Page 58 of For the Plot

She pauses. “But you want to.” The silence between us is immediate and thick.

“I want something,” I finally say. “I don’t know if it’s sex or… validation or comfort or just feelingwantedfor once, but it’s not nothing. It hasn’t been nothing since he said my name the first time. I’m just still reeling from the whole Shane thing and maybe you were right; I just need a rebound fling to move on. That’s all it is.”

“Skye,” she says softly. “I think maybe this is the first time since Shane that you’re feeling something. And that’s not a bad thing. But you need to make sure you know what you’re doing if you lettheselittle feelings turn intobigfeelings…”

My stomach flips. I’m not falling for the man, I barely know him, but there is something about the way he notices me, notices my effort and contributions. A secret little fling is one thing but wanting anything beyond that is when things could get really messy, especially with Archer.

“Even if it’s totally wrong?”

“There’s wrong. And then there’s complicated. And this?” she says. “This feels like complicated with a heartbeat.”

I close my eyes, pressing the cool water bottle to my temple. “I don’t know if I’m ready to feel anything.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “But don’t lie to yourself about what this is. Or who he is. Because you already know.”

We talk for another ten minutes, mostly her reminding me to hydrate and me promising not to accidentally climb Reece Blackwood like a tree in the break room. When we hang up, the apartment is quiet again. Too quiet.

I sit in the stillness, the soft hum of the refrigerator my only company. I tell myself I’m fine. That I’ll get over it. That tomorrow I’ll be polished and professional and indifferent.

But I remember the way he looked at me when I asked,Am I reading too much into this?

I remember the tension in his jaw. The heat in his silence.You didn’t imagine it.

He didn’t have to say it. But he did. And that’s the part I don’t know how to forget.

Chapter 12

Reece

Iarrive at the office earlier than usual, hoping the stillness will feel like discipline instead of consequence. But it doesn’t. The silence reminds me of last night.

It clings to the space between the glass walls and the concrete floors, echoing through the dim corridors. Her laugh isn’t here, but I can still hear it. Her scent—floral, subtle, warm—doesn’t linger, but I know exactly how it would’ve mixed with the late-night quiet. Her voice, low and teasing, whispers at the edges of my memory, reminding me of how close I came to undoing every boundary I’ve built.

I sit at my desk and open my laptop, but I don’t read the first email. My eyes keep drifting to the chair she occupied last night… barefoot, soft-eyed, calm and completely unaware of the way she’s folding herself into this world like she was meant to be here.

I’m not afraid of desire. I’ve known want. I’ve known loneliness. What I fear is the way she makes the air feel different. The way my restraint stretches thinner with every glance she gives me.

I fear the look in her eyes when she’s challenging me because it feels like she sees through all of the bullshit. All of the lies I’vetold myself and everyone else about wanting to live in solitude. As if she’s not afraid to see me for who I am beneath all of it.

Most people don’t look that closely. They see the empire and forget the man. But not her. Skye sees too much. And worse, she makes me want to be seen.

I shift back in my chair and reach for my coffee, but it’s cold. I don’t remember pouring it. I don’t remember anything between waking up this morning and sitting here trying to piece myself back together like the past twelve hours didn’t happen.

There’s a knock on the glass wall of my office.

Skye stands there, holding a folder. Her blouse is crisp. Her hair is pulled back. She looks composed. Normal. Unbothered. Like nothing ever happened.

I nod once, giving her permission to enter.

She steps inside, setting the folder gently on the desk between us. “Finalized version of the investor deck. I flagged two slides for review.”

“Thank you.”

Her gaze doesn’t linger. She doesn’t smile. She turns to leave without another word. And I let her. Because if I say something—if I let myself speak while she’s this close—I might not stop at words.

After she leaves, I open the folder and scan the slides, but the information barely registers. All I can focus on is the curve of her handwriting in the margin and the faint smudge where her thumb must’ve pressed against the paper. I run my finger over it like an obsessive stalker. I close my eyes, my jaw tightening as images of her flood my brain and her perfume burns into my nostrils.

This can’t go on like this.