Mel exited the silent, hidden bunker and stepped back into Rhys's expansive office. The air was thick with the scent of expensive food and wine. The lights were dimmed, transforming the cold, marble space into a private, intimate lounge. A small, elegant table was set for two near the floor-to-ceiling windows, overlooking the glittering cityscape.
Rhys stood by the table, no longer in his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked less like a CEO and more like a predator at rest. He held a bottle of dark wine, the crystal glasses already waiting.
"Welcome,Melanie," he said, pouring the wine. "We celebrate the first victory of the new regime. And the end of the required distance."
Mel accepted the glass, the cool crystal contrasting with the heat rising in her cheeks. The dinner was absurdly romantic, a stage set for the contract he had imposed on her hours earlier. She placed the glass on the table before taking a sip, maintaining control.
"I am compromised, professionally dependent on you, and angry that you set me up," Mel stated, her voice even and cool. "That is not a foundation for... this."
"It's the strongest foundation there is," he countered, taking a slow sip of his own wine.
"Honesty. There is nothing left unsaid, nothing left to hide. You hate me a little, you admire my ruthlessness, and you need me to live. I, in turn, admire your integrity, value your mind, and require your presence. It's the perfect arrangement."
Rhys sat, gesturing for her to do the same. "You asked for your price for staying. I'm listening."
Mel settled into the velvet chair. She knew exactly what she had to demand to survive this intimacy. "The first price is the pretense," she stated firmly. "In this office, in that bunker, we are the CEO and the Chief Risk Analyst. No more possessive claims. No more intimate touches. You want me to be an effective partner? You have to respect the boundary of the job."
Rhys lifted an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. It was a direct challenge to his authority, and his desire.
"A professional wall when the lights are on," he mused. "And the second?"
"The second price is your trust," Mel continued, pushing her advantage. "I am not just hunting Vasko's friends. I am hunting all the corruption in this building. If my analysis leads to someone you consider untouchable—a long-time friend, a significant investor—you do not intervene. You let me fire the gun."
Rhys leaned back, a slow, dangerous smile finally returning. "You want the right to destroy anyone who threatens my company, even if they are my personal friend."
"I want the right to do the job you hired me to do, free of your influence," she corrected.
He raised his wine glass in a silent toast. "Done. Professional distance in the office. Absolute freedom in your target selection. But know this, Melanie: the moment we step away from this desk, the moment the work stops, those rules dissolve. And the contract is still binding."
Mel met his gaze across the table. She had carved out a space of autonomy, a professional fortress, but she knew the high price she had paid for it. The battle for control was an infinite game, and she had just accepted the terms of the private war.
She took a slow, deliberate sip of the wine. "Then let the work stop," she said simply.
Rhys didn't move or speak. He only looked at her, and the intensity in his eyes was a physical force. He stood up slowly, walked around the table, and pulled her gently from the chair.
"The Chief Risk Analyst can leave the office for the night," he murmured, his hands settling on her waist.
This was not the tentative touch from the day before; this was the full weight of his possessive desire. He bent his head, and their lips met, a stark difference from the hurried, demanding kiss that sealed the contract. This was slow, deep, and sensual—a negotiation without words. He was testing the boundaries, and Mel, consumed by the adrenaline of the day and the fire he had ignited, met him halfway.
The scent of the wine and the lights of the city blurred. Mel was no longer the analyst, no longer the spy. She was the woman who had just accepted the protection of the lion, and she knew, with cold clarity, that the real danger wasn't the corruption in the files—it was the man holding her.