polished, controlled man in front of me. It hits me in the chest and steals every molecule of oxygen from the room.
I'm way too stunned to do nothing but stare.
This must be a dream.
No, wait… this is real.
He shakes his head slowly, like he can't believe what just came out of my mouth… or maybe what came out of his own.
"Assault with office supplies," he repeats, his voice filled with amusement. His green eyes are brighter than I've ever seen them. "Tell me, Miss Thorn… how many times this week have you pictured jamming a letter opener into my carotid?"
I shrug.
He raises an eyebrow at the non-answer, his eyes still bright with amusement.
"Twice?" he guesses. "Five times? Every morning?"
Another laugh escapes, shorter this time, but still real.
"You're bold." He says, picking up his phone and glancing at it. "And honest."
For a second, Lawrence doesn't look like the terrifying ice dragon that he is; he looks almost human.
Seeing warmth in those green eyes, something I never thought capable, does something to my chest that I don't like.
But then, it dies… the warmth, as suddenly as it arrived.
It closes like someone slammed a door in my face.
I watch sadly as his expression cools, then hardens into the familiar steel mask I'm used to.
Disappointment twists in my chest.
The Lawrence Moore I accidentally made laugh is gone. And he is instantly replaced by the original version. Mr Ice and Steel.
He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. "Unfortunately, Miss Thorn, honesty doesn't excuse gross insubordination."
Oh no. This is the point he fires me.
My stomach churns with anxiety.
"You were careless and unprofessional. And you embarrassed this company in a public space while representing it."
"I… sir…"
He holds up a hand, silencing me.
"However."
His eyes run over me. "You did finish the sentence."
I remain still.
"That tells me you're at least capable of following instructions, even under… emotional distress."
I resist the urge to throw the stapler sitting two feet away at him.
He leans back in his chair, all business again. "So, here are your consequences."
Oh God.
"First," he says, ticking off on one long finger. "You will never again discuss me, or any executive, in public."
I nod quickly. "Yes, sir."
"Second." Another finger. "You will be at your desk at 7:15 tomorrow. And the day after."
I swallow hard, but nod again. "Yes, Mr Moore."
"Third." He pauses for effect, until I'm vibrating with nerves. "You will write a formal, one-page apology for your public comments. Not typed. Pen on paper."
My eyes widen.
"Signed." He continues coolly. "Delivered to my desk by the end of the day tomorrow. It will go into your personnel file. And you will not delegate this to anyone else."
My mouth goes dry.
A written apology? Like, I'm back in middle school detention?
What the…
A guffaw tumbles out before I can stop myself. "You're serious?"
He doesn't respond, pinning me with those cold eyes. "Consider it documentation of personal growth."
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
"Have I made myself clear, Miss Thorn?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He picks up a pen. "You may go. Bring my schedules for tomorrow before you leave for the day."
I get to my feet, embarrassed, relieved, and a little offended that the man can laugh with me one minute and treat me like a nemesis the next.
But then again, he's Lawrence Moore.
"Good day, sir," I mutter.
"Mm." He doesn't look up, already typing something on his phone.
What sort of human demands a written apology? And attached to my file?
He's going to make me eat my own words, literally.
I can already picture the HR lady's raised eyebrow if she scans it in someday, cause there's no way I'm hell I'm keeping that shit in my file:
Scarlett Thorn regrets calling the CEO a four-eyed, arrogant prick who inspires violent fantasies involving stationery.
Future me is going to hate current me so much.
I make it out of Lawrence's office on shaky legs, but still alive.
Underneath all the humiliation and the very real fear of what else he might pull tomorrow… there's this stupid, stubborn spark because he laughed.
Twice.
And it wasn't that fake shit people do at board meetings. This was real laughter.
Rough-edged and surprised, like I'd caught him off guard in a way no one else has in years.
Those green eyes were bright and alive when the ice cracked, even though it was just for a second.
Mentally slapping myself, I shake my head so hard my earrings jangle.
Stop.
This man is a billionaire with hyperthymesia who just sentenced me to write lines like I'm twelve.
He remembers every insult I've ever muttered because his brain is a devastating trap, and he's using it to torture me slowly.
That's terrifying.
"You made it through Freddie Rollins, Scarlett," I say to myself, confidently. Freddie was one of my past bosses back when I worked in an insurance firm, who "forgot" to approve my vacation until the day before.
"You'll make it through with this one"
Lawrence Moore is just a taller, richer, smarter and more handsome version of him.
"With better cheekbones."
My brain sneaks in.
"With better cheekbones," I mutter.
And a laugh that keeps replaying in my head, no matter how hard I try to forget it.