The silk top is still in my hands. I fold it carefully, deliberately, pressing the creases flat with my palms, and lay it on the edge of my desk like evidence from a case I haven't solved yet. My logistics binder is open beside it, the schedule I built staring up at me with all its clean lines and precise timings. I stare at it until the numbers blur, until the only thing I can see is the ghost of his hand on that screen, scrolling through my work.
He said I did well.
The words are a splinter under my skin, something I keep pressing on just to feel the sting. Three weeks of silence, and then this. A room full of strangers watching him fuck someone else while he stares at me. An elevator confession that cracked something open in my chest. A folder full of logistics that he actually looked at, actually approved, actually touched.
I have no idea what game he's playing. I just know I'm already losing.
I need to see him. I need to talk about the schedule, about the crew, about the shoot. About what the hell I'm supposed to do with a black silk top that smells like a woman who touched my husband more intimately than I ever have.
I find him in his home office.
The door is open a crack, a blade of warm lamplight cutting into the dark hallway. I pause, my hand hovering over the frame. Through the gap, I can see his desk, the edge of his chair, the broad shape of his shoulders. He's sitting back, his feet propped on the desk, a tablet glowing in his hand.
My spreadsheets. My schedule.
I knock. Light. Just a tap of my knuckles against the wood.
"Come in."
His voice is flat, disinterested. The voice he uses for everyone, for everything. It doesn't match the man who pinned me against a mirror and told me my pain was necessary. It doesn't match the man whose mouth was on mine three weeks ago, gentle and devastating.
I step inside.
His office is a room designed to intimidate. Dark wood, leather chairs, shelves of books no one has ever opened. It smells like him—ink and winter air and something clean and sharp that makes my stomach tighten. He's wearing a dark grey shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms bare and corded with muscle. A vein runs down his forearm, and I watch it pulse as he scrolls through my work.
He doesn't look up.
"Sit."
He gestures to the chair beside his desk. Not across from him. Beside him. The intimacy of it makes my mouth go dry. I sit on the edge of the leather cushion, my hands gripping my knees so tight my knuckles go white.
The silence stretches. He scrolls. I watch his face, the way his jaw tightens at something, the way his thumb stops on a section, hovers, moves on. He's wearing a watch, silver and heavy, and it catches the light as he moves.
"You scheduled the crew breaks too tight," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"Lunch is at forty-five minutes. They need an hour. And the turnaround between the location shift is fifteen minutes short." He looks up. Grey eyes, cold and sharp, pinning me in place. "Fix it."
I nod, reaching for the binder. "I can adjust the second call time, push it back by twenty minutes. It won't affect the—"
His hand lands on my thigh.
My voice dies. The words scatter, useless. He doesn't look at his hand. He looks at me, watching the flush crawl up my neck, watching the way my breath catches in my throat.
"You were saying?"
His hand is heavy. Warm. It spans the width of my thigh, his fingers pressing into the fabric of my trousers. And then his thumb moves—a slow, deliberate circle, right where the muscle tenses.
I can't breathe.
"The… the location shift," I manage. My voice sounds thin, far away. "I can push it back. Twenty minutes. It won't affect the light."
"Good."
His thumb traces another circle. Higher this time. Closer to the hem of my trousers. The pressure is light, almost absent-minded, but it's the most present I've ever felt him. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused. I imagine it against bare skin, and my thighs press together involuntarily.
He notices. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and something hungry flickers in the grey.
"You're good at this," he says. "The logistics. The planning. You think ahead."
"I like to be prepared."
"I know." His thumb stills. "That's why I put you in charge."
I swallow. My throat is dry. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. It's a test."
Of course it is. Everything with him is a test. I should be used to it by now. But the way he's looking at me, the way his hand is still on my thigh, makes me feel like I'm failing and passing at the same time.
"I don't fail tests," I say.
His eyes darken. "I know."
And then his hand moves.
It slides up my thigh, over my hip, and his fingers curl into the hair at the nape of my neck. Before I can react, he fists it. Tight. A sharp, clean pressure that pulls my head back, exposing my throat to the ceiling, to his gaze.
The sound that comes out of me is not human.
It's a moan—deep, guttural, torn from somewhere I didn't know existed. It fills the room, hangs in the air between us, and I can't take it back. I can't even breathe. My scalp sings with pain and pleasure, the stretch of it pulling tears to my eyes. He holds me there, pinned by his grip, by his gaze, by the sheer weight of his attention.
"There it is," he murmurs. His voice is low, rough, a blade wrapped in velvet. "There she is."
I should be embarrassed. I should pull away. I should say something, anything, to reclaim the ground I just lost. But my body has gone liquid, boneless. Every nerve ending is focused on the place where his hand meets my hair, the way he owns this angle of my throat, the way my heart is slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
A sound from the hallway. Footsteps.
"Mr. Voss? Is everything alright?"
Marta. The housekeeper. Her voice is careful, professional, but I can hear the concern beneath it. She's been with the family for twenty years, and she has a sixth sense for trouble.
Kaelen doesn't let go. He doesn't even look toward the door. His eyes stay on mine, and I watch the cold mask slide into place over the hunger. "Fine, Marta. My wife and I are discussing the shoot."
A pause. I can hear her hesitation, the weight of her concern. But she's trained well. "Very good, sir. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."
Her footsteps fade.
Kaelen's grip loosens, but he doesn't let go. His thumb strokes the nape of my neck, a shocking tenderness after the violence of his fist. I shudder, and his eyes catch it, something hot and satisfied flickering in the grey.
"I just wanted to test it with you," he whispers. His breath is warm on my face, so close I can smell the coffee on his breath. "For the scene."
My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure he can feel it. "The scene?"
"The one you'll be watching. The one where I have a woman on her knees." He pauses, his thumb still stroking. "I needed to know how you'd sound."
I want to ask him what he heard. I want to ask him if it was enough. I want to ask him if he's going to kiss me again, or if this is just another test I'm supposed to pass without guidance.
Instead, I say nothing. I just look at him, my breath shallow, my body trembling under his hand.
He releases me. Slowly. Letting his fingers drag through my hair as he pulls away, and I feel the loss like a physical ache, a hollow opening in my chest.
"Also," he says, picking up his tablet, "leave your hair open."
He's already scrolling through the schedule again, dismissing me. The conversation is over. The test is over. I am dismissed.
I stand, my legs unsteady. My scalp still tingles where he held me. My throat is bare and cold without the stretch of his grip. I walk to the door, my hand finding the frame, and I stop.
I don't look back. "I'll fix the schedule."
He doesn't look up. "I know you will."
I walk out of his office, down the hallway, back toward my lab. My hands are shaking. My heart is still pounding. I pass a mirror in the hallway and stop.
My hair is mussed, strands escaping from the tight bun I wrestled it into this morning. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright and wild. I look like a woman who has been thoroughly, systematically undone.
I look like someone who enjoyed it.
I think of his command. Leave your hair open.
And with a sudden, sharp clarity, I reach up and start pulling the pins out. One by one. They fall into my palm, cool and small, and I curl my fingers around them.
My hair falls around my shoulders, heavy and dark. I meet my own eyes in the mirror, and I don't recognize the woman staring back. She's braver than I am. Hungrier. Her hair is loose, and she's not hiding anymore.
He wanted me to leave it open. So I did.
But it's mine. And I'm choosing to let him see it.
I grab my binder, the one with the schedule he wants fixed. I flip to the right page and start making notes, my pen shaking at first, then steadying as I go. Twenty minutes for the location shift. An hour for lunch. Done.
I walk back to his office. I don't knock.
He's still there, still scrolling, still the king on his throne. He looks up when I enter. His eyes catch my hair, loose around my shoulders. Something flickers in the grey—approval, hunger, triumph. I don't know. I don't care.
"Fixed it," I say, holding out the binder. "An hour for lunch, twenty minutes added to the location shift."
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine. The touch is brief, but it burns.
"Good," he says. He doesn't look at the schedule. He looks at me. "That was fast."
"I told you. I don't fail tests."
A beat. The air between us thickens, heavy with everything unsaid.
"We'll see," he says.
I nod, turn, and walk out. My hair swings with the movement, a new weight, a new weapon.
Let him look. Let him test.