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DOMINIC

I arrived late, but not enough to piss anyone off.

I was trying to make an entrance after hearing some very good news.

The offices at Raven & Rhodes were buzzing with energy.

Phones were ringing constantly. Assistants were darting between glass doors with a sense of urgency.

Vanessa met me at the elevator with a smile that was equal parts smug and victorious.

“Morning, Mr. Knight,” she said, her voice clipped and bright as she stepped directly into my path and handed me a cup of coffee.

“You seem pleased,” I replied, adjusting my cufflinks as I glanced past her to the chaos spilling out from the conference wing. I took the cup and nodded in the general direction I was headed as I said, “Walk with me.”

She angled her phone toward me, the screen already pulled up. “We went viral,” she said, and her eyes gleamed with triumph as she watched my face for a reaction.

The headline on the small screen showed a blurry image of me and Savannah leaving the investor lounge.

The article mentioned our strategic “affair,” a corporate power couple, and the merger made in branding heaven.

I scanned it quickly, catching the pull quotes.

Public sentiment was overwhelmingly positive.

For the first time in weeks, the press had something better to talk about than my asset acquisitions and offshore holdings.

“I take it the numbers are good,” I said, handing the phone back without breaking stride. We moved quickly toward the conference room where the group was probably waiting, and I couldn’t wait to hear their thoughts.

“Savannah’s ad campaign hit a record high overnight,” she said with a knowing nod. “Click-through rates are up, audience sentiment is trending, and engagement on our investor landing page and socials is through the roof.”

I grunted in approval and kept pace. “And your pitch?” I asked, keeping my tone level as we turned the corner and the open door came into view.

Vanessa didn’t hesitate. “We lean in—a full spread in Luxe Quarterly . We go with a clean editorial style that includes minimal text, featuring you and Savannah looking powerful and impossible to ignore. The public wants a first look. Let’s give it to them,” she said, already pulling up a sample layout on her tablet, which she’d been cradling under her arm.

Her finger started flicking, but I didn’t even pause to think.

“Let’s do it,” I said, nodding to a passing intern who nearly dropped a stack of folders. I almost snorted with laughter at the effect I had on women, but thought better of it. Savannah was right. I had to really rebrand my entire image, and that meant growing up and being more mature.

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed slightly as she studied my face. “That easy?” she asked, one brow lifting in mild surprise.

“Why not? You think I mind getting my picture taken with the most competent woman in this building?” I asked, pausing just long enough to hold her gaze.

“Competent?” she echoed, tilting her head as if testing the word on her tongue.

“Dangerously so,” I said, smirking as I brushed past her and headed for the conference room door.

Vanessa grinned like she’d just won a hand of poker and peeled off toward the PR bullpen. Her heels clicked a victorious beat behind her.

The truth was, I liked the excuse. A photoshoot meant I didn’t have to invent reasons to be near Savannah.

It gave me cover and room to work out whatever this was between us without letting it derail everything I’d built.

And maybe, just maybe, it would put her in a position where she had to let her guard down.

Cameras had a way of exposing things people didn’t normally mean to show.

I spent the rest of the day fielding calls from investors who were suddenly more enthusiastic than cautious.

I made two decisions on the R & D budget, signed off on a site migration for Knight Global, and forwarded a memo to legal about redrafting the executive messaging deck.

But every hour that passed, I found my thoughts drifting back to Savannah—not the kiss—not even the sex.

It was the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t watching. She looked like she wanted something she didn’t trust herself around at all. Like I was a temptation too strong for her to handle.

I saw her twice in the hallway before noon.

Once outside the break room, where she took a call with one hand wrapped tight around her upper arm.

And again near the elevators, tablet in hand, nodding along as someone pitched her something she clearly wasn’t buying.

She didn’t look at me either time, but her spine straightened the second she knew I was near.

At four, I stepped out of a branding recap meeting and found her heading my way. I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I crossed the hallway and met her halfway.

“We’re doing a shoot,” I told her, planting myself directly in her path before she could veer off.

Savannah blinked. “A what?” she asked, her brows pulling together in confusion as she adjusted the strap of her bag.

“It’s an editorial feature in Luxe Quarterly . Vanessa pitched the idea and I approved it. They want the two of us on camera,” I explained, watching her reaction as I delivered the news like a closing argument.

“And you just agreed?” she asked, folding her arms as her stance shifted slightly into a defensive but curious pose.

“Look, I know you’re not happy about things, but you have to admit just by looking at the numbers that came in this morning that it will work,” I said with a small shrug, keeping my voice even as I met her gaze.

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t step back. “So this is your idea of damage control?” she asked, and her words were edged with skepticism as she cocked her head.

“No. This is my idea of owning the story,” I replied, stepping just a little closer. She was positively magnetic to me. I couldn’t get enough of her.

She looked away, lips pressing into a tight line. When she glanced back up, the corner of her mouth twitched. “Fine. I’ll try to look like I actually enjoy your company.” Her voice was dry as she turned slightly toward the executive wing.

“If you’re not careful,” I said, lowering my voice just enough to make her pause, “people might start to believe it.”

Her expression didn’t change, but I watched the flush rise on her throat and up over her cheeks.

She shook her head and stepped around me, her heels clicking against the tile as she walked away.

The cameras were coming. Whatever she thought she was hiding—whatever she thought she could keep buried—I had a feeling the lens would catch it.

Less than forty minutes later, we were face-to-face again, this time with a photographer manhandling us into poses for the perfect shot.

We were ushered onto a minimalist set built inside the conference room, all white walls and directional lighting, the air faintly chilled from the overhead ventilation.

From the moment we stepped under the lights, I felt it—heat pooling just beneath the surface of my skin, tension that had nothing to do with the cameras.

The photographer barely gave us time to adjust. His instructions were curt, his expectations obvious.

We were posed in increasingly intimate ways—my hand gripping Savannah’s waist, her fingers laced with mine, our bodies aligned like we were a real couple.

She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t lean in either.

Her reaction was measured, her posture controlled, and her tone entirely professional.

And then the photographer said, “Act like you’re in love.” He waved his hand, smiled a large, toothy grin, and I didn’t think.

I leaned in and whispered in Savannah’s ear, “If I had you alone for five minutes, I’d have you spread over that conference table, begging loud enough for the whole floor to hear.”

She moaned. Not loud enough for the rest of the room to hear, but I heard it. It was soft, more breath than volume. But it was real. And it wrecked me.

I saw her eyes flicker closed for half a beat, her lips part slightly, and I knew we were one misstep away from crossing a line that had nothing to do with PR or optics. Her hand rose up to my chest and my eyes dipped to her lips, mouth watering as I thought of kissing her on camera.

“Now there’s the heat!” The photographer snapped through it, oblivious to our faking or pretending to be. But I was gone. No amount of artificial lighting or marketing strategy could take me out of that moment.

My hand stayed on her lower back, and her eyes locked on mine as she let her fingers wrap around the lapel of my coat.

“I’d let you,” she whispered, and my dick felt like the Eiffel Tower.

It was a good thing she was pressed so tightly against me or the whole room would’ve gotten a view of my trouser tent.

When the final shot was taken, Savannah stepped back and adjusted her blouse like nothing had happened.

I cleared my throat and gave a brief nod to the photographer, letting him know we were done here, then I nodded to Vanessa, who was occupied with her phone anyway.

We both turned to leave, but the warmth of the color of Savannah’s lips kept me hungry to taste them.

As we walked off set, her perfume lingered in the air between us. And it was almost impossible to hold my tongue when her arm brushed mine. The contact was enough to send another jolt straight to my gut.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. The vibration dulled the lingering heat of Savannah’s touch. I pulled it out as we hit the edge of the set, still half distracted by the scent of her perfume and the ache in my gut that hadn’t gone away since I’d whispered in her ear.

Graham: 4:32 PM: You need to get ahead of this leak now, or the board might pull out. I’ll explain in person.

I stared at the screen and felt frustration festering again. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a small thing. Graham wasn’t a drama queen by any means, but I hadn’t heard of any new leaks, and I didn’t know why someone was trying so hard to sabotage the merger.

And whatever it was—whoever was behind it—it had just become my top priority. As much as I wanted to let my body stay in a state of deep arousal and go home thinking about Savannah, I had to focus on something more important. I refused to let this merger fail.