Chapter 9 Exclusivity
POV : Catherine
The devil doesn’t wear horns. He wears a three-piece navy blue suit and he makes you sign your life away at hours when sane people are already asleep.
I lied to myself this morning. I told myself the red blouse was for me. That the heels killing my ankles were about feeling powerful. That the lipstick, shade “bad idea,” was just because I felt like it.
That’s not true.
Every detail was picked for him. For his eyes. Unbuttoned by one notch, not two. Just enough to make him look, and pretend he isn’t looking. My hair is loose on my shoulders. At WSL, that’s almost a crime. A way of saying I’m not quite the same anymore.
In the elevator, I can’t hold my own reflection for long. My stomach’s been in a knot since six a.m. There’s a heat, low down, that won’t let go. It pulses with every floor. I didn’t sleep last night. I pictured us everywhere in his office. Against the glass, on the cold leather of his chair, on my knees on the thick carpet. His voice ruins careers all day long. I’m dying to know what it does when he whispers.
Top floor. My fingers tighten on the strap of my bag. The contract’s inside. It weighs more than paper. I signed it yesterday at my childhood kitchen table. My dad’s empty beer can was sitting next to me. I didn’t take a sip. I just needed it there. Like a silent witness. Like a little courage.
A coworker passes me in the hall. She stops short.
“Catherine? Oh. Your hair?”
I shrug, a smile that doesn’t land.
“I felt like a change.”
Even I don’t believe me.
I stop in front of Eric Wood’s door. I breathe in. The air doesn’t make it to my lungs. I push.
He’s there. Standing with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the whole city. The light outlines him in the navy blue of his jacket. It fits him like it was sewn onto him. Cael’s already in the room, standing in front of him, tablet in hand. Tall, glasses, wrinkled suit. He looks like he’s been living at the office for three days.
Eric doesn’t see me right away. He’s focused on Cael, voice low, tight—the one he uses when a file’s gone sideways.
“We’re behind on Hydera, Cael. I need three senior tech profiles, and I want them on my desk by Friday. Whatever it takes. Recruit. I don’t want to hear about staffing problems again.”
Cael nods, jaw clenched.
“Got it. I’ll start the headhunts this morning.”
That’s when he notices me. His gaze flicks to me for a second. No more. He gives me a brief, almost imperceptible nod. Come in. Then he mutters a polite “Good morning, Miss Hale,” already turning toward the door. He brushes past me on his way out, the smell of cold coffee trailing behind him. The door clicks shut.
And suddenly the office feels ten times bigger. And ten times quieter.
“Miss Hale.”
His voice pins me in place. He’s turned. Slowly. His eyes make the trip. They travel down the red silk, linger at the base of my throat, drop all the way to my heels, then climb back up to mine. They’re dark. Unreadable. But I feel the weight of his attention on my skin.
My hands shake a little when I pull the contract from my bag. I hate that he can see it.
“I signed it.”
I wait. For a word. A smile. A sign that I’ve won something.
There’s nothing. His face is a smooth wall. He sits behind his desk like I just handed him the weather report. He opens his laptop.
“Keep it.”
I blink.
“Excuse me?”
“Keep the file, Catherine. My calendar isn’t going to manage itself. Out.”
I clutch the contract to my chest. The sound of my heart is too loud. I back away. Every step out of that room is a defeat. I came here prepared to be his temptation, his sin, his secret.
Not his assistant.
Humiliation burns the back of my neck all the way to my desk. I sit down. Outside. Behind my screen. In my place. File still in my hands.
The little light on the intercom blinks on. His voice, neutral, efficient, cuts through.
“The Morrison file needs to be reviewed and annotated before noon. I want the Q3 Hydera report on my desk by two p.m. And call Lawson: if he hasn’t signed by four, we kill the deal.”
Click. He’s hung up.
Three tasks. Three knife twists to my plan. Under my blouse, the black lace lingerie feels suddenly ridiculous. Armor for a war that isn’t happening. I’m drowning in work instead of drowning in his arms.
Three p.m. The intercom again.
“The contract. Bring it to me.”
My heart does a stupid jump in my chest. I walk in. He holds out his hand without a word. I give him the file. He opens it. His eyes run down the page to my signature. He says nothing. He picks up his pen. Heavy, dark metal. Eric Wood. He signs. One stroke of the nib. Slow. Deep. Final. The sound on the paper sends a shiver down my spine.
He closes the file. Slides it toward me.
“File the original in the safe. I want the scanned copy in my email before four.”
It slips out before I can stop it.
“That’s... it?”
He finally looks up. And this time, there’s no wall. His gaze is raw. It lands on my mouth, then drops, slowly, to the red silk sticking to my skin from the heat, the nerves, the exhaustion. It’s eighty-six degrees outside. In this office, I feel like I’m melting.
“What did you expect, Catherine?” he asks. His voice has dropped an octave, rougher. “That I’d have you up against this desk at three-oh-seven, between two calls with Singapore?”
I can’t swallow. He stands. He takes his time circling the desk. He stops in front of me. Too close. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the air between us turns impossible to breathe. I feel the heat coming off him, his scent, woodsy, clean, dangerous.
“You signed for exclusivity,” he murmurs. The word rolls off his tongue. “Not for a five-minute distraction when there’s a gap in my schedule. The day I put my hands on you, Catherine…” He pauses, his gaze locked on mine… “it won’t be because you’re wearing a red blouse. It will be because I decided it. And when that moment comes, you’ll know. You’ll feel it before I even brush against you.”
He steps back. Air rushes back into my lungs.
“Now, scan that contract. And bring me a coffee. Black. No sugar.”
I get back to my desk like an automaton. I sit. My legs are still shaking. I start the scan. Page one. Page two. The scanner’s light burns my eyes. My hands are damp. The Q3 Hydera report flashes on my second screen. Lawson still hasn’t called back.
Last page of the contract.
I flip it to file it, and I see it. A yellow sticky note, stuck to the back. Black ink, slanted, sharp. His.
> Tonight, 9 p.m. Wear the black lingerie you have on under that blouse.
My heart stops. Then starts again, too fast.
I lift my head, breath caught.
Behind the glass wall, Eric is at his desk. He has a coffee cup in his hand. And he’s watching me. He isn’t working. He isn’t reading. He’s watching me. He brings the cup to his lips, slowly, and drinks. Without blinking. Without looking away.