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Lena

I set the fork down slowly, the food still untouched. My stomach twists, heavy with the weight of the last few days. The food might as well be decorative. I could barely handle toast this morning.

Ellis notices immediately. His gaze sharpens as it shifts between the plate and me, his expression unreadable, but I can feel the weight of his attention. He doesn’t speak, but the silence grows tighter, like he’s waiting for something more to unfold.

“I came here to talk about the man at the facility, the man in the trial.”

“There are lots of men and lots of trials, Lena.”

“Yes,” I say. “But you know which one I’m talking about.”

His eyes narrow.

“You don’t consider that a loss?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“You run the company.”

“I own the company,” he corrects. “But you know as well as I do—ownership and oversight aren’t the same thing.”

“So who’s responsible?”

He shrugs. “The data is being reviewed. It’s not your concern.”

I lean back, careful not to clench my jaw. “You invited me to dinner. You said you could help me.”

“I can.” He picks up his fork, casual. “But that doesn’t mean I owe you answers.”

“Then what do you owe me?”

“An opportunity,” he says. “To get what you want. If you’re smart enough to want it.”

“And what do you want?”

His smile returns—quiet, amused, possessive.

“I told you. I don’t lose,” he repeats. “Not to fear. Not to whatever version of yourself still believes she needs permission.”

There’s heat in his words, but it’s not romantic. It’s surgical.

I feel it in my spine.

“I don’t want you fine,” he continues. “I want you sharp. Better. Because when every outcome costs you something—that’s when people show what they’re made of.”

“So this is what? A recruitment dinner?”

“No,” he says, standing slowly. “This is a decision point.”

I stay seated. Watch him circle the table. He stops beside me.

He doesn’t touch me.

He just waits.

And I get it now—this is seduction.

Not the soft kind. The kind that teaches you how to move, where to look, what it costs to be chosen.

The kind that feels like a gift until you realize it’s a design.

A blueprint.

Until you realize it’s the only kind he knows.

“Come here,” he says.

My body goes before my brain does.

Not because I want to please him.

But because I want to understand what this is.

How far it goes. What it’s going to cost.

And maybe—what it gives back.

I rise. Go to him.

His fingers brush the inside of my wrist. Barely a touch. But it lands like intent. “You think getting close to me gives you leverage.”

I don’t flinch, don’t deny it.

“You’re not wrong. It gives you options,” he says. “What you do with them—that’s what matters.”

“You have no idea how flexible I can be.”

Ellis watches me for a beat too long.

Then he smiles. Calm. Certain.

He cups my jaw. Not like he’s claiming me. Like he’s making a point.

The pressure lights up something deep and sore and recent.

Then he kisses me.

And I let him.

Not because I believe in any of it—but because he does.

We never do get around to talking about what the woman in the break room meant by NHI.