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The mention of Catherine's name is deliberate—a reminder of past wounds, past failures. I resist the bait.
"Whatever game you're playing, leave my team out of it." I gather my papers with deliberate calm. "This is between you and me."
"On the contrary," Grant says, dropping all pretense now that we're alone. "Your team is precisely the point. Particularly Ms. Monroe, who I suspect is far more than just a Creative Director to you."
I meet his gaze directly. "Tread carefully, Maxwell. You're making accusations without evidence, based on nothing but your own twisted perception."
"Am I?" He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. "Then you won't mind if I offer her a position at Grant Industries. Creative freedom. Double her current salary. VP of Creative Direction."
The offer is outrageous—deliberately so. Not because he actually wants her talent, but because he wants to prove his point: that I care too much about her decision.
"Ms. Monroe is free to consider any offer she receives," I say with a calm I don't feel. "Though I doubt she'd be interested in working for someone with your reputation."
"We'll see." Grant's smile turns predatory. "Sometimes a fresh start is exactly what a talented person needs. Especially when their current situation becomes... complicated."
He leaves me standing alone in the boardroom, the implied threat hanging in the air. Grant isn't just after Cassie's talent—he's after proof of our relationship, proof he can use to undermine me with the board, with shareholders, with the industry at large.
And he's willing to use Cassie as a pawn to get it.
I return to my office, instructing Zara to hold all calls. Once alone, I allow myself a moment of pure, uncensored frustration—slamming my hand on my desk with enough force to send a stack of reports sliding to the floor.
This was precisely what I feared. Grant using Cassie to get to me. Using our relationship—whatever it is—as leverage.
And the worst part? I can't even warn her properly without admitting how much her decision matters to me. Without revealing that somewhere between that first accidental text and this morning, she's become more than an arrangement. More than a convenient distraction.
She's become something I'm terrified to lose.
I straighten my tie, pick up the scattered reports, and attempt to focus on the afternoon's meetings. But my mind keeps circling back to the same troubling questions:
What will Grant offer Cassie tomorrow?
What will he tell her about me, about our history?
And most importantly—what will she believe?
Because despite my carefully constructed walls, despite the "arrangement" we agreed to, despite every professional boundary we've established—the thought of Cassie walking away feels like losing something essential. Something I never intended to risk in the first place.
My heart.
14
CASSIE
There's a special kind of dread that comes with breakfast meetings. It's not just the ungodly hour or the pressure to be witty before caffeine—it's the forced intimacy of sharing the first meal of the day with someone while maintaining professional boundaries. Especially when that someone is your boss's archnemesis who's clearly trying to poach you.
The restaurant Maxwell Grant chose is so trendy it doesn't have a sign, just a small blue door between a high-end florist and an artisanal cheese shop. Inside, it's all exposed brick, hanging plants, and people who look like they've never experienced bedhead. The kind of place where a cup of coffee costs more than my favorite bottle of wine and comes with a lecture about its origin story.
I'm ten minutes early—a habit my mother drilled into me that even years of therapy couldn't undo—but Maxwell Grant is already there, commandeering a corner table like it's his personal boardroom. He rises when he sees me, all practiced charm and expensive tailoring.
"Ms. Monroe," he says, extending his hand. "Thank you for making time this morning."
His handshake is firm but not aggressive—calculated, like everything else about him. Perfect grip pressure. Two pumps exactly. A man who's studied the art of making people feel valued without giving away any actual power.
"Mr. Grant," I reply, sliding into the chair across from him. "Hard to refuse such an intriguing invitation."
"Maxwell, please," he insists with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I think we can dispense with formalities, don't you?"
"Then it's Cassie," I say, picking up the menu to avoid his too-keen gaze.