Chapter 41 Chapter Forty one
Lena’s POV
The city lights bleed gold across my apartment walls, but I barely notice. The glow feels distant, like it belongs to another world. I’m here, in this small, controlled space, trying to corral the chaos in my head. Tomorrow we leave for the trip. The thought alone tightens my chest. I try to focus on packing, but my mind refuses to cooperate. My pulse races at the thought of him being there, so close, observing, controlling—even silently.
I unzip my suitcase and shove in my shirts, then pause. My hands hover over the fabric. Do I wear the navy blouse or the white one? The choice seems inconsequential, but somehow, it isn’t. It’s not just a blouse. It’s a signal. Authority. Unapproachability. Command. But the minute I consider that he might see me in it, my stomach twists, betraying me.
Avery flops onto the edge of the bed, tossing her long legs over the side with casual grace. “Packing for battle, huh? Or for him?” she asks, smirking.
I freeze. My hands are mid-fold, the shirt now crumpled. “For work. And survival. And maybe… controlling chaos.” I try to sound calm, but the words taste bitter in my mouth.
She laughs, quiet, knowing. “Uh-huh. Sure. You’re totally in control. Right now, you’re folding a shirt like your life depends on it. Because maybe it does.”
I glare at her. “Stop.”
She shrugs, softer now. “You’re packing more than clothes tonight, Lena. You’re packing your defenses, your patience, your ability to pretend your insides aren’t in knots. Tomorrow? That’s like walking into a cage with a lion and thinking it’s a purring kitten.”
I bite my lip. She’s right. The trip isn’t about work—it’s about proximity, confinement, the tension he radiates without even trying. The thought makes my pulse spike. I shove a pair of heels into the suitcase with more force than necessary, almost angry at myself for the tiny tremor in my hands. I cannot let him see me like this. Vulnerable. Wavering. Exposed.
I pace the room, rubbing my temples. Every item I pack feels loaded. The suitcases, the files I have to bring, my laptop, chargers—all mundane, but each one reminds me of him. The trip is his stage. He’s already the center of gravity, and I’m just orbiting carefully, pretending that I’m untouchable.
I drop onto the bed and close my eyes. I try to steady my thoughts. Tomorrow, keep it professional. Keep it detached. Keep your pulse quiet. But even as I say it, I know I won’t. Something in me has changed since that night in the office. The way he watches, the way he controls the space between us—it’s magnetic. Dangerous. Irresistible.
My phone buzzes. I freeze, heart skipping. His name flashes on the screen.
“Be ready by 5 a.m. sharp. Don’t forget anything critical.”
Cold. Controlled. Commanding. I clutch the phone, feeling a weird combination of dread and heat crawling up my neck.
Avery leans over, reading the screen without asking. “See? Already staking his claim on your brain. And it’s working.”
I set the phone aside, taking several deep breaths. “I am focused. On work. On packing. On… the trip.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, smirking. “The trip. Right. The trip that’s about him, his schedule, his control, and your increasingly brittle composure.”
I glare at her. “Stop.”
She sighs, soft now. “You can’t lie to me, Lena. I can see it. You’re terrified, excited, angry, frustrated. And you’re trying to convince yourself you’re only focused on work. The thing is, work is just the excuse.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. She’s right. Work is the excuse. My mind keeps spiraling through scenarios: what if he sits across from me at the table? What if he notices the way I grip my pen? What if he leans just a little too close while I present a report? My chest tightens at the thought, and my stomach knots.
I finally start packing systematically. Clothes folded neatly, shoes stacked, laptop and documents in place. My hands shake slightly, but I refuse to acknowledge it. I shove in an extra blazer, because maybe, just maybe, I’ll need armor. Not just for meetings, but for him.
I pace again. The city hums below. Noise, light, life. And yet I feel like I’m suspended, alone, in this charged bubble of anticipation and fear. I think about tomorrow, about being confined in a hotel, about every glance, every silence, every tiny movement that will carry unspoken weight.
Avery watches silently, letting me fume. She knows I’m struggling to control the wild, swirling chaos of my emotions. Finally, she says softly, “You’re not just packing clothes, Lena. You’re packing your defenses. You’re preparing for him. And it’s exhausting you more than it should.”
I sink onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I can handle it. I have to handle it. This is just business. Just… work.”
Her eyes soften. “You’ve said that a hundred times tonight. But the truth is, you’re lying to yourself. And deep down, you know it.”
I bite my lip, thinking of the boardroom, the hotel, the long hours. He’s always just a few steps away, always measuring, always controlling. I want to resist, but my body refuses to cooperate. I hate that. I hate how little control I have over the reaction he elicits, the tension he stirs.
I zip the suitcase, trying to finalize control. The physical act of packing is the only thing that grounds me. I can touch it. I can see it. I can manipulate it. But his presence—real or imagined—already permeates my mind.
I lie back, suitcase closed beside me. My thoughts circle him again. Every interaction, every glance, every calculated silence from him. I think about how he manages to unsettle me without a word, to make me crave his attention while simultaneously wanting to avoid him entirely. My chest tightens at the contradiction.
My phone buzzes again. Another reminder from him. Cold, precise. Professional on the surface, but underneath, I know the underlying control. My pulse quickens. I set it aside, forcing myself to breathe deeply. I need sleep. I need calm. I need something.
Avery pats my shoulder gently. “Sleep, Lena. You’re going to need your wits about you. And your fire. You’re going to need both tomorrow.”
I lie back, staring at the ceiling. I tell myself to sleep, to gather strength, to prepare for the day. But the night stretches long, restless, and my thoughts refuse to quiet. Every scenario, every possibility, every calculated glance of his, keeps me awake, anxious, on edge.
I close my eyes, imagining the first moments of tomorrow. Every glance across the table. Every movement in the hotel. Every conversation with him. Every breath shared in close quarters. I steel myself, yet my body betrays me with a tremor at the mere thought.
Tomorrow is coming. I know it. And I can already feel the pull, the tension, the anticipation that will twist and turn my stomach, my pulse, my mind.
I lie there, suitcase by my side like a shield. My chest rises and falls unevenly. Sleep will be shallow. Rest will be temporary. But I need to endure it, because tomorrow, I cannot falter. Tomorrow, I will face him.