Ethan Caldwell walked through the terminal, his stride long and purposeful, leading a phalanx of executives who nodded in sync with his low instructions.

Trailing a few steps behind, Miles Harper stifled a smirk. He watched his boss—the untouchable CEO of Caldwell Enterprises—and his mind drifted to the only person who had ever managed to unravel Ethan without breaking a sweat: his fiancée.

They moved toward the VIP exit when a shrill voice pierced the hum of the airport.

"Director Caldwell!"

Then, chaos. "He's over here!"

Flashbulbs erupted like strobe lights. Ethan halted, his eyes narrowing as he clocked the swarm beyond the security barrier. Press badges flapped, and telephoto lenses thrust forward like spears.

"Director Caldwell! Rumors suggest your summit in New York was actually to seal an engagement with the Hayes family! Are you bailing out Hayes Industries? Can you confirm?"

"Are wedding bells in the future?"

"Is this a merger of hearts or assets?"

Ethan shot a glance at Miles. No words were needed. The look said: How the hell did they know my flight number?

Miles held up his hands, eyes wide. Not me. I’m clueless.

Ethan turned his head. His PR Director, Vaughn, was beaming, mistaking Ethan’s silence for approval. He sidled up, looking proud. "Sir, this is my setup."

"Oh?" Ethan’s voice was dangerously quiet.

"The domestic press is buzzing about the Hayes connection. I figured a quick photo op upon landing would boost our stock reach. Great synergy."

Ethan listened, then offered a smile. It was a cold, terrifying curve of the lips. "Vaughn."

The PR chief lit up. "Yes, sir?"

"It’s surprising," Ethan said smoothly. "A Caldwell veteran completely forgetting how I operate."

Vaughn’s smile froze mid-bloom. His face went slack.

Ethan didn't wait. He turned to his assistant. "Miles."

Miles, lugging the heavy carry-on, groaned internally. Not the cleanup again. But he stepped up.

Ethan grabbed Miles by the shoulder, pulled him forward into the spotlight, and then shoved him directly into the tide of reporters. "Harper will answer your questions."

Before Miles could protest, Ethan veered sharply, disappearing through a private maintenance exit.

"...You prick," Miles muttered, as twenty microphones were shoved into his face.

Thirty minutes later, Miles clawed his way out of the terminal. His shirt was missing a button, and he was sucking down air like a drowning man. He wheeled on the PR Director, who was trailing him nervously.

"Go back to HQ," Miles snapped. "Clear your desk. Resign by tonight."

Vaughn gaped. "You're joking. Over a photo op?"

Miles tossed his ruined jacket into a trash bin. "Ethan guards his private life like a vault. No leaks. You just cracked the door wide open. The whole world knows his schedule now. You think he keeps liabilities around?"

Miles grabbed the suitcase and marched toward the curb. A silver Lotus Exige was already idling there, the engine purring. The window rolled down, and a hand waved lazily.

Miles’s chest eased. Okay, he has a shred of decency. He waited.

He approached the car, warmth flickering—until Ethan’s drawl floated out. "Forgot. The bag has gifts for Olivia."

Miles’s glare could have curdled milk. Played. Again.

"Toss it in."

He slung the case into the passenger seat. Ethan gunned the engine. Clearly, there was no ride for Miles.

Miles rapped his knuckles on the glass. "What about the debrief? Contracts are piling up."

"No." Ethan clipped. "I'm exhausted."

Exhausted? You flew first class while I hauled your luggage!

The window began to roll up. "I'm on vacation. I'll be in on Monday. Reschedule everything."

Miles crossed his arms, knowing exactly why the man was in a hurry. "That prosecutor got you whipped this bad?"

Ethan revved the engine, eyes glinting with something possessive. "Pry into my private life? Careful, Miles. You’re replaceable."

The Lotus tore off into the night.

Evening found Olivia Hayes gnawing on the end of her pencil.

The "Incident Report" for Internal Affairs lay on the desk, mocking her. The words stuck in her throat like bad debts. She had cracked open her laptop, but the Word document remained glaringly blank. She’d switched to paper, scratching out lines, revising until the page was a mess of ink.

Hours burned for two stiff paragraphs. It was miles away from the "profound insight and true remorse" Director Hale had demanded.

She dropped the pen and gulped down some water. She felt impatient tonight, her skin prickling with nervous energy.

She picked up her phone. Typed quickly.

Recipient: Harper Ellis.

Message: Got your back. Lang is down. Rest easy, I'm here.

Her thumb hovered over 'Send'.

Then, she deleted it.

She set the phone down. That was her: all simmer, no spill. Facts were facts: Harper had been shot mid-arrest by Lang’s crew six months ago. Her left wrist was permanently shattered. No more badge. No more front lines.

Olivia could still see it—Harper in that flower-choked hospital room, the doctor’s verdict flat and cruel: Irrecoverable. She remembered Hale murmuring about desk work and support roles. She remembered Harper’s thin, tragic smile. Too late.

Her mind wandered, dark and heavy. Her elbow mashed the keyboard—a string of gibberish appeared on the screen. She sighed and reached to delete it.

Click.

The front door lock whispered.

It was faint, barely a sound, but Olivia’s ears—tuned to the frequency of danger—caught it instantly.

She bolted up. Burglar.

She slipped out of the study, clocking the time: 7:30 PM. Thieves were starting early. She scanned the room for a weapon. Vases, heavy curios... Ethan’s latest antique sculpture, worth seven figures, sat on a pedestal. It was tempting.

Nah.

She decided to go empty-handed. The cheapest thing in this wing of the house was her.

The electronic lock beeped green. The door swung open.

She melted into the shadows by the door jamb.

Men’s legs stepped through first—a tall silhouette.

Olivia moved like lightning. A leg sweep, low and hard, followed by a textbook shoulder throw.

The intruder hit the floor with a heavy thud. He didn't fight back immediately—he crumpled.

Too easy.

She straddled him instantly, reaching for the light switch while dialing 911 in her head. "Don't move or I'll break your—"

Reversal.

An iron grip clamped onto her ankle. She froze.

Before she could adjust, he yanked. Her balance vanished. She fell forward, caught off guard, and his weight shifted, pinning her flat against the floorboards.

Shock boiled into fury. Her lips parted to scream—

And were sealed by his.

A thin, familiar mouth claimed hers. It wasn't a tentative graze; it was a hungry, demanding question that turned into a groan against her throat.

Panic surged. Kissing? Now?

He moved as if he had a map of her body. Not content with just her lips, his hands cinched her waist, arching her against him. He tipped her chin up, nipping the jawline, savoring her shiver.

For a second, she was paralyzed. The scent of sandalwood and expensive scotch hit her. The illicit spark of the touch made her limbs feel like ice and her scalp electric.

But the prosecutor in her brain flashed a headline: Prosecutor slain in home invasion—sexual assault and murder.

Her eyes flared wide. Survival instinct overrode the confusion.

She wrenched her mouth free, chest heaving, and rasped into the darkness: "Who sent you? Last chance—step off now, and we can talk terms."

The figure above her paused. She felt the rumble of a low laugh against her chest.

"Talk terms?" he whispered, his voice dark and amused. "No chance."