At precisely 8:59 AM, Clara Morgan stepped into the executive floor. Mia Su, Yan Wu, and three senior administrators stood trembling outside the CEO's office, faces pale as ghosts.
Behind the mahogany doors, Sebastian Hartwell's voice detonated like artillery fire.
Profanities carpet-bombed the corridor—creative, vicious, and astonishingly diverse.
My God, Clara marveled silently. He's weaponizing linguistics.
"What set him off?" she whispered to Mia.
"Director Smith botched the Southeast Asia bid," Mia breathed, eyes wide. "I didn't know Harvard alumni knew these words..."
Clara snorted. "Maybe he majored in Ivy League trash talk."
Yan Wu materialized beside them. "Miss Morgan. Coffee time."
"Now? In there?"
A ghost of a smile touched Yan's lips. "For you? Always."
CRASH!
Something heavy shattered inside. Glass exploded. Paper avalanched. A chair toppled with metallic agony. Beneath the chaos, Director Smith's whimpers surfaced like bubbles in tar.
Clara's hand flew to her pounding heart.
"Be his saint, Clara," Yan murmured. "Save a soul today."
Swallowing hard, Clara slipped into the pantry.
Two minutes later, she nudged the office door open.
A leather-bound ledger sliced the air where her head had been. She pirouetted, teacup steady.
Warzone.
Paper shrapnel carpeted the floor. A disemboweled phone lay beside its shattered screen. The Venetian blinds hung like broken wings.
Director Smith cowered near the bookshelf, eyes screaming SAVE ME.
Clara glided through debris, offering porcelain to the storm.
"Chamomile-orange blossom tea, Sir. Honey balanced. Calms tempers and headaches."
Sebastian swatted at the cup. She danced back, liquid unspilled.
When her determined gaze locked with his, something shifted. Her eyes held the luminous plea of a stray kitten—impossible to ignore.
He snatched the cup, gulped.
Warmth spread through him—sweet apple notes from chamomile, orange blossom's floral finish. Like her: deceptively soft, devastatingly potent.
Damn her alchemy.
"Go, Director Smith," Clara murmured.
The man fled like the building was aflame.
As she bent to gather files, Sebastian's gaze raked her exposed lower back—a crescent of pale skin between white camisole and butter-yellow cardigan. His fingers twitched with the urge to shred that skirt.
He drained the cup, tracking her movements. When she aligned folders on his desk, he yanked her into his lap.
Clara didn't flinch. Practice breeds numbness.
"Orders, Mr. Hartwell?"
His hand slid beneath her spaghetti strap, thumb kneading the dip of her waist.
"Exhausted. Migraine. Let me recharge."
He buried his face between her breasts, inhaling jasmine and rebellion.
How does she diffuse my rage like a chemical antidote?
"Why didn't I fuck you night before last?"
She shrugged. "No clue. But I'll light a candle in thanks."
Sebastian's jaw clenched. Does my touch repulse you?
This infuriated him—how he craved her proximity, body and soul, while she treated him like contaminated waste. Unacceptable. He'd make her grovel before him, desperate for his mercy.
Teeth sank into her collarbone.
"Hiss—!"
Clara shot up, hand clapping over the wound. "I'll deck you, Hartwell!"
Sebastian grinned at her crimson fury. "Try. I also know Krav Maga."
Her anger evaporated, replaced by last night's memory: Ethan Windsor's blood spattering those Italian oxfords.
She backed toward the door. "Calling maintenance. Your office resembles a tornado's digestive tract."
As she vanished, Sebastian stared at the empty doorway.
Shit. One year might never be enough.
At her desk, Clara pressed a tissue to her bleeding bite mark.
Mia slid over a pink bandage. "Sebastian's werewolf phase again?"
"Full moon's next week. He's precocious."
Under cover of her compact mirror, Clara applied the bandage. Twin punctures wept red.
"You're a miracle worker, Cla—"
"Don't." Clara cut her off. "I'm one insult away from shoving his precious espresso machine down the elevator shaft."
She chugged half a water bottle. "Lunch? Let's risk fiery death. Street spicy stew?"
Mia's eyes lit up. "Hell yes. Extra chilies!"