I’m the one who walked out of his penthouse that morning. But he’s the one who walked into my world.
And now…I don’t know how the hell I’m ever going to get him out.
***
The second the meeting adjourns, I’m up. Chair shoved back, pulse thundering in my veins, fingertips numb. I feel himwatching, eyes burning into my back like he can peel away layers of skin and bone and reach something deeper. Something I don’t want him to see.
I won’t give him the satisfaction. Not here. Not now.
Sinclair women never run, but I move fast enough to blur the line. Heels click sharp and hurried against marble, echoing through empty hallways. I need air. Distance. Anything but the suffocating heat of Kane Rivera’s eyes.
I jab the elevator button like I can force it to appear faster, jaw clenched, nerves frayed.
Just get me out.
The doors finally opens, sleek stainless steel inviting me into temporary sanctuary. I step in quickly, hitting the lobby button with trembling fingers.
Just as the doors slides closed, a hand shoots out, stopping them cold.
My heart lurches into my throat.
No…
He steps inside. Slow. Casual. Intentional.
Like this is exactly where he planned to be.
Kane fills every inch of space effortlessly. A towering shadow, dark eyes unreadable, the air turning thick and hot the moment the doors seal shut behind him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to.
I press myself into the corner, arms crossed defensively, shoulders rigid. Trying to shield myself from the invisible pull radiating off him, from the memories already pushing their way to the surface.
His hand moves, casual, deliberate, pressing the emergency stop. The elevator jerks, frozen between floors.
My breath catches. My heartbeat trips over itself. My face flushes hot, pulse slamming painfully. I jerk my eyes upward, and he’s watching me.
“Is this how you leave meetings now?” he murmurs, voice quiet and lethal. “Running before the real conversation starts?”
My jaw tightens, throat dry, heart pounding wildly. “The meeting’s done.”
“No,” he says calmly, stepping forward. Closer. Each movement precise, controlled. Predatory. “The show’s done. This…” his eyes trace slowly down my body, lingering deliberately before snapping back to mine, “…is just us.”
“You had no right…” I start, but my voice cracks, raw and brittle, revealing too much of everything I’m trying to hide.
“To what?” he cuts in, voice sharp, mocking. “Speak?”
The words land like a slap, stinging, knocking me off balance.
And he sees it.
His gaze drags over me slowly. He steps closer, crowding me, his presence like a storm, dark, suffocating, inescapable.
“You walked into that boardroom,” he says, dangerously quiet, “armed with feelings. Dreams. Good intentions. Maybe that worked before, when everyone around that table owed your family something, but not anymore. They answer to me now.”
Anger flares through me, a desperate, defensive surge. “This isn’t a game, Kane. The Foundation helps real people…”
“The Foundation,” he interrupts, voice controlled and smooth, cold as steel, “belongs to Sinclair Media. And Sinclair Media answers to its board. Which means they answer to me.”
His calm destroys me. How effortlessly he claims the space, leaving me with nothing but empty hands and a hollow chest.
