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The silence in Olivia’s apartment over the last twenty-four hours hadn't felt like peace; it had felt like a vacuum. She had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, the ‘whole package’ ultimatum she’d delivered to Derek ringing in her ears.

She didn't regret her words because she knew she couldn't build a future on a foundation that had a glass ceiling—but she hated the distance between her and Derek. Their history was littered with near-misses and long silences, and she refused to let this become another scar on their timeliness. If Derek was the immovable mountain, she would have to be the force of nature that moved him.

At noon, she stopped by The Gilded Fig, a high-end bistro they both loved, and emerged minutes later with a heavy paper bag that smelled of truffle-parmesan fries, blackened ribeye sliders with caramelized onion jam, and two chilled bottles of a crisp, botanical ginger ale. It was the ultimate peace offering menu—comfort food with an expensive edge, just like him.

Derek's office was located on the edge of the city. It was a cathedral of steel and exposed brick, featuring massive pivot doors and floor-to-ceiling glass. It was raw, masculine, and intimidatingly cool.

Olivia stepped into the lobby, her heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete. She had never visited Derek's at his office before and had dressed for a mission. She wore a black mini gown with thin, delicate straps that looked like whispers against her skin. The fabric was a heavy, high-quality knit that hugged every curve of her figure, ending in a sharp line just above her knees. It was a dress that didn't just ask for attention; it demanded a total surrender of focus, and if all went well, that was exactly what she wanted.

She reached the sleek, minimalist reception desk where a young woman with a sharp bob and an even sharper expression looked up.

"Can I help you?" the assistant asked, her eyes flicking over Olivia’s dress with professional scrutiny.

Olivia ignored the look the woman gave her, "I’m here to see Derek Hawthorne," she said, shifting the weight of the bistro bag.

The woman checked a digital tablet. "Do you have an appointment? Mr. Hawthorne is currently in back-to-back meetings regarding the pier restoration project. He doesn't see anyone without a prior booking."

"I don't have an appointment," Olivia replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. She leaned in slightly, her gaze unwavering. "But I think you should call him. Tell him Olivia Carter is here to see him. I promise you, he’ll want to see me."

The assistant hesitated, clearly weighing the risk of interrupting Derek against the confidence in Olivia’s eyes. With a reluctant sigh, she pressed a button on her intercom. "Mr. Hawthorne? I apologise for the interruption, but there is a Ms Olivia Carter here to see you. She doesn't have an appointment, but she insisted—"

The line went silent for a heartbeat, and then Derek’s voice crackled through, sounding startled and instantly alert. “Let her in. Now. And cancel the one o'clock."

The assistant’s eyebrows shot up. She gestured toward a set of heavy, reclaimed oak doors. "Last door on the left, Ms. Carter."

“Thank you,” Olivia replied. 

She walked down the hallway, the smell of expensive air freshener filling the air. She found the door with his name on it and pushed it open, revealing a sprawling space filled with blueprints, leather armchairs, and a massive mahogany desk that looked like it belonged to a king.

Derek was standing by the window, his back to the door, his tie slightly loosened, and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He turned as she entered, and let his dark eyes rake over her, starting at her hair, tracing the line of her throat, and lingering on the curve of her body in her dress. The tension from the previous day was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a raw, undeniable hunger. She knew Derek well enough to recognise the desire in his eyes. Good. Just what she wanted, Olivia thought. 

"Liv," he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. He didn't move toward her, his hands gripping the headrest of his chair. "What are you doing here?"

Olivia set the bag of food down on one side of his pristine desk, the scent of truffle oil immediately filling the room. She looked at him, her heart on her sleeve but her chin held high. "I'm here because I wanted to see you," she said softly, watching his reaction closely. "I didn't like the way we left things yesterday, and I figured you needed to eat lunch, so I thought I'd bring you some so we could eat together. I hope that's okay."

The air in the office suddenly felt dangerously thin. Derek’s gaze was a frantic war between his pride and his pulse. He took a long, steadying breath, but it only served to fill his lungs with the vanilla and musk of her perfume. He forced his gaze upward, dragging it away from the way the gown clung to her—every curve outlined with deliberate precision, every movement a quiet provocation. When his eyes met hers, they narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering there.

‘I know what you’re doing’, the look was unmistakable, but Olivia held it without flinching. If anything, her smile deepened, private and feline. The distraction wasn't just working; it was dismantling him, and that was all that mattered.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I guess,” Derek muttered, though his actions betrayed his words. His voice was tight, controlled, like he was gripping onto the last threads of it. His fingers went to his throat, jerking his tie loose as though the air had suddenly grown too warm, until the top two buttons of his  shirt strained against his neck. 

Olivia noticed, and her smile sharpened—subtle, but victorious. She didn't give him a chance to regroup. She began to move, her heels clicking a slow, predatory rhythm against the hardwood. She swayed her hips with a deliberate, provocative grace, making sure he saw exactly how the black fabric clung to her. It was enough. More than enough. His eyes betrayed him, flickering downward before snapping back up again.

When she reached him, she didn't stop until she was firmly within his personal space, the heat radiating off his body warming her skin. She lifted her hands, her fingertips grazing the corded muscle of his forearms where his sleeves were rolled up. The contact was light and electric. Slow and intentional. 

“You’re so tense, Derek,” she purred, her voice a low, honeyed drawl that seemed to vibrate in the small space between them. She stepped closer, her chest nearly brushing the lapels of his waistcoat. Her fingers traced faint, lazy patterns against him, feeling the tightness beneath his skin, “Is it because of work…” she tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving his, “Or is it something else?”