Ashley's POV
If tension had a taste, the air in my office would've been drowning in it.
For the third time that morning, I caught myself staring at the door, half-hoping, half-dreading he'd walk in. Alan Jean. The man I was supposed to share power with. The man I was supposed to despise.
The man who'd seen me naked under candlelight.
I hated that my pulse still reacted to his name, that the memory of his mouth, his touch, his voice — still lived beneath my skin like a secret I couldn't wash off.
I'd promised myself I wouldn't think about that night. But promises meant nothing the moment he stepped into my office.
He didn't knock — just pushed the door open and filled the space with that energy that always felt too much. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
"Busy?" His voice was smooth, almost polite, but his eyes didn't match. They burned — not with anger exactly, but something worse.
"Ashley."
The sound of my name, ripped from his throat with a raw, undeniable edge, stopped me dead. My entire body locked up, rigid with panic. I couldn't move, couldn't turn around, couldn't breathe.
He didn't need to ask for my attention. His presence was a physical force, pulling the air around us taut.
He closed the door behind him. Slowly. Deliberately. The soft click made my stomach twist.
"Yeah," he said. "We do." He leaned against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms like he owned the room. "But I think there's something else we should probably talk about first."
I looked back at the document on my screen. "If this is about the merger—"
"It's not."
My fingers froze on the keyboard.
"Then what is it about?"
He let out a low breath — one that sounded too much like frustration. "You really don't want to talk about that night, do you?"
I turned to face him. "Alan, drop it."
"Drop it?" His laugh was sharp, almost bitter. "I've tried. Believe me, I've tried. But I can't. I can't stop thinking about you."
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
He pushed off the desk, taking a step closer. "You really want to pretend it didn't happen? Pretend that night didn't change anything?"
"Alan—"
"Don't 'Alan' me." His voice deepened, rougher now, scraping at the calm I'd built. "You really don't want to talk about that night? Well, sorry, but we have to. Because I haven't stopped thinking about you ever since."
He moved closer again, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. My throat went dry.
"Tell me," he said, eyes locked on mine, "you don't miss our lips intertwined. Tell me you don't remember the way I grabbed your waist and pulled you in while you tugged on my hair."
"Alan—"
"Tell me you don't miss it," he pressed, voice lower, angrier now. "Tell me you don't remember whispering my name into my ear that night."
The words hit me like a slow burn. My face flushed hot.
"Stop," I whispered, but it came out softer than I meant it to.
"Stop?" He tilted his head, eyes searching my face like he could read every lie I was trying to build. "Because it's driving me insane. Every time I close my eyes, I see you. Every damn time."
My breath caught. For a moment, neither of us moved.
He was close enough that I could see the tiny scar on his jaw, the one I hadn't noticed that night. His tie hung loose, sleeves rolled up, like he'd stopped pretending to care about professionalism the second he saw me.
"Alan," I said quietly, "we can't do this."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then stop."
He shook his head slowly. "You're asking the wrong man to stop wanting you."
That shouldn't have made my knees weak. But it did.
I stood, stepping away from the desk, needing distance — but he mirrored me, closing the gap before I could breathe.
"Tell me you don't feel it," he murmured. "Right now. Tell me this—" he gestured between us, "—isn't killing you too."
I opened my mouth, but no sound came.
Because he was right.
It was killing me.
"You truly don't want to talk about that night?" Alan asked, his voice low, shaking with the intensity of his suppressed fury. "Too bad, because I haven't stopped thinking about you since that night."
"There is nothing to talk about, Mr. Jean. It was a mistake. An anonymous encounter under duress. I was wearing a mask, and I didn't know who you were."
"And that makes it a clean slate?" Alan's voice rose, laced with bitter disbelief. He pushed off the wall and took another step, trapping me with his heat and his presence. "You think a piece of lace negates the kind of connection that set us both on fire?"
He planted one hand beside my head, his fingers splayed against the cold marble. He was so close I could feel the ragged cadence of his breath.
"Tell me your memory is blank when our lips intertwined, Ashley," he challenged, his voice dropping to a seductive, dangerous whisper. "Tell me you don't remember the moment I grabbed your waist, pulling you in while your hands gripped my hair."
The memory hit me with sickening clarity—the desperation, the raw, mutual need, the way I had clawed at his neck, pulling him down, needing more. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to block out the image, desperate to hold onto the lie that it was all a faceless blur.
"Stop," I whispered, the word strangled.
He ignored the plea, leaning closer, pressing the attack with the ruthless precision of a predator.
"Tell me you don't recall placing your hands over mine, urging me to hold you tighter, whispering Alan softly into my ears that night," he insisted, his voice a low, furious growl. "Tell me you do not miss my hands on your skin, because you kept guiding them back to you."
The last part was an absolute, undeniable truth. I had. I had needed his touch, needed his presence, needed the validation of his desire that Richard had so cruelly denied me. The shame, the confusion, and the undeniable longing warred inside me, leaving me breathless and weak.
When I opened my eyes, the mask was gone. He could see the wreckage on my face.
"I didn't know it was you," I said, the truth finally breaking free, tasting like ash. "I would never have…"
"You would never have betrayed your father? Your legacy?" Alan finished, a cruel satisfaction flashing in his eyes. He leaned back slightly, giving me just enough air to realize I was still trapped. "That night was reckless, yes. But it was also the only honest thing either of us has done in years."
He stepped away, his control snapping back into place, cold and calculating. He smoothed the sleeve of his suit, adjusting the A.J. cufflink that had signed my death warrant.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth."
I blinked, heart racing. "You want the truth? Fine."
I met his eyes, forcing the words out. "Yes. I think about it too. About you. About that night. But it can't happen again."
Something flickered behind his gaze — relief, maybe, or something darker.
"Can't," he echoed. "Or won't?"
"Both."
The silence that followed stretched so tight it almost hurt.
For a moment, he just stared at me, jaw tight, breathing uneven. Then he nodded slowly, backing away.
"Okay," he said, voice quieter now. "You win."
But there was nothing victorious in his tone.
He reached for the door, paused — then turned back. "You can bury it, Ashley. Pretend it never happened. But I can't."
My heart stuttered.
"Because every time I see you," he added, "I remember exactly how you tasted when you stopped pretending you were perfect."
The door clicked shut behind him before I could breathe again.
I sank into my chair, pulse racing so fast it felt like it might break through my ribs.
My reflection in the glass wall looked composed, calm — but inside, everything was on fire.
Because he was right.
Every look. Every memory. Every part of me that wanted to hate him only ended up wanting him more.
And the worst part?
This was just the beginning.
Because tomorrow, we had another meeting. Another project. Another excuse to be in the same room again.
And I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending that night didn't still live between us — breathing, burning, waiting.