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“Where the fuck is the updated analysis on TransAmerica, Chuck? It was fucking due an hour ago. We have a hostile takeover situation on our hands in case you’ve forgotten.

I have a meeting and it’s still not here on my desk,” I bark into my phone as stammers come through the line.

Heat travels up my spine and my nostril flares at his ineptitude.

Fucking Chuck Dumbass. Only cares about the glamour the lifestyle of an investment banker offers him. The money. The women. Doesn’t care to put in the work and sacrifices.

“Hayley was supposed to send it to you. I asked her—”

“Did I give her the work or give you the work, Chuck? Stop fucking with me. You’re wasting my time.”

“Sorry, sir. I’ll get—”

I slam the phone on the receiver, not wanting to listen to any more excuses from this idiot. Yet another task he failed, and I don’t want to put up with it anymore.

My team is only reserved for the best of the best and I’ve given him too many chances in the last few years.

My patience and tolerance have disintegrated to nothing in the past few months.

I don’t care who his father is—if we lose him as a client, I’ll figure out some other way to make up the fucking twenty-five percent of our portfolio.

My eyes sweep over my desk as I grit my teeth. Fucking mess. Why is my desk a fucking mess? Attempting to inhale a few calming breaths, my lungs burn with rage .

My fingers twitch, and I rearrange the stacks of papers on my desk. The binders by color. Red on the left for urgent. Black on the right for medium priority. I adjust the pens in the penholder. Who the fuck took out all the blue pens? One blue, one red, one black. Everything in its precise place.

Yet, the scorching anger inside me doesn’t abate, the flames threatening to swallow me whole.

“Fuck!” I swipe the binders off my desk, my mood treacherous, a fuse lit by the smallest spark. I pace in front of the desk and rub my temples.

Everything is slipping out of my control—Voss suddenly declaring war and acquiring shares at the speed of light.

Me embarrassing him in front of everyone at The Orchid didn’t help the situation and despite the pinch of guilt for worsening the situation, I couldn’t help the rage slashing through me at how he manhandled Grace.

And now, we’re stuck with a rapidly escalating situation and we’re trying to play catch up.

My sleep is nonexistent and my mood swings all over the place.

Calm down, Steven. What’s wrong with you?

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think. I just want to be the calm, collected self I used to be. The person who didn’t feel anything.

The person who had the fucking void in his chest.

Closing my eyes, I think about my Plan B now that Chuck Bright failed my test for him.

I always have a backup plan, my own set of analysis I put together over the last two days at the crack of dawn, when I’d arrive at the dark office, and be the only soul holed up within these concrete and glass walls.

When I could hear the sounds of my breathing and would inevitably think about Grace.

But now, she has reappeared in my life, and while everything is still chaotic, a sharpness has entered my vision, a clawing need to find her again.

Because as soon as I saw her crying that day when she barreled into the courtyard, logic flew out the window. My mind became even more restless, my waking hours no longer driven by work and dollars and cents.

That’s the thing with time. In some situations, time is water, washing away dirt and grime, cleansing you from within. In other situations, time is wind, fanning the embers into a blaze, until the inferno blazes through everything in its path.

It’s the latter with Grace and seeing her for the first time after nine long months of drought is the spark setting off an explosion in the fuel-rich, dried grasslands ripe for a disastrous wildfire.

I asked Ryland to look for a Grace Peyton working at The Orchid after Jack’s celebration in the courtyard and he said he’d ask some folks for me, but they hadn’t gotten back to him yet.

But now that I saw her again last night at the casino party, I know she fucking works there for sure.

Now, I just need him to track down where she works within the fifty-story building.

My hands resist the urge to grab my phone and check the text messages to see if he has an update.

I have no time for this. Too much is at stake.

Father. The way he looked so crestfallen when I flew out last month to meet with the TransAmerica board of directors, spewing out confidence I no longer carry.

Timothy Voss and his increasingly unpredictable and unhinged behavior, leaving red herrings one after the other, sending my team on a wild goose chase trying to identify the next shareholder on his hit list.

Maybe my thoughts of Grace have derailed my much-lauded focus, allowing Voss to sneak in like a venomous snake and latch himself onto his next victim.

I should be furious with myself. Angry at her for vanishing, then reappearing out of thin air, causing me to become distracted, my logic and clarity thrown to the wayside like yesterday’s trash.

But then, when I saw her again last night amid the crowds gambling, dressed in a tight, curve-hugging black dress, all thoughts of anger and my last vestiges of control vaporized. She looked like a seductress, sweeping around the room to collect the hearts of unsuspecting men .

But it’s her eyes, the beautiful violet eyes that made regular appearances in my dreams the last few months, that robbed me of my breath when I caught her before she could tumble to the ground.

The spark may have dulled in them, but a glimmer of a fire still shined within.

A sadness cloaked over those irises. Loss.

Heartbreak. Shock. And many more emotions flitted across those purple hues before she pushed me away, sinking a dagger in my chest at yet another refusal to acknowledge me.

To acknowledge us.

And when I saw the fucker put his hands on her, touching what’s mine, scathing, fiery blood coated my vision. I would’ve killed him if Jack didn’t pull me away. If he didn’t whisper in my ear, “Don’t scare her off. She’s rattled. She needs you.”

Then there was the kiss. How I finally allowed myself to taste her, letting my lungs inhale a full breath for the first time since she disappeared.

The way she melted in my arms, her soft little body rubbing against my hard muscles and steel cock, the little sounds she made as we dug into each other like we were feasting after walking in the desert with no food for weeks.

I can’t bring myself to regret, to care about Father’s warnings about the liabilities of emotions.

And perhaps the price to pay is TransAmerica.

Gritting my teeth, my eyes flutter open and I stare at the way the late afternoon sunlight reflects on the ceiling, the ripples dancing on the smooth surface like a lover’s embrace, as if it’s latching onto it, knowing as soon as the sun moves position, they’ll be torn apart and have to wait for another day to be reunited.

Whimsical thoughts. Irrational dreams. All symptoms of a sickness only she can cure.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I get up from my chair and drop to my haunches by the floor, picking up the binders and pens scattered on the carpet like blood splatter in a crime scene .

I heave in a breath, exhale, and repeat the motion. I sort the binders and pens by color and place them in their proper spots on the desk. Red on one side, black on the other. Three pens of each color are precisely aligned by the notepad.

But my heart wouldn’t stop racing, the slideshow of Grace in my mind wouldn’t stop playing. The peace and calmness wouldn’t come. The longing, which abated briefly when I held her into my arms, when I almost fucked her in public, comes roaring back in full force.

Ping.

Grabbing my cell phone, I swipe to the incoming text message.

Ryland

Grace Peyton works as a dancer at Trésor. She goes by Genevieve. Her shift begins in half an hour. Don’t do anything rash, Steven.

Too late.

I’m already shrugging on my suit jacket, grabbing my keys and halfway out the door before the sentence fully sinks in.

I need to see her. I need answers.

And I want those motherfucking lips on mine again.

My fingers fiddle with my watch in a nervous rhythm.

I’m probably getting smudges on the stainless silver straps and glass face, but I don’t care anymore.

I take it off, tracing the carving on the backside, mind over matter , wishing it were that simple, that somehow, my mind can stop this desperate craving I have for her.

All I know is, behind these elaborate double doors decorated with an intricate, glass crescent design, I’d find the woman who has become an obsession, her absence only stoking the flames of the fire which began all those months ago.

The Rose floors, which take up several floors of this building, house different clubs and rooms for various proclivities.

There’s something for everyone. Rumor is, there’s even an indoor “forest” with sounds of the nature, faux moonlight, and star-lit skies for people who like to do the deed in the great outdoors but don’t want to worry about a shutter happy paparazzi capturing photos that should never see the light of day.

I’ve never been to any of these specialty clubs or rooms because I’ve never felt the need to. One night with a companion every three months in a luxury suite equipped with adult toys and specialty furniture feels enough. Sufficient to slake an inconvenient urge.

An urge that vanished ever since she disappeared.

I can’t believe she’s been right under my nose all this time.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the doors and enter Trésor, the burlesque club I know many of my peers spend their evenings in, claiming the girls are sexy, the atmosphere is sinful without being gaudy, and the service is impeccable.