Carter got Lina into the car. He buckled her in like a child. Lina slept, or passed out—the line was fucking blurry. One minute she was silent, the next she'd let out a soft, sorrowful sigh and mutter something about "whoozits" and "gridlock."
He'd called the team on his hands-free to inform them, his voice a study in forced calm. "Hey. Yeah, Lina's… not okay. I'm taking her back to her place. You guys finish up." He hung up before they could ask a single goddamn question.
The line had gone dead, but the silence he left behind at The Luxe Bistro was instantly filled with gossip.
"Did he just say he's taking her home?" Priya whisper-yelled.
"As in, her home?" Marco whispered, his eyes wide.
"Holy shit," Gabriel breathed, leaning in so close his whisper was a warm gust of alcohol. "Are they…? Our boss and Lina? Is that a thing?"
"Oh my god, are they secretly dating?" Marco gasped, like it was the biggest drama ever.
"It has to be that," Priya decided, nodding. "Think about it. He's always looking at her. Always taking her everywhere. And he gets, like, weirdly protective. It's suspicious."
"Lina is the lucky girl, then," Layla sighed, a hint of envy in her voice. "Secret romance with the hot boss. Straight out of a movie."
They talked about it forever, making up this whole secret relationship in their heads, until they got tired and finally went home.
In the car, Carter glanced over. In the erratic strobe of passing streetlights, Lina seemed almost peaceful. Her head was tilted against the window, her braids finally fully undone, dark hair frizzing against the glass. The tear-tracks had dried. She looked vulnerable. She isn't so bad like this, he thought. He'd seen a lot of drunken displays. This one… this one was just a sleeping beauty.
He parked in front of her apartment building. The neighborhood was quiet, a stark contrast to the opulent estate they'd just left. He circled the car, opened the passenger door, and gently shook her shoulder. "Lina. We're here."
The moment his fingers made contact, her eyes flew open—wide, startlingly clear, and utterly vacant. It was as if someone had flicked a switch, casting out the drunk but leaving no one home. She shoved him away with a surprising jolt of strength. "Get off!"
Carter stumbled back, a flash of hope that she'd somehow sobered up instantly. It died a second later. She tried to get out but totally ate it, her legs betraying her after one step. She landed on the dirty sidewalk with a hard, undignified thump. For a beat, there was silence. Then her face crumpled, and she began to wail, loud, messy sobs that echoed in the sleepy street.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Carter muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He bent down, hooking his hands under her arms. "Lina, come on. Up. Let's get you inside."
"No!" she wailed, swatting at him. "Leave me alone! I live here! This is my home." She was being totally dramatic.
"Yes, you do! But not on the floor! Your home is upstairs. Let's go."
He tried to lift her and she just went limp. As he adjusted his grip, getting a better hold, she suddenly twisted her head and bit his thumb.
A sharp, white-hot bolt of pain shot up Carter's arm. "Fuck!" he yelped, trying to yank his hand back without tearing his own skin. He stared, disbelieving, at the top of her head as she gnawed on him like a feral raccoon. "Lina! Let go! That's my hand!"
Miraculously, she did. She released him, leaving a perfect, throbbing crescent of teeth marks. Before he could even process the pain, she reached up and clumsily palmed his whole face, her fingers splaying over his cheeks and nose. He flinched, ready to defend against another bite.
Instead, she beamed up at him, her expression shifting to one of dawning, sloppy recognition. "I know you," she slurred, her thumb stroking a ridiculous, gentle path across his cheekbone. "You're the boss. My Carty."
Carter stared at her, cradling his injured hand. If you know it's me, why did you just try to eat my thumb? He decided reasoning was a lost cause. He used her momentary, placid insanity as an opening, hauling her upright before she could think of another way to maim him, this time keeping a wary distance from her mouth. "That's right. I'm the boss. And the boss says we're going inside."
He got her three steps toward the building's entrance when she planted her feet and shoved him again. "Wait! My work!" she cried, staggering back toward the car. "I'm late! Oh no… oh no… I'm sooo late… I need to get to work!" Her sentence ended in a yelp as she tripped over her own feet and went down hard, this time knees scraping on the rough pavement. The sobs that followed were of genuine, wounded distress.
Carter pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache, thick and demanding, pulsed behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. I take it all back. Every charitable, stupid thought. She is a walking, talking, fucking nightmare when she's drunk.
He walked over to where she sat. Her cries had softened to pathetic whimpers. "It hurts," she mumbled into the pavement, her body curled around her leg.
"What now?" he sighed, crouching.
She just pointed a trembling finger at her knee. In the jaundiced glow of the streetlamp, he saw it. She'd scraped it pretty bad, and it was bleeding. He reached for her knee, and she flinched, looking up at him.
Her face was a mess—her nose red, lips chapped and parted as she hiccupped. But in that raw, vulnerable state, Carter's gaze snagged and held. He traced the lines of her features, not with the detached concern of a boss, but with a slow, deliberate heat that coiled low in his gut. His eyes moved from her glassy, wine-dark eyes, down the slope of her nose, and settled on her mouth. Her lips were full, the lower one trembling slightly. He imagined, for a dangerous, unguarded second, what it would be like to shut her up with his own, to swallow those pathetic little sobs and taste the wine on her tongue. He hated himself for the sudden, specific heat that coiled low in his gut. Fuck. Get a grip, you creep.
What the hell is wrong with you? he reprimanded himself, the guilt cold and immediate. She's drunk, hurt, and your employee. Stop. The self-disgust was enough to snap him back to action.
"Okay, up." He lifted her, this time cradling her against his chest to avoid any more biting incidents. She immediately clung to him, her arms looping around his neck, her face burrowing into the crook of his shoulder. She felt small and warm, and the scent of her—vanilla, wine, and something uniquely Lina—filled his senses all the way up to her apartment door.
"Key, Lina," he said, jostling her slightly. "Where's your key?"
She hummed against his neck, a fake, thinking sound. "Mmm… I… don't… purse…"
Shit. It was still on the passenger seat floor of his car. "Fuck me," he cursed under his breath. He set her down on the floor, propping her against her door. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding from the exertion and the residual shame of his own thoughts. He retrieved the purse and sprinted back up.
He found her exactly where he'd left her, but asleep this time, her head tipped back against the doorframe, her breathing deep and even. A soft snore escaped her lips. In sleep, the chaotic drama was erased. She just looked… young. Carter couldn't help it—a low chuckle escaped him. Cute. Annoying as hell, but cute.
He fished the keys from her purse and unlocked the door, shouldering it open before gathering her back into his arms. The sight that greeted him inside made him pause on the threshold.
Her apartment was a total disaster. Like, not just messy. It was insane. Clothes were everywhere. Mugs and plates covered the table. It looked like a storm had hit it.
He carried her to her bedroom and laid her down as gently as he could. She immediately curled onto her side. He found a first-aid kit in her bathroom, and kneeling by the bed, he carefully cleaned and bandaged her scraped knee. She stirred once, murmuring something incoherent, before falling back into a deep sleep. He pulled the blanket over her, which she immediately kicked off in a restless heap.
Shaking his head, Carter stood and his eyes wandered, taking in the room properly. His eyes landed on a cluster of framed photos on the wall. Pictures of a younger, smiling Lina. A birthday party. A graduation. And one in the center: a family portrait. A much younger Lina, maybe ten, stood smiling widely between a pleasant-looking, middle-aged couple.
Carter stared, leaning in. That was odd. Lina looked absolutely nothing like them. The man had a round, friendly face and thin hair; the woman was soft-featured with warm eyes. Lina, even as a child, her beauty was sharp, striking, elegant angles—high cheekbones, a defined jaw, eyes that seemed to hold a different, stormier light even as a teenager. She didn't just not look like them. She looked like a different species. The dissonance was jarring. She looked like she didn't belong there, the thought came, unbidden and unsettling. He dismissed it. She must take after her grandparents or something.
He was pulled from his thoughts when Lina mumbled in her sleep, turning over. He looked from her sleeping form to the chaotic, slightly shabby room. A new, more profound thought settled over him, heavy and guilt-laden. She doesn't belong here, either. Not in this messy little apartment, not scraping by. The feeling was visceral. She was too bright, too… much, for this. And he blamed himself. He was her boss. He paid her salary. This was the life his company afforded her.
The silent vow from the sidewalk hardened into a solidified mission. I'm going to change that. I'm going to get her out of this.
After making sure a glass of water and her phone were within reach on the nightstand, he took one last look at her, a strange protectiveness tightening his chest, and let himself out, locking the door quietly behind him.
---
Across the city, in a penthouse so pristine and silent it felt like a tomb, Daniel Viggo was not sleeping.
He sat in a leather chair in his dark study, the only light coming from a large monitor. On the screen, a grainy, black-and-white video played on a silent, punishing loop. It was a live feed, but he was trapped in the past twenty minutes. The camera, paid for and positioned with discreet efficiency, offered a perfect, soulless view of the street and the small lobby in Lina's building. It showed Carter carrying Lina through the main entrance and then, with visible effort, beginning the slow climb up the stairs.
Daniel's finger tapped a key, and the video played. Again. Carter's arms around her. Her head nestled trustingly against his shoulder as he carried her up the stairs.
Click. Rewind. Play.
Her head on his shoulder.
Click. Rewind. Play.
The lobby, empty and silent. Carter, not coming out.
He had watched this thirty-second clip on a loop for forty-five minutes. Every time, a fresh, corrosive wave of annoyance—no, fury—crested in his chest.
It's obvious, stupidly obvious. The way she'd clung to Carter on the street, seeking his comfort instead of the man who'd just saved her fucking life. The way Carter had inserted himself, apologizing for her. And now this. Carrying her home like a hero. Disappearing into her apartment. And he wasn't Fucking coming out.
A corrosive annoyance, hotter and sharper than anger, burned in his gut. The memory of her barging into his office, all defiant and bold, played again in his mind. That kind of gall had to come from somewhere. If she wasn't fucking the boss, where else would she have gotten the nerve? The connection was obvious. It explained his protection of her, her entitled attitude. It explained everything.
Daniel leaned back, but his posture was rigid. Restlessness was a live wire under his skin. He wasn't a man who wondered; he knew. But right now, he was wondering. And it was pissing him off.
What are they doing in there?
His mind, fueled by a possessive, irrational rage, began to spin wild. What the fuck was going on in there? He needed to know. Was he touching her? Their clothes were probably scattered on the floor right now.
The timestamp glowed: 10:23 PM.
He'd been in there for thirty-six minutes.
A corrosive heat, sharper than anger, more indigestible than rage, simmered in his veins. It was the same feeling he'd had watching Carter's hands on her arms outside the restaurant. A proprietary, irritating itch.
The images were vivid, torturous. He remembered eight years ago, the girl who had jumped in front of his car and pretended she was hit by him. The same face, though softer then. The same eyes, wide with fake fear. Lina. A liar. She'd always been dramatic. Always been trouble.
His original plan—collaborating with Aurum Scents to have her within reach of his corporate influence—was too slow, too distant. This… thing with Carter changed everything. It was intolerable. If she was fucking her boss, it gave her a shield. It made her vulnerable in a new way. The plan to slowly torment her from a distance felt suddenly insufficient.
Just as the tension in his shoulders felt ready to snap, Carter emerged from the lobby, alone. He glanced back up once, then walked to his car and drove away.
Daniel exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, a tension unwinding from his shoulders only to be replaced by a colder, more focused determination. He had collaborated with Aurum Scents for one reason: to have Lina within reach of his leverage. Now he needed to reel her in.
The game needed to change. He needed her close. By his side. Under his thumb, beneath him. That way, he could control the torment, direct it with precision. He could peel away whatever false security Carter provided. And if Carter Hayes, the would-be white knight, tried to get in his way? Tried to protect what Daniel had decided was his to break?
Let them have their little fantasy, he thought, the ice in his veins settling into a solid, unshakeable plan. Let him think he's protecting her. Lina was his to torment. And if anyone—especially Carter fucking Hayes—tried to interfere, Daniel wouldn't just ruin her. He'd crush them both. It was, he thought as he finally shut off the monitor, going to be fucking satisfying.