That evening, Ethan found Lena still in the office, apparently finishing reports. He closed the door behind him, cutting off her escape.
"You're upset," she said, looking at him warily.
"Yes," he admitted, stepping closer. "And it's not because of her—it's because I can't stand anyone else having your attention."
Her eyes widened, and for a second, she was silent. Then she smirked. "Noted. And yet, here you are, confronting me in the dark like some dramatic billionaire villain."
Ethan laughed softly, a low, dangerous sound. "Maybe I am."
Her hand brushed against his, just slightly, and the air between them ignited. "Careful," she whispered. "I might bite."
He leaned in closer, voice low and husky. "I'd like that."
Before anything could happen, a knock at the door startled them. Lena smirked, moving away—but Ethan's chest ached with frustration. Desire was now a constant, unbearable ache, and every encounter with her made it worse.