She came here to confront her father, not to find him.
The elevator doors opened, and there he was, Simon, standing by the coffee machine, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, eyes already locked on her.
For a second, neither of them moved. The noise of the office dimmed until it was just the hum of the air conditioning and the uneven rhythm of her pulse.
Simon blinked, as if the sight of her didn't fit the world he was in. His jaw clenched, then relaxed. Control. Always control.
"I work here," he said finally, his tone calm, steady, too steady. "General counsel."
Her eyes narrowed. "You what?"
Her voice cut through the silence, and heads turned. Someone pretended to type, someone else looked away too slowly.
Simon didn't flinch. He just reached out, fingers closing around her arm, not rough, not gentle. "Let's talk somewhere else."
His touch burned through the thin fabric of her shirt. Her instinct screamed to pull back, but her body stayed still, caught between fury and something she didn't want to name.
They walked past the glass offices, every step loud against the marble floor. Her reflection followed her in the walls, messy hair, smudged eyeliner, the same white shirt from last night. God.
He stopped in front of a door.
Simon Reed.
Her pulse spiked. "What the fuck is going on here, Simon Reed?"
He didn't answer, just opened the door. "Find out."
---
The office was spotless, cold. A single desk, a few chairs, a wall of glass overlooking the city. No photos. No clutter. Not even a plant.
It felt like a place where nothing personal was allowed to live.
Olivia's voice broke the quiet. "You knew who I was."
"Yes." No hesitation.
Her chest tightened. "And you didn't think that was worth mentioning while you were…"
"While I was what?" His tone was soft, dangerous.
She exhaled through her nose, fighting the shake in her voice. "While you were pretending you didn't know me."
"I didn't pretend."
"Then what was it?"
His jaw flexed. "A mistake I can't undo."
Her laugh came out sharp, brittle. "A mistake?"
"You walked in and I forgot everything I was supposed to be."
Something in his voice, low, frayed, hit her harder than she wanted to admit.
"If you work for my father, then you knew from the start," she said. "Every word, every touch…"
"It wasn't about him," Simon cut in. "It was about you."
The air grew heavy. Her throat went dry.
She wanted to hit him, to kiss him, to hate him and want him all at once.
"You shouldn't," she whispered.
"I know," his voice cracked slightly, and that slip was worse than any confession. "But you don't want me to stop."
Her pulse stumbled. "You had no right to touch me that night."
"I know," he said again, quieter. "And I'd still do it."
Her breath caught. That was the moment she lost the last thread of control.
She stepped closer, fingers curling in his shirt, voice shaking. "Then do it."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The air pulsed between them, thick with everything unsaid. Then he reached for her, slow, deliberate, as if fighting himself the entire way.
The kiss hit hard, rough, unsteady, real. Her back hit the desk, papers sliding to the floor. The sound echoed through the silence.
He didn't own her, he met her. Every motion mirrored, raw and desperate. The taste of him was all she remembered from the night before, heat and regret tangled together.
Her hands found his shoulders. His mouth trailed down her throat, leaving a trail of breath and skin. It wasn't about wanting anymore. It was about needing to forget who they were.
He pressed his forehead to hers. "Olivia," he murmured, his voice shaking, "tell me to stop."
She didn't.
Then the world dimmed, the blinds, the light, the sound, all falling away until there was nothing left but pulse and darkness.
---
When she opened her eyes again, the light had changed. Afternoon now. The room smelled of cedar, paper, and something human.
Simon stood by the window, shirt half-done, hair a mess. He looked nothing like the man who'd walked her in here. His shoulders rose and fell slowly, as if breathing was work.
"This wasn't supposed to happen again," he said finally, voice rough.
Olivia sat on the edge of the desk, silent. Her fingers traced the wood grain, slow, distracted.
"Then stop," she said softly.
He didn't turn. "You don't want me to."
She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "You keep saying that like it makes it less fucked up."
He turned at that, eyes darker now. "It doesn't."
Silence. The kind that hums with everything you don't say.
"You think words fix this?" she asked, standing, tucking her shirt back in.
"No," he said, steady again. "But they're all I have right now."
Her throat tightened. "You crossed a line, Simon."
He swallowed hard. "So did you."
She froze for a second, then walked to the door.
When she opened it, she didn't look back. But as the door clicked shut, her heart was still racing like she had.
Simon didn't move. He just stood there, staring at the glass, his reflection split by lines of sunlight. His hands were trembling slightly, but he didn't hide it this time.
The scent of her still lingered, warm, faint, wrong.
He breathed out slowly, eyes closing, and for the first time that day, he stopped pretending it hadn't meant something.