Chapter 70
Chapter 70:
Eliza exhaled slowly and opened the first file. It was grunt work — mindless archiving that an intern would complain about. But she was here. She was working.
Her phone buzzed against the white laminate of the desk. She glanced at the screen.
Sender: Husband.
The word sat there, heavy and possessive. She had changed his contact name during the drive, a flustered acknowledgment of the weight of his claim on her. Now, seeing it in the sterile office, it felt illicit.
She slid the phone into her lap and opened the message.
I am still thinking about the car. Are you?
Heat flooded her instantly — starting in her stomach and rushing up to her cheeks, hot and prickly. The memory of the morning drive came crashing over her: the leather seats, the rain against the glass, his hand sliding up her thigh, the deliberate press of his thumb against her skin.
She bit her lip and glanced around guiltily. Sarah was aggressively typing three desks away. The normalcy of the office felt like a lie.
Eliza’s fingers hovered over the screen. She shouldn’t reply. She was working. She was a professional.
She typed quickly. I am working, Mr. Koch.
She placed the phone face down.
𝘉е 𝘵𝗁e fi𝘳ѕ𝘵 𝘁o 𝗋eаd o𝗻
It buzzed again immediately, rattling the desk.
Work hard. I expect a progress report tonight. In person.
Her breath hitched. In person. The implication had nothing to do with spreadsheets or architectural renderings. It was about the promise she had made in the car. Tonight. She locked the phone. Her heart hammered against her sternum, and the mundane office suddenly felt charged with a secret electricity — a tether pulling her straight out of this cold room and toward the man waiting in the penthouse.
The transition from the office to the penthouse was jarring.
Eliza arrived at 6:30 PM. The lights were dimmed, casting long, soft shadows across the marble floors. The air didn’t smell of toner and stale coffee. It smelled of cedar, expensive leather, and something warm — red wine.
Soft jazz drifted from invisible speakers, low and unhurried, a saxophone melody that felt like a caress.
Dallas was home early.
He walked out of the kitchen with his suit jacket gone and his tie absent, the top button of his white shirt undone to expose the hollow of his throat. He held two glasses of red wine. He looked devastatingly at ease, and completely dangerous.
“Welcome home,” he said. His voice was a low rumble that she felt in the soles of her feet.
He walked toward her and didn’t stop until he was inside her personal space. He handed her a glass, his fingers brushing hers as she took the stem — deliberate, a spark that shot straight up her arm.
“Did you finish your filing?” he asked.
Eliza took a sip of wine to cool her suddenly dry throat. The liquid was rich and heavy. “How did you know p>
“I know everything that happens in that building,” he reminded her. His eyes were dark, tracking the movement of her throat as she swallowed.