Chapter 66 The Cold Reversion
The morning in Boston broke softly, painting the luxurious hotel room in muted golds and grays. I stretched, inhaling the familiar, intoxicating scent of high-thread-count linen and Rhys: pine, clean cotton, and the faint, musky after-scent of skin that had been pressed close to mine all night. A deep, unfamiliar peace settled in my chest, a foolish, butterfly-wing feeling that I hadn't allowed myself since I was a teenager. I smiled before I even opened my eyes.
I rolled over, expecting the lingering warmth, the heavy arm, or maybe just the quiet intimacy of a shared, hungover glance.
What I saw was Rhys, already dressed.
He was sitting stiffly on the edge of the ottoman, the tailoring of his dark polo shirt impeccable, tying his expensive leather shoes. He looked less like a man who had just spent the night dismantling every boundary we had built and more like a CEO preparing for an emergency board meeting. Every line of his body was rigid; his posture was a wall. I felt the atmosphere shift instantly from shared heat to absolute zero.
“Morning,” I murmured, pulling the sheets higher, suddenly feeling painfully exposed. I waited for him to soften, to meet my gaze with something—anything—that recalled the desperate hunger of the hours before.
He finished his knot, stood, and turned. His face was a mask of granite professionalism, the kind he wore when announcing layoffs or addressing the media after a devastating, engine-killing crash.
“Ellie. We need to discuss last night.” His voice was low, flat, and contained, scraping across the fragile hope in my chest. It felt premeditated, a perfectly executed corporate retreat.
I propped myself up on one elbow, the smile vaporizing. “Discuss? I thought we were quite clear on the subject. We were celebrating a minor victory, weren’t we?”
“I apologize.” The word sounded so clinical, so utterly devoid of emotion, it might as well have been a legal term for a misfiled document. “It was a clear lapse in judgment, fueled by stress—specifically the constant threat of this AI sabotage that’s targeting Vance Racing—and proximity. It won’t happen again.”
He picked up a keycard from the bedside table. “It was a... temporary relief of physical tension. Nothing more. You are here under contract to manage risk mitigation. I am your client. We have a contract, Ellie, and that contract is non-negotiable, particularly in front of your family. What happened was a breach of corporate governance. We proceed from here as we were: I am your employer.”
The words hit me with the force of an F1 car hitting the wall. He had reduced the most vulnerable, passionate moment of my adult life to an item on a checklist. A biological function. A mistake. My whole body seized up with a stinging, white-hot heat that finally eclipsed the hurt. He was terrified. Terrified that he’d felt something, terrified of the proximity, and terrified that he might lose control.
“Understood, Vance,” I snapped back, the anger finally winning. The formality was a sharp, brittle defense. “Since it was purely physical, I’m glad we got that out of the way. I wouldn't want the demands of your job to interfere with your... personal stress management needs again. Maybe now we can both move on.”
His jaw clenched—a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch—but he didn’t respond. He simply nodded curtly. “The family is meeting for brunch downstairs at ten. I’ll meet you in the lobby at 9:55.”
And then he was gone. I stared at the door. He wasn't going to shove me back into a neat, professional box. If he wanted to treat me like a high-risk liability and reduce me to a distraction, he was going to get a public, spectacular detonation. If he could play the cold, calculating professional, I could play the reckless, untouchable Boston girl he thought he’d left behind.
I descended the grand staircase of the hotel precisely at 9:55 AM. I was wearing a fitted cranberry dress and an attitude of lethal intent. Rhys, stern and gorgeous, was waiting. I detached my arm from his as soon as we reached the crowded lobby and walked directly to my target.
I spotted Damon Alastair, standing near the window, chatting with my brother Owen. Damon, a local firefighter and a friend of ours since we were kids, had always possessed a kind, open handsomeness that Rhys’s intense severity lacked. He was the perfect, harmless distraction.
“Rhys, darling,” I cooed, using the pet name just to watch his eyes narrow. “There’s Damon. I haven’t seen him since high school graduation, practically. I need to steal him for a moment.”
I saw the flicker of warning in his eyes, but he was instantly cornered by my mother, who was already grilling him about Vance Racing’s sponsorship trajectory into next year.
I marched across the floor. “Damon Alastair, you absolute brute. You get better looking every time I see you. Is that a new scar? Tell me it was saving a baby and not a rogue staple.”
He laughed, his warm, casual smile a stark contrast to Rhys’s glacial composure. “Ellie, you haven’t changed. It was a puppy, actually. Took a chunk out of my hand trying to rescue him from a drainage pipe.”
“Only you could make a puppy rescue sound heroic,” I said, placing my hand deliberately on his thick forearm. I let my fingers trace a line of appreciation, holding his gaze while keeping my sightline fixed on Rhys, who was now halfway across the room, watching us with a deepening scowl.
“So, Damon,” I continued, my voice bright and loud enough to be heard nearby. “Rhys has been acting like my handler this entire trip, constantly worried about my ‘trackside performance.’ It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m ready to cut loose. What are you doing tomorrow night, handsome? Are you free to show me the real, non-corporate side of our hometown?”
Damon’s eyes darted past me to Rhys, then back to mine, a slow, confused awareness dawning in his expression. “Um, El, tomorrow is the annual… the firefighter’s gala, actually. It’s pretty exclusive. And I thought you were with—”
“I know! I know!” I interrupted brightly, placing my hand on his jaw for emphasis. “But my fiancé is tied up with Q4 financial projections and legal risk assessments. I need a date who doesn't talk about deepfakes or corporate governance. Can’t you sneak me in? Just us, dancing and absolutely avoiding talk of the stock market?”
The moment I finished the sentence, Rhys was there. I hadn't heard him move; he was just suddenly beside me, radiating a cold, powerful male dominance that made Damon instantly take a small, cautious step back.