Page 59 of For the Plot

I either need to draw a line or cross it, and I already know which one I’m not strong enough to enforce. But I can givemyself time. I can keep things polite. Distant. I can make sure no one else notices what’s already shifted between us.

That’s the first rule: control the narrative.

By the time noon hits, the day has buried me under meetings and strategy calls, which is exactly what I need. It’s easier to pretend when I’m performing, when I’m the version of myself who doesn’t feel anything except the weight of the next decision.

Skye keeps her distance. She doesn’t linger. She speaks when she needs to, and not a word more. She’s drawing a line, too. And somehow, that makes me want to cross it even more.

It’s late when the day finally ends. Most of the team has already gone home. I close out my laptop, gather my jacket, and step out of my office just as she’s collecting her bag.

“You’re staying late again,” I say.

She looks up, startled for half a second before her expression smooths into something neutral. “Just wrapping up.”

“I’ll have Michael bring the car around. Let me drop you.”

Her eyes flick to mine. “I’m good. I’ll just grab a ride.”

I arch a brow. “That wasn’t a question.”

Her lips part slightly with an exasperated sigh. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Her bag is still slung over one shoulder, her hand curled around her phone like she’s ready to throw it at my face. “Is this because of last night? Because you don’t have to do some weird, retroactive gentleman act.”

“No.” I keep my tone even, unaffected. “It’s late. I’d prefer you have a safe ride home.”

She shakes her head, scoffing under her breath. “I’m not your problem to worry about.”

I step in closer, lowering my voice. “You’re not a problem, Skye. It’s your attitude that makes things complicated.”

Her eyes flash. There it is. It’s been simmering all day. I saw it when she passed me in the hallway and barely looked up.Heard it in her clipped tone during the marketing call. Felt it in the way she lingered just a little too long in the break room, like she was daring me to say something. To touch her. To react.

I’ve been holding the line all fucking day and she has no idea how thin it is right now.

She exhales through her nose like she’s going to argue again, but then, surprisingly, she doesn’t. She brushes past me and gets into the elevator. The ride is silent, the air thick with tension. When we reach the lobby and the doors open, I gesture for her to go first.

“Evening, sir,” Michael says, holding the door open.

“Evening, Michael. We’ll be dropping Miss Rhodes off first tonight.”

“Thank you.” She smiles at Michael briefly before ducking into the back seat.

I follow, settling into the seat beside her as the door shuts and the street vanishes behind tinted glass. We don’t speak. We don’t move. The silence is immediate. And loaded.

She stares straight ahead, jaw tight, fingers flexing against the leather handle of her bag. Her skirt hitches slightly higher on her thigh than it did this morning, and her perfume lingers in the space between us.

Michael keeps his eyes on the road. As always. He doesn’t ask questions. He knows not to. Skye shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. The motion draws my attention down to the edge of her hemline again and her bare skin, pale against the dark interior. My gaze catches there for half a beat too long.

She notices. Of course she does.

“Why do you like playing this game?” she asks, not turning to face me. Her voice is quiet, but firm.

I glance at her. “I’m not playing.”

She laughs once, flat and humorless. “Right.”

She looks away again, turning her head to the window. Her profile glows under the streetlights as they flash past—soft cheekbone, delicate jaw, the edge of her mouth pulled into a straight line. I reach forward and press the button to raise the privacy divider. The soft mechanical hum fills the car until the barrier clicks into place, cutting us off from the rest of the world.