Larissa's POV
The Marketing Director launched into her opening remarks, but I barely heard a word. Every cell in my body was hyperaware of Carson Gary sitting at the head of the table, his presence filling the room like electricity before a storm.
I forced myself to focus on my notes, the familiar bullet points a lifeline in the chaos of my thoughts. Social media engagement strategies. Target demographic analysis. ROI projections.
I could do this. I had to do this.
"Larissa will be presenting our consumer engagement analysis," the Marketing Director announced, and suddenly all eyes were on me.
Including his.
I stood on unsteady legs, grateful my voice didn't shake when I spoke. "Good morning. Over the past quarter, we've identified significant opportunities in our digital marketing approach."
I clicked to my first slide, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought had fled. The presentation I'd rehearsed dozens of times flowed from my lips with practiced confidence.
"Our current social media engagement rates are below industry standard," I continued, pulling up the comparison charts. "However, our analysis shows that targeted campaigns focusing on authentic brand storytelling could significantly increase engagement over the next two quarters."
From the corner of my eye, I caught Carson leaning forward slightly. His gray eyes were fixed on me with laser focus, making my skin flush with heat.
I pushed through the discomfort, diving into the data that had consumed my weekend. Consumer behavior patterns. Platform-specific strategies. Cost-benefit analyses.
"The key is authenticity," I explained, warming to my subject despite the intimidating audience. "Modern consumers can spot manufactured content immediately. They want real stories, genuine connections with brands that share their values."
Carson's expression remained unreadable, but he was listening intently. Taking notes, even.
"Our recommendation is a multi-faceted approach," I continued, clicking through my final slides. "User-generated content campaigns, influencer partnerships with micro-influencers rather than celebrities, and behind-the-scenes content that humanizes our brand."
I wrapped up with projected timelines and budget requirements, proud that my voice had remained steady throughout. The pterodactyls in my stomach had settled into regular butterflies.
"Thank you," I concluded, returning to my seat on shaking legs.
The Marketing Director moved on to Juliette's presentation about print advertising, but I could feel Carson's gaze still burning into me. Every time I glanced his way, those steel-gray eyes were studying me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
The presentations continued. Libby discussed radio campaigns. Estelle covered event marketing. All competent, professional, exactly what they should be.
But Carson's attention kept drifting back to me.
When the Marketing Director opened the floor for questions, I braced myself. This was where everything could fall apart.
"Ms. Cornelia," Carson's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Your consumer authenticity metrics. How do you plan to measure genuine engagement versus superficial interaction?"
The question was fair, technical. I could handle technical.
"Great question, Mr. Gary. We'd implement a weighted scoring system that factors in comment quality, share-to-impression ratios, and time spent engaging with content rather than just likes or follower counts."
"And the ROI timeline?"
"Conservative estimates show positive returns early on, with significant growth within the first half of the year. However, authentic engagement builds slowly but has better long-term retention than traditional advertising pushes."
He nodded slowly, making another note. "Interesting approach."
The meeting continued for a while longer, but I felt like I was floating outside my body. When the Marketing Director finally thanked everyone for their time, I started gathering my materials with shaking hands.
"Excellent work, everyone," Carson said, standing from his chair. "Ms. Cornelia, particularly impressive analysis on consumer behavior trends. Innovative thinking."
My laptop nearly slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers. He was praising me. Publicly. In front of my colleagues and supervisor.
"Thank you, Mr. Gary," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
The Marketing Director was beaming. Libby shot me a thumbs up. Estelle looked stunned.
I needed to get out of here. Now. Before I said something stupid or, worse, before he recognized me as the crying woman from the other night.
I headed for the door with my colleagues, keeping my eyes down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
"Ms. Cornelia."
I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs as I turned slowly.
Carson was still seated, but his attention was entirely focused on me. "A moment, please."
The conference room emptied around us. The Marketing Director gave me an encouraging smile as she left. Libby's expression was pure envy. Then we were alone.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken recognition. He knew. Of course he knew.
"The other night," he said finally, his voice quiet.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I should thank you. For driving me home. You didn't have to—"
"Are you all right?"
The question was so unexpected, so gentle, that it nearly undid me. I had prepared for professional awkwardness, maybe some pointed questions about my personal life affecting my work. I hadn't prepared for kindness.
"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Completely professional. That night won't affect my work performance in any way, Mr. Gary. I understand the boundaries between personal and professional—"
"Stop."
I stopped.
Carson studied me for a long moment, those gray eyes seeing far too much. "I'm not concerned about your professional performance. Your presentation was excellent. I'm asking how you are."
The simple human concern in his voice nearly broke me. After days of Wesley's manipulative texts and Rachel's smugness, basic decency felt like a revelation.
"Better," I said honestly. "It's been a difficult few days, but I'm managing."
"Good." He stood from his chair, his full height making the spacious conference room feel suddenly small. "I'd like to continue this conversation in my office."
My pulse spiked. "Your office?"
"Top floor. Come up shortly."
It wasn't a request.
I nodded mutely, watching as he gathered his materials with efficient movements. He paused at the door, turning back to look at me.
"Ms. Cornelia? This is important."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the conference room with my racing heart and a dozen unanswered questions.
A short while later, I stood outside Carson Gary's corner office on the executive floor. The executive floor was a study in understated luxury—marble floors, original artwork, and windows that offered breathtaking views of the city below.
A woman with an impossibly tight bun looked up from her desk. "Ms. Cornelia? Mr. Gary is expecting you."
She gestured toward the heavy oak doors, and I walked through them on unsteady legs.
Carson's office was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around two walls, offering a panoramic view that made me dizzy. His desk was the size of my kitchen table, carved from dark wood that probably cost more than my yearly salary.
He was standing with his back to me, silhouetted against the city skyline.
"Sit," he said without turning around.
I perched on the edge of one of the leather chairs facing his desk, my hands clasped tightly in my lap.
Carson turned slowly, his gray eyes unreadable. He moved to his desk but didn't sit, instead leaning against it with casual authority.
"Your presentation today was exceptional," he began, his voice carrying that same quiet command that had drawn me in the other night. "Innovative. Thorough. Exactly the kind of forward thinking this company needs."
"Thank you, sir."
"You're wasted in junior marketing."
I blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Your analysis showed strategic thinking beyond your current position. You see patterns others miss."
I had no idea how to respond to that.
Carson studied me for another long moment, and I fought the urge to squirm under his intense scrutiny.
"How are you doing, Larissa?" he asked suddenly, using my first name for the first time.
The shift from professional to personal made my breath catch. "I told you, I'm fine."
"Your boyfriend. The one who was cheating."
My cheeks burned. "That's over."
"Good. He was an idiot."
The blunt assessment startled a small laugh out of me. "You don't even know him."
"I know enough." Carson's eyes darkened. "Any man who would betray your trust isn't worth your tears."
There was something in his voice, something protective and fierce that made my pulse race. The same tone he'd used with the drunk men the other night.
"Mr. Gary, I appreciate your concern, but—"
"I have a proposition for you."
I fell silent, waiting.
Carson pushed off from his desk, moving closer until he was standing directly in front of my chair. The space between us crackled with tension.
"I need a wife," he said calmly, as if he were discussing quarterly earnings. "And you're going to marry me."