Chapter Eleven
Renata
Wait!
This can't be right.
Is my mind playing tricks on me? I must be hallucinating. A frustrated huff escapes my lips. Seriously, how am I still fixated on the same person who drove me to ecstasy—not once, but ten times—over the span of three hours?
Yes, I'm keeping track.
With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes and force them open again, willing the fantasy to disappear. But when I look, the piercing green eyes are no longer on me. He strides further into the room, scanning the crowd with an unsettling gaze that exudes cold detachment.
I can't help but instinctively straighten my posture, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles on my dress. My hand reaches up to fix my hair, but I quickly notice that I'm not the only one on edge.
Almost every other woman in the room is doing the same—fidgeting with their clothes, tucking their lower lips between their teeth, and sharing nervous giggles behind their hands. My hand hovers for a moment, caught in the tension, before it drops to my side with a soft thud.
My gaze follows the mesmerizing movement of the man with the green eyes as he glides to the table, where a chair is promptly pulled out for him. He slips into it effortlessly, offering a curt nod as if he's accustomed to such reverence. A chorus of sighs ripples through the room, and I can't help but feel the weight of their collective admiration.
Even the blind would perceive his allure.
He cuts a striking figure in a tailored black three-piece suit that screams sophistication, the kind of outfit that probably costs more than Renata's monthly rent. The red cravat adds a dash of boldness to his look, framing a face that can bring even the most legendary of gods to their knees. His physique is sculpted, rivaling the finest male models, and I see why everyone is entranced.
Suddenly, a hand clutches my arm, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance down to find Blondie's exasperated expression locked onto mine, her grip tightening.
"He said we should sit," she insists, her voice strained. As she uncoils her fingers, she gestures toward an empty chair beside her I had been oblivious to.
Looking around, I'm taken aback to see that the rest of the room has already settled. They're staring at me with wide eyes, as if I'm some kind of spectacle in their own private circus.
Shit.
I had completely zoned out, lost in those mesmerizing green eyes. When I finally look back, he's already staring at me, a brow arched high as if he can't decide whether to be angry or amused. The faintest curve of his lips hints at mischief, and my heart races despite the chaotic swirl of thoughts in my head.
Murmurs spread through the crowd, pulling me back to reality. I fumble into my chair, smoothing down the impeccably pressed fabric of my dress, desperate to regain my composure.
But thank goodness, his gaze has shifted away from me.
Now, he's focused on the file in front of him. The tension radiating from him is palpable—his forehead creased with a prominent vein, and his jaw locked tight.
Whatever is in that file has clearly put him in a foul mood.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he pulls out a pencil from the inside of his jacket, jotting down notes with a determined intensity. The sound of the pencil on paper punctuates the silence, and I can't help but feel the weight of the moment. He's engrossed, oblivious to the impatient crowd waiting for his attention, as if he's gearing up for the most important exam of his life.
He clears his throat suddenly, slicing through the tense air with a scowl that can
rival any storm. Even with that fierce expression, I can't help but think he's the most breathtaking man I've ever laid eyes on. The crowd fidgets, whispers fluttering like anxious moths, and then—just like that—he speaks.
"This is a takeover," he declares, his voice smooth but laced with an edge. "And it will leave most of you out on the streets."
Gasps ripple through the room, turning murmurs into frantic exchanges of shock and despair. Eyes dart around, all filled with disbelief and fear.
"Silence!" His command is like a crack of thunder, and just like that, the room stills.
His gaze sweeps across us, intense and unyielding, daring anyone to break the hush.
"It's unfortunate," he continues, a hint of regret in his voice, though his eyes betray no mercy. "In situations like this, you can expect the worst." Every heart in the room beats faster, waiting for a hint of what comes next. "Rest assured, everyone will be compensated to tide you over until…"
And there, the air is thick with anticipation, a shared breath held as we cling to his every word.
"Tide us over?" The words slip from my lips before I have a chance to reconsider.
Silence falls like a thick blanket, and all eyes snap to me. I lift my chin defiantly, meeting the intense gaze of Green Eyes. It's clear he's not used to being interrupted—his irritation is palpable.
"You have something to say, Miss—"
"Renata," I interject, my tone cool and unwavering. You know my name all too well. After all, your hands, mouth, and, let's not forget, another part of you were very much involved with me until this morning.
There's a flicker in his gaze, a storm brewing beneath the surface. I can feel the weight of everyone's stares, but I refuse to look away. My focus is solely on him. "You can't seriously be considering firing everyone and tossing us into the streets just because you can. That's not leadership—that's tyranny."
I take a moment to steady myself, pushing back against the currents of anxiety threatening to rise. "Instead, you should consider offering a generous severance package that allows us the freedom to build our own futures, should we choose."
As I finish, the tension in the room thickens. I can almost hear the collective breath held in anticipation. Despite the unease, I remain steady, watching as a muscle in his jaw twitches, a sign of his barely contained fury.
Good. Let him feel it. He's going to have to deal with it.
"Miss. Renata," he says, his voice low but commanding as he leans back, casual yet utterly captivating. "Can you please come here?"
My heart races, and my mouth falls open slightly in shock. I glance around, and as I expected, all eyes in the room are on me. It feels like I'm the unwilling hero in some twisted tale, and I swallow hard against the sudden knot in my throat. His gaze, intense and unwavering, pins me in place like a spotlight.
With an eyebrow arched in unmistakable challenge, his green eyes remain locked onto mine. I can feel an unnameable force pulling me closer, and before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, my feet are moving. People who were once gathered around his table part like a wave, creating a path that leads straight to him.
I halt just a breath away, the air thick with tension, and let my gaze drop to meet his.
"Come closer, Miss Renata. I promise I won't bite."
His voice is a low purr, smooth as silk and just as dangerous. The meaning behind his words is clear: unless you want me to.
My heart stumbles, then sprints like it's training for a damn marathon. Butterflies—stupid, reckless things—flutter to life in my stomach, completely ignoring every logical reason not to. If I could rip them out and shut them up, I would. Hannibal Lecter-style.
Around us, whispers ripple through the air, but they're distant, muted. I'm too busy trying not to implode. Backing out isn't an option—I've already come this far. So I take a step closer. Then another.
He doesn't look at me. Just taps the eraser-end of his pencil against the folder in front of him with maddening precision. "Look at the figures and tell me what you see."
I tear my gaze away from his, ignoring how it feels like trying to escape gravity itself. Focus. Numbers. I can do this.
At first, the page is nothing but noise—rows of meaningless digits swimming before my eyes. But slowly, they start to align. Form patterns. Paint a picture.
And that's when it hits me.
The numbers don't lie.
CloudFusion is sinking. Fast.
A soft gasp escapes me before I can stop it.
He hears.
"Ah. I see it's finally clicked."
The warmth in his voice is gone—replaced by something sharper, colder. It cracks through the air like a whip, slicing through the stunned silence in the room.
I straighten on instinct, spine stiff, composure snapping back into place like armor. I need to get back to my seat. Regroup. Breathe.
But I don't make it far.
His hand wraps around my wrist—firm, deliberate. I freeze.
"Not so fast."
He turns to the others, face a mask of easy charm, voice laced with something darker. "Since Miss Renata here so graciously volunteered herself as our example, I think it's only fair I start with her. Don't you agree?"
The words should embarrass me. Humiliate me.
Instead, I'm too busy staring at his hand—large, warm, possessive—and remembering exactly what those fingers did to me yesterday. The way they moved. The way they commanded.
The way I let them.
Shame doesn't burn through me. Desire does.
And that's when I realize I'm way over my head.
"Miss Renata Voclain."
The voice slices through the air behind me, cool and commanding.
Just like that, the spell shatters.
I spin around, pulse kicking hard—and come face-to-face with her.
She stands there like a shadow carved from vengeance and velvet, all sharp edges and cold fire. The kind of woman who doesn't walk into a room—she claims it.
And judging by the look in her eyes, she's here to collect.