Lina spent the whole damn afternoon staring at Carter. She couldn't help it. Every time she tried to look at her laptop screen, her eyes just… drifted. She watched the way he raked a hand through his hair when frustrated, every rustle of paper, every soft tap on his keyboard, her heart did this weird fluttery thing. He'd promoted her. After she'd practically given him a new piercing with her teeth. Wild.
When he finally stood to leave, he'd looked over at her.
"Ready? I'll drive you."
The offer made her stomach flip. "Oh, no, it's fine. I can get a cab."
"Don't be silly," he said, already grabbing his keys. "I don't mind."
The car ride was quiet, the city lights painting streaks of gold across his profile. When he pulled up to her building, he didn't just let her out. He put the car in park and turned to her. "From now on, I'll pick you up and drop you off."
The declaration was so absolute it stole the air from her lungs. This was too much. Way too fucking much. A promotion was crazy. A personalized office was a dream. But a personal chauffeur service from the CEO? That crossed a line she couldn't even see anymore.
"Carter," she began, forcing her voice to stay even. "Why… why are you being so incredibly nice to me?"
He didn't look away. His gaze held hers, the usual easy charm replaced by something more focused, more intense. "Because you're special to me, Lina," he said, the words simple and devastating in their clarity. "And special people get taken care of properly."
Special.
The word just exploded in her head. What the hell did that mean? Special employee? Special project? Her face burned. She mumbled a "thanks" that sounded like a choked squeak and practically fled the car. She didn't look back but could feel him watching her walk up the stairs. Her face was literally on fire.
Inside, she slumped against the wood, her heart hammering. Special. Treat you properly. The phrases chased each other in her mind. She was going to die. She needed to tell someone or she'd actually explode. Like spontaneously combust. She fumbled her phone and Facetimed Bella.
Bella's face filled the screen, her sharp eyes narrowing instantly before Lina could even say hello. "Whoa. Red alert. Why am I looking at a human tomato right now? What happened?"
"Is it that obvious?" Lina groaned, fanning her face.
"Honey, you're broadcasting on the 'I've just been struck by lightning' frequency. Spill it. Now."
Lina laughed, the sound shaky with adrenaline. "Let's meet at Pinnacle Bar. I'll tell you everything."
An hour later, Lina was sitting at a small table in the bar. She'd changed into a simple dress and arrived early, ordering their usual drinks—a spicy margarita for Bella, a vodka soda for herself—and paying upfront. She tapped her fingers, waiting, replaying Carter's words in her head.
Thirty minutes ticked by. Bella still wasn't there. A trickle of worry cut through the excitement. She called. Once, twice. On the third ring, Bella picked, her voice breathless. "Lina, I'm so sorry. Something urgent came up with a client. A client is having a full-on meltdown. I'm stuck."
"Oh," Lina said, the excitement draining out of her. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, just work shit. I'm so sorry. Raincheck? Tomorrow?"
"Ugh, fine," Lina sighed dramatically. "But you're buying."
"Deal. Now, send me a voice note. Narrate everything. I need to know what's turned my best friend into a walking tomato head."
Lina laughed, the tension easing slightly. After they hung up, she took a long fortifying gulp of her drink and started recording. The story poured out—the promotion, the empty office, Carter driving her home, his words. "Special, B. He said I was special. What does that even mean? Does he mean special like a talented employee, or special like… special special? I don't understand. My brain is broken. Send help." She sent the five-minute voice note, taking another sip of her drink.
One more sip.
Okay, one more.
Soon, the bottle was half-empty, and the world had taken on a soft, pleasant blur. The solemn vow of sobriety she'd made that morning felt like it belonged to another, more sensible person. The alcohol was warm and fuzzy, calming her nerves and making everything feel sparkly. She wasn't going to waste the drink she'd paid for. She stood, a little unsteady, and made her way to the restroom. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock helping for about three seconds. She patted her face, took a steadying breath, and pushed the door open.
And walked directly into a wall of immaculate, human—a wall of pure, icy anger.
Daniel Viggo stood blocking the hallway, blocking her path, his expression carving a sculpture of pure contempt from the dim light. Before she could make a sound, his hand shot out and locked around her arm. He yanked her fully out of the bathroom and spun her, pinning her against the wall, caging her in.
"You look happy," he hissed, his voice a low, venomous scrape against her ear. His face was inches from hers, his eyes black and fathomless in the low light. "Carter gives you a little promotion, a shiny new title, and you're out celebrating? You think this is a victory? You think you're safe now?"
Lina blinked up at him, her world pleasantly swimmy. His anger was a distant, rumbling thundercloud. She was too absorbed in the fascinating, harsh architecture of his face—the blade of his nose, the severe cut of his jaw. And his lips. Those moving temptations.
His grip tightened, a deliberate, painful pressure, making her wince. "You think his shadow is a safe place to hide?" he hissed, his breath cool against her cheek. "That you'll be protected?" He leaned closer, his cold, minty breath fanning her cheek. "Dream the fuck on, Lina."
He paused, waiting for a reaction—fear, tears, the response he was used to. But instead her gaze drifted over his shoulder, unfocused and curious. A silly smile touched her lips. She was in her own world. His fury, already a live wire, sparked hotter. Was she even listening? He moved to grip her chin, to force her attention back to him.
"Why are you always frowning?" she asked suddenly, her words slightly slurred. "It's like the whole world owes you money." Her head tilted. "You have a face like a stone. A very handsome stone."
Daniel went utterly still. Was that an insult? A compliment? Was this drunk idiot insulting him or hitting on him? The confusion pissed him off even more.
Then her eyes widened, like she'd just had the world's most brilliant idea. Her eyes, glassy with drink, locked onto his. She leaned in, whispering like it was a secret. "Hey… do you wanna marry me?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. His lips parted, his icy composure cracking for a single, stunned second. What the actual—
Before he could form a reply, her eyes went wide with horror. She shook her head so hard her ponytail whipped her flushed cheeks. "No! No, I don't want to marry a stone. That's silly." She pouted, looking genuinely disappointed in her own proposal.
The whiplash of it—the audacity, the absurdity—left him speechless. A stone? This delusional, drunken idiot had just called him a stone, proposed to him, and then rejected her own imaginary proposal in the span of three seconds.
"Do you have a death wish?" he snarled, his voice lethally quiet, the cold seeping back in to cover his confusion, to shatter her stupor.
But Lina was in her own world. It didn't work. Her gaze had drifted again, landing somewhere on his cheekbone. Before he could react, her hand came up and clumsily palmed his entire face, her fingers squishing his cheeks together. "So grumpy," she murmured, her thumb stroking his skin.
Rage, white-hot and blinding, consumed him. This was too much. That was it. He'd had enough. He raised his hand to wrench hers away, to finally make her understand the danger she was playing with.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
It was a clumsy, off-center press of her warm, wine-tasting mouth against his. It lasted less than two seconds.
For those two seconds, Daniel Viggo's mind went completely, utterly blank.
What. The. Fuck.
It was over before he could process it. She pulled back, looking like nothing happened.
The blankness in his head was suddenly filled with a single, white-hot wire of pure instinct. With a low growl that came from somewhere deep in his chest, his hand flew to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He pulled her back to him and reclaimed her lips.
This kiss was nothing like hers. It was not clumsy. It was punishment and possession, a deliberate act of claiming the moment, taking control. It was a kiss meant to punish and to prove a point. It was deep, ruthless, and shockingly hot.
When he finally released her, she gasped for air, her lips swollen, her face flooded with a crimson that reached the roots of her hair. The sight of her, visibly undone, sent a dark, triumphant thrill through him. A smirk, cruel and satisfied, touched his mouth.
"Don't start a fire," he breathed, his voice a rough whisper against her lips, "if you can't handle the smoke."
Lina's eyelids fluttered, heavy and slow. She looked utterly dazed. "Bad boy," she murmured, her voice sleepy and thick. "You're a bad, bad boy."
The smirk on Daniel's face widened, turning into a real, genuine, shocking smile he didn't even know was there. He'd won, and he was proud of himself. A strange, magnetic pull drew him in. He leaned down again, drawn to the flush on her skin, the parted lips he'd just claimed.
The sharp, shrill ring of his phone shattered the moment like a bullet through glass.
Goddammit. He jerked back, annoyance a sharp spike. He fished the fone from his pocket with one hand, his other still braced against the wall near her head. The screen glowed: Grandmother.
He answered, his voice clipped. "Yes."
His grandmother's voice was tight. "Daniel. Your father is back. Come to the mansion. Now."
A cold, familiar feeling settled in his stomach. "I have no interest in seeing him."
"This isn't about him. It's about you. I have something to tell you. Something important. Come home."
The command in her tone brooked no argument. "Fine. I'm on my way." He ended the call.
He looked back at the drunken, murmuring woman before him. She was whispering to her own palm now, utterly lost to her world. The reality of the last minute crashed over him, cold and clarifying. The sensation of her lips on his, the taste of her, the way her body felt against the wall pinned under him—it all rushed back. And with it came a violent, clarifying wave of disgust.
What the hell did I just do?
Why had he done it? Why had he kissed her back? Why had he wanted to do it again? The questions were grenades in his mind. He couldn't, wouldn't, admit even to himself that for a second there, he'd been totally fucking lost in it. That he'd enjoyed it.
So he twisted the feeling. He turned it into something ugly.
He didn't kiss her. He couldn't have enjoyed that. It was a moment of madness, a tactical error brought on by surprise and her infuriating, drunken provocation. He hated her. He was disgusted. Repulsed by her. She was exactly what he'd always known she was. Yes, that was it. She was trying to seduce her way up, and he'd almost fallen for it.
The coldness returned, sharper and more brittle than before, freezing the brief, unwanted wildfire in his veins. He looked at her with pure contempt.
He would have loved to stay and punish her properly for that little stunt, to erase the disturbing memory with something far less ambiguous than a kiss, to wipe the taste of her from his mouth with cruelty. But his grandmother was waiting.
Without a word, he pushed off the wall, straightened the lines of his jacket with a sharp tug, and turned on his heel. He left her there, slumped and mumbling in the empty hallway, the ghost of her kiss burning on his lips—a secret he'd never, ever tell.