Chapter 5 MY TERMS.

DANTE:

Who the hell was this?

I stared at the woman standing in my doorway, and for a split second, my brain refused to connect her to the coffee-throwing menace from two days ago.

Then her eyes defiantly met mine and reality snapped into place.

She'd transformed from the hasty, disheveled woman who'd stumbled into the boardroom to a cooperate diva.

The fitted dress hitting just above her knees, moved with her like water. Her hair complimented her subtle makeup. Her heels clicked with a confidence that made her presence swallow the entire room. They elongated her legs beautifully, though I couldn't help remembering the last time I'd seen her in one. She could barely walk in them then, wobbling like a newborn foal, and yet here she was now, wearing them as if she'd been born in them.

I'd redecorated this office specifically to impress. Minimalist furniture, custom lighting, art pieces. Everything designed to establish dominance before a single word was spoken.

But standing here, watching her take in the space with those judgemental eyes, I found myself wondering if she was impressed.

Why the hell did I care?

Focus.

Except I couldn't stop staring.

She had understood something fundamental about negotiation. "Dress like you've already won." And she had. That dress had no business looking that good on anyone, but on her? Devastating.

My gaze dropped to her hands. Manicured, delicate fingers wrapped around her bag strap. Then her mouth. Full lips painted a shade of red that made my thoughts veer into territory I had no business exploring.

What would she look like on her knees between my legs? Those hands on my thighs, that mouth stretched around me-

"Stop." I scolded myself.

Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate.

If she could read my mind right now, she'd slap me across the face and call me a pervert.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my pulse to slow. Heat coiled through the room, winding tight beneath my skin.

She was beautiful. Annoyingly, distractingly beautiful.

And I needed to get control of this situation before I did something monumentally stupid.

"No," she said, her voice ringing through my thoughts. "I'm afraid you're going to have to find someone else if you're not willing to compromise."

I blinked. "What?"

Her lips curved slightly. She'd caught me. Knew I'd been somewhere else entirely.

Then she moved.

Not away, closer.

She crossed the distance between us, planted one hand on my desk, and leaned in. Her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Let me be clear about my terms," she said. "One: you apologize for firing me. Publicly, in front of the same people who watched you humiliate me. Two: you reinstate me to my original position immediately. Three: you give me the promotion I earned. And four: you pay me a significant bonus for taking on this extra project, one that's clearly above my pay grade."

Silence.

No one spoke to me like this. Ever.

CEOs stammered. Investors hedged. Even my own executives chose their words carefully, terrified of saying the wrong thing.

But Cinnamon Wealth stood a whole foot and few inches lower from my face, eyes blazing with challenge, and laid out her demands like she was the one signing my paychecks.

I should've been furious. Instead, I felt something else entirely. Something dangerous that tightened low in my stomach and made my hands itch to close the gap between us.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to step back.

If I didn't move, my hands would. They'd reach for her waist, pull her closer, test exactly how much of that defiance was real and how much would shatter under the right pressure.

And then she'd destroy me with a lawsuit I'd absolutely deserve.

"Sit down," I roughly said .

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I didn't know these chairs were meant to be sat on. How generous of you."

I didn't laugh. Just moved to the edge of my desk and sat, angling my body toward the door so she only had my profile. Distance. I needed distance and the illusion of control.

"Ms. Wealth." I let the words come out cold, detached. "You don't call the shots here."

"But you need me."

My jaw clenched. I lifted one finger, a warning. "I don't need you."

I let the word settle between us.

"However," I continued, "your former boss insists you're the most competent person for this job. I think that's bullshit. But since I actually listen to my employees-"

"You never listened to me." Her voice cut through mine like she'd been waiting for the opening. "Instead, you tried to bully me. And when you realized I wasn't a pushover, you punished me. Because apparently, the moon revolves around your world."

Heat flared in my chest. "I just told you not to interrupt me."

She held my gaze, unflinching.

Then, slowly, she leaned back. Mellowed. Not submission but irritation. Testing how far she could push before I snapped.

Good. At least one of us was thinking clearly.

"You're here because of Martin," I said, forcing my voice into professionalism. "Not because I want you. The only thing I'm considering from your list of demands is a bonus payment. You'll work here temporarily. If you prove yourself worthy during this project, I'll reinstate you. And if that happens, you'll get your promotion. So work hard, Ms. Wealth. Make this deal a success. Then your probation ends."

I stood, turning toward my desk. Toward the safety of my chair and the computer screen that would give me an excuse not to look at her.

"Martin will communicate the exact bonus amount," I added. "We're done here."

I began to go through my email, a signal to her that I'd gotten busy.

Suddenly, I heard a disbelieving scoff. She grabbed her bag, the movement abrupt enough that I glanced up despite not wanting to.

She walked toward the door, heels clicking against the hardwood with enough force to punctuate every step.

The door closed behind her. Not slammed. But close enough.

I stared at the screen, pretending to focus on the spreadsheet pulled up now. Numbers danced before me. My hands rested on the desk, perfectly still, projecting calm I didn't feel.

But I watched her through the glass walls as she stalked down the hallway, shoulders squared, chin high, radiating fury.

Even when angry, she was beautiful.

My phone buzzed.

Tate's name flashed across the screen. I answered.

"Your mother called," he said without letting me speak. "Dinner tomorrow evening. She's expecting you."

I closed my eyes. Of course she was.

"I'll be there."

"Your stepfather will be there too."

"I assumed as much."

Tate hesitated. "You want me to come up with an excuse?"

"No. I'll handle it."

I hung up.

Leaned back in my chair. Stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I'd sit across from the man who'd made me miserable. Who'd married my mother for her money and her name, then systematically dismantled every ounce of confidence I'd tried to build. Who looked at me like I was a mistake he tolerated out of obligation.

I hated him.

Hated that I still cared what he thought.

Hated that proving him wrong consumed me more than it should.

But I'd show up. Smile. Play the dutiful stepson.

Because that's what you did when you wanted to destroy someone, you let them have their guards down.

My gaze drifted back toward the hallway where Cinnamon had disappeared.

She was a problem. A distraction.

The way she looked at me, like I was just another obstacle to bulldoze through, should've infuriated me. Should've made this easy.

Yet, it made me want to see how far I could push before that defiance cracked. What she'd sound like if I backed her against the wall and forced her to admit she felt this too, the pull, the tension, the way the air between us was electric.

I loosened my tie.

This was a mistake. She was a mistake.

But I couldn't stop replaying the moment she leaned over my desk, close enough that I could've counted every individual eyelash, and told me exactly what she wanted.

Boldness like that didn't come from desperation.

It came from someone who knew their worth and refused to settle for less.

I respected that.

Hated that I respected it.

My hand curled into a fist on the desk.

Damn! I needed my focus. Now wasn't the time for this. My company was all that mattered.

Not Cinnamon Wealth and the way her perfume still lingered in my office, floral and subtle that made me want to follow her down the hallway just to figure out what it was.

Not the memory of her voice, seductive and angelic.

Not the fact that she'd walked out of here with the upper hand, and I'd let her.

My phone buzzed again. An email from Martin with the Meadowbrook files.

I opened it. Forced myself to read.

But my mind kept circling back to one thought:

Cinnamon Wealth was going to be the death of me.

And I wasn't entirely sure I'd mind.