We spent most of the evening buried in boxes. The apartment looked smaller than it had in the morning, cardboard stacked like tiny walls everywhere. The air smelled of dust and the cheap wine we'd opened to celebrate, and there was a faint hum from the city outside—just enough to remind us that the world hadn't stopped for us, even if it felt like it had.
Clara was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair falling loose as she tried to free a pan wedged between two books."Why does every box say Miscellaneous?" she said.
"Because I'm an optimist," I answered, lowering myself beside her. "I keep thinking the next one will make sense."
"This place is a disaster zone," Clara groaned, nudging a tower of cardboard with her foot. "I have no idea where we put the coffee maker."
Moonlight flooded the empty living room of our new apartment. It was big, it was ours, and it was currently a maze of boxes. After months in that shoebox studio, the space felt like a luxury.
I came up behind her, slipping my arms around her waist. "Who needs coffee?" I mumbled into her neck, planting a kiss right below her ear. She smelled like jasmine and cardboard. "I'm wide awake."
She laughed, leaned her shoulder into mine. "It's a miracle we ever get anything done."
"We got this place, didn't we?"
"That was mostly you," she said, voice softening.
I turned toward her. "Mostly us."
She leaned back into me with a soft sigh. "You're also a human furnace. And you're distracting the foreman."
"I'm the foreman," I said, turning her in my arms. "And my number one priority is employee morale." I kissed her, slow and deep, until she melted against me, her fingers curling into the fabric of my t-shirt.
We went back to unpacking, but the mood had shifted. It became a game. Every time I passed her, I'd steal a kiss. When she bent over to open a box, my hand would find the small of her back. The air crackled, the unspoken thing between us getting louder with every shared glance.
I found the box labeled "BEDROOM – SHEETS & IMPORTANT STUFF" and grinned. "This one's critical."
She looked at me, a flush creeping up her neck. "Is it now?"
"Essential for structural integrity," I said, my voice dropping. I held out my hand. She took it, her grip firm, and let me lead her to the bedroom.
Our new bed was just a bare mattress in the middle of the floor. As soon as the door clicked shut behind us, the playful tension snapped.
I backed her against the nearest wall, caging her in with my arms. Her eyes were dark, her breath already coming in little pants.
"Still think we're a miracle?" she asked.
"Every damn day."
Her fingers touched my jaw,
"Ethan," she whispered, and it was a plea.
That was all it took. My mouth crashed down on hers. This wasn't like the gentle kisses in the living room. This was hungry. This was months of fear, of almost losing each other, exploding into a single, desperate moment.
My hands were everywhere. Under her shirt, skating up her ribs, making her gasp against my mouth. Her fingers fumbled with the button of my jeans. "Need you," she breathed, the words hot against my skin. "Now."
We didn't make it to the bed. Clothes hit the floor in a frantic rush. I sank to my knees right there, on the scratchy new carpet, and worshipped her with my mouth until her cries echoed off the bare walls and her hands were fisted in my hair.
Before she could even recover, I stood, lifting her easily and pressing her back against the wall. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her eyes locked on mine.
"Look at me," I commanded, my voice rough. "I want you to see me when you come."
I pushed into her in one smooth, deep stroke. Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, a broken moan tearing from her throat. It was raw, and messy, and perfect. Every thrust was a promise. I'm here. This is real. You're mine.
We moved together in a frantic, perfect rhythm, the only sounds our ragged breathing and the creak of the wall. When her climax hit, she buried her face in my neck to muffle her scream, her body trembling around me. The feel of her coming undone shattered my own control, and I followed her over the edge, my own release a groan of her name into her skin.
We slid down the wall to the floor, a tangled, breathless heap of limbs on the carpet.
Clara traced the line of my jaw, her touch feather-light. "So," she said, her voice hoarse. "The foreman's inspection... up to code?"
I caught her hand and kissed her palm. "We might need a follow-up inspection later. Just to be sure." And the night went on...
The smell of coffee was what finally dragged me out of a deep, satiated sleep. Morning light, softer now, still streamed into the bedroom. I was alone on the mattress, but the scent led me like a trail.
I found her in the kitchen, which was marginally less chaotic than the day before. She'd found the coffee maker and two mugs. She was wearing one of my old t-shirts, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, and nothing else. The sight of her like that, bathed in morning light in our kitchen, hit me with a force stronger than any punch.
"There he is," she said, a slow, smug smile spreading across her face. She handed me a mug. "Sleep well?"
I took the coffee, set it down on the counter untouched, and pulled her into my arms. "Like the dead," I murmured against her lips before kissing her good morning. It was slow and lingering, tasting of coffee and Clara. "You, on the other hand, look wide awake."
She laughed, a light, giddy sound. "Someone wore me out. I've been up for an hour just trying to remember my own name."
"It's Clara," I said, my hands sliding down to her hips. "Mrs. Vale. And you're all mine."
A delicious blush colored her cheeks. We stood there for a long moment, just holding each other in the quiet.
"Okay, Mr. Vale," she said, finally pulling back and patting my chest. "As much as I'd love to spend the day re-inspecting the carpet, you have a company to run. Go get dressed. I'll even help you with your tie."
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dressed in a crisp, dark suit. Clara leaned against the doorframe, watching me with an appreciative glint in her eye.
"You know," she said, pushing off the frame and coming to stand in front of me. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of this view."
I handed her the silk tie. Her fingers were sure and steady as she looped it around my collar. The domestic intimacy of the act, her standing on her toes, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration, was more arousing than any seduction.
"There," she said, smoothing the knot against my chest. Her hands didn't leave. They slid up, over my shoulders, and her gaze met mine in the mirror. "Go be brilliant. Try not to miss me too much."
I turned around and caught her wrists, pulling her close. "Impossible," I stated, kissing her once, hard and promising. "I'll be counting the minutes until I can come back to this."
The Harlow Logistics conference room smelled of expensive coffee, polished wood, and pure, unadulterated tension. I stood at the head of the table, adjusting the cuffs of my shirt—the same ones Clara had fumbled with this morning, her fingers tracing the veins on my wrists. That memory was my anchor. My armor.
The door swung open. And there they were.
Arthur Vale. My father. His hair was more silver than I remembered, but his eyes were the same chips of glacial ice, sweeping the room as if he owned it. And trailing him, my stepbrother, Julian. The golden child, the rightful heir, looking smug in a suit that probably cost more than my first car.
For a heartbeat, the world tilted. The scent of my father's cologne—that same oppressive, sandalwood-and-power blend—threatened to pull me back into a past I'd burned to the ground. I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, followed by a wave of cold disdain. Julian's smirk widened. They thought they were walking into a slaughter.
The client, Mr. Rossi, a stout Italian man with a sharp gaze, broke the silence. "Gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I believe in… healthy competition. You both want my company's overseas distribution. You will each have one hour. Vale Logistics, you may begin."
Julian stood up, all polished smiles and slick PowerPoint slides. He talked about legacy, about the Vale name, about their "unparalleled global reach." It was a performance designed for a boardroom of dinosaurs who cared more about pedigree than profit. I watched Mr. Rossi's eyes glaze over slightly. He was a shark, not a socialite.
Then it was my turn. I didn't stand. I simply leaned forward, my hands flat on the table.
"Legacy is a heavy anchor, Mr. Rossi," I began, my voice calm, cutting through the corporate haze. "It slows you down. My proposal isn't about where we've been. It's about where you're going." I pushed a single sheet of paper across the table. "That's a live feed of your current shipment from Shanghai. It's sitting in a Vale-contracted port, delayed by 48 hours due to… bureaucratic inertia."
My father's jaw tightened. Julian's smile vanished.
I continued, my eyes locked on Rossi. "My team at Harlow built a digital twin of your entire supply chain. We found three bottlenecks Vale's 'legacy' system created. We've already written the patch. With us, that shipment would have cleared customs in six hours. Not forty-eight." I tapped my tablet, and a new, streamlined route animated on the screen. "We don't just move your boxes, Mr. Rossi. We move your bottom line."
The room was silent. You could hear a pin drop.
Rossi leaned forward, a glint of real interest in his eyes. "Go on."
For the next forty-five minutes, I dismantled my family's empire piece by piece, not with anger, but with cold, hard, undeniable facts. I spoke their language—the language of efficiency, technology, and money. I didn't just present a proposal; I performed an autopsy on theirs, and Mr. Rossi was captivated.
When I finished, Rossi didn't even look at my father. He looked at me. "Impressive, Mr. Vale. Truly."
As the meeting broke, my father and Julian lingered, a storm cloud in the corner. I made a point of walking over. The temptation to simply walk out was strong, but Clara's giddy smile from this morning flashed in my mind. I had earned this.
"Arthur," I nodded, my tone deliberately casual. "Julian. I trust the presentation was… enlightening."
Julian couldn't help himself. "You got lucky, Ethan. Playing with models and computers. This is a real business, not a coding simulator."
I gave him a slow, cold smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like your 'real business' just lost a multi-million dollar account to a coder with a stolen client list." I turned my gaze to my father, who was watching me with a look of pure, undiluted fury. "You taught me that business is war, Father. You just never expected me to be a better general."
I took a step closer, lowering my voice so only they could hear. "That delay in Shanghai? It wasn't luck, Julian. It was a vulnerability I found in your system in under ten minutes. I could have fixed it for you. But why would I? It was more valuable as a demonstration." I let that hang in the air, watching the color drain from my stepbrother's face.
I straightened my tie—the one Clara had tied for me. "Now, if you'll excuse me," I said, my voice dripping with a quiet, victorious finality. "I have a company to run. And a wife to get home to. Something, I believe, you both know very little about."