Chapter 66 Office tension
Hannah
By the time the car eased to a stop in the underground parking lot of Blackwood Enterprises Headquarters, my nerves were stretched thin, vibrating just beneath my skin.
I smoothed my palms down the front of my dress for the third time in under a minute, even though there wasn’t a single wrinkle to fix. The fabric was cool beneath my fingers, structured but soft, chosen carefully, too carefully for an evening I kept telling myself was purely formal.
Which was ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Why on earth was I nervous to meet Timothy?
I blew out a quiet breath and forced my shoulders back as the guard opened my door. The scent of polished concrete and faint motor oil mixed with the crisp, sterile smell of wealth and order that seemed to follow Timothy everywhere.
“Right,” I muttered to myself as I stepped out. “Get it together.”
I was led through a private elevator, no stops, no interruptions. The doors slid shut with a soft hum, and as we ascended, my reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall. My eyes were bright, a little too alert. My lips pressed together, then parted as I sighed.
I looked… like someone bracing herself.
The elevator opened directly onto the top floor.
Timothy’s floor.
The guard guided me down a quiet corridor, footsteps muted by thick carpet, until we reached a set of dark wooden doors. He knocked once, then gestured politely.
“He’ll be with you shortly, ma’am.”
I nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped inside.
The office was dimly lit, all soft amber and city glow spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The space was expansive but restrained, there was no clutter, no unnecessary extravagance. Just clean lines, dark wood, leather, glass.
It was so Timothy.
Who wasn’t there.
For a moment, I just stood there, the quiet settling around me like a held breath.
My gaze drifted, curious despite myself.
A tailored suit jacket lay neatly over the back of a chair. Beside it, a crisp white shirt folded with precise care. His tie rested on the desk, the knot already loosened, as though he’d shrugged it off mid-thought.
The intimacy of it hit me unexpectedly.
This wasn’t the Timothy I usually saw; so pressed, controlled, armored. This was the in-between version. The one no one else was meant to witness.
“Okay,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Stop snooping.”
But my feet betrayed me anyway.
I wandered slowly, fingers brushing along the spines of books lining one wall. Business. Economics. Biographies. Strategy. A few unexpected novels tucked between them, spines worn like they’d been reread.
I pulled one free, curiosity winning.
I flipped a few pages absently, skimming highlighted lines, margin notes written in his sharp, precise handwriting.
“Didn’t peg you for this,” I murmured.
“You’re not wrong.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
The book slipped from my fingers and slapped softly against the carpet as I spun around.
Timothy stood a few feet away.
Shirtless.
My brain stalled.
Water still clung to his hair, darkened and pushed back loosely, droplets tracing slow paths down his neck. His skin was warm-toned, faintly flushed, like he’d just stepped out of a hot shower. Suit pants hung low on his hips, unbuttoned at the top, the line of his abdomen…
I snapped my gaze upward so fast my neck protested.
“Oh God…I….I didn’t mean to….” I stammered, heat flooding my face.
A slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth.
“Enjoying the view and tour?” he asked lightly.
“I was not snooping,” I blurted, then immediately winced. “Okay, maybe a little. But you scared me, Jesus. Make some noise, will you.”
He chuckled softly as he reached for his shirt. “You’re so jumpy. That’s not my fault.”
“Because you appeared half-naked like some kind of…of corporate ghost.”
“That’s a new one.”
I turned fully away as he shrugged into the shirt, staring very intently at a piece of abstract art on the wall.
“So,” he said casually, buttoning up, “how was your day?”
“Fine,” I replied too quickly. “Good. Busy. Normal. I painted. I helped a gardener. I almost forgot I was married to a terrifying billionaire for a few hours.”
His hands paused briefly at a button.
Then he continued.
“Productive, then.”
I glanced over my shoulder just as he finished fastening the last button, smoothing the fabric down his torso. My throat felt inexplicably dry.
He reached for his suit jacket, slipping it on with practiced ease. “Did the driver give you trouble?”
“No,” I said. “Smooth ride. Very… luxurious.”
He hummed, adjusting his cuffs. “Good.”
I gestured vaguely around the room. “So… this is where the magic happens?”
“If by magic you mean endless meetings and soul-crushing negotiations, then yes.”
I smiled. “Charming.”
He shrugged. “It pays the bills.”
“You don’t exactly look like someone scraping by.”
“That’s because I hide the suffering well.”
I laughed softly, then pointed at the book I’d dropped. “You annotate novels?”
“Occasionally.”
“What does that mean? When you’re bored? Or when you’re plotting world domination?”
“Both,” he said without missing a beat.
I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”
He picked up his tie, looping it around his neck as he spoke. “Tonight will be… strategic. Investors. A few board members. Some media faces.”
I nodded, listening.
“Public enough to be seen,” he continued, “private enough that appearances matter.”
“Meaning I smile, nod, and look adoring.”
“Preferably.”
“Any specific people I should avoid insulting?”
“The man in the silver cufflinks. And the woman with the sharp bob haircut.”
“Noted.”
He began explaining more, names, faces, alliances, but my attention drifted as I watched his hands work the tie, fingers deft, practiced.
Without thinking, I stepped closer.
“Here,” I said quietly. “Let me.”
He froze.
Slowly, he looked down at me. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
But I was already adjusting the knot, fingers brushing the fabric, then, inevitably, his collar.
We were close. Too close.
I could smell his cologne, clean and subtle. Feel the heat of him. Sense the shift in the air between us, taut and electric.
His words trailed off.
My breath caught as his gaze dropped, just for a second to my lips.
Time stretched.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Then reality slammed back into place.
“We…we should go,” I said abruptly, stepping back. “We’re going to be late.”
His jaw flexed once.
“Right,” he said. “Yes. Of course.”
He grabbed his wallet, slipped it into his pocket, and straightened his jacket.
I was already halfway to the door, heart pounding, trying desperately to regain composure.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
It’s just Timothy.
Just your fake husband.
Just a man you are absolutely not supposed to feel like this about.
I reached for the handle, forcing a steady breath, and told myself again that this night was about appearances.
Nothing more.
Even if my pulse stubbornly refused to slow as we stepped out together.