Ellery POV:
My fingers turned into a blur over the mechanical keyboard.
This was muscle memory. I had spent years scrubbing Brendan’s digital footprints to keep the FBI off his back. I knew how to hide things faster than the human eye could track.
I hit a custom shortcut key. The massive red countdown for *Tabula Rasa* vanished, burying itself deep in the background processes.
The screen instantly shifted, pulling up a highly complex, chaotic flow chart of offshore funds moving through the Cayman Islands.
Brendan stepped out of the shadows of the staircase. His towering frame completely blocked the only exit out of the server room.
He reached up and yanked his expensive silk tie loose. The sharp, heavy scent of aged whiskey rolled off him, hitting my nose before he even spoke.
But hiding beneath the alcohol was something worse. The sickly-sweet, hyper-expensive scent of Tom Ford custom perfume. Kiya’s perfume.
My stomach violently rolled. Bile rose in my throat, burning the back of my mouth. The physical and psychological disgust hit me like a punch to the gut, but I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. The sharp taste of copper flooded my tongue, grounding me.
Brendan walked up behind my chair. His large, heavy hands clamped down on my shoulders.
He leaned down, his chest pressing against the back of my chair as he tried to wrap his arms around me from behind.
I reached forward, pretending to grab my empty coffee mug near the monitor. The movement naturally angled my body away, making his arms slip right past me.
Brendan’s hands grabbed empty air. His dark eyebrows snapped together, forming a dangerous line.
He froze for a full second, his hands still suspended. A flash of dark annoyance crossed his eyes. He hated being denied.
I immediately turned my head, keeping my face a mask of bored, professional focus.
"The funds from the docks are currently cycling through three separate shell companies in Panama," I said, my voice dead flat.
I clicked the mouse, magnifying the data on the screen to force his attention away from my physical rejection.
Brendan stared at the monitor. He let out a low, cold grunt, choosing not to push the issue of the missed hug.
He pulled up a second chair, crossing his long legs as he sat down beside me.
I could feel his eyes on me. He was staring at the side of my face, his gaze stripping me down, analyzing my pale skin and rigid posture.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My chest felt tight, but the hand gripping the mouse didn't so much as twitch.
Suddenly, Brendan reached out. His large hand clamped around my jaw, his fingers digging into my skin as he forced my head to turn and face him.
His rough thumb dragged harshly across my bottom lip, pressing hard enough to send a spike of pain through my mouth.
He stared directly into my eyes, searching. He was looking for that pathetic, lovesick devotion I usually gave him. He was looking for his submissive wife.
I lowered my eyelashes, letting my shoulders slump. I perfectly mimicked the exhausted, compliant posture he expected to see.
Brendan released my jaw. He looked mildly satisfied with my submission.
He leaned back in his chair, his knuckles rapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the metal desk.
The temperature in the server room felt like it plummeted another ten degrees just from his presence.
He stopped tapping. The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the cooling fans.
"Pull up the live balance for the Swiss offshore account. Number two," he ordered.
My pupils dilated instantly.
Account number two was the exact core node that *Tabula Rasa* was currently eating alive in the background.
Hidden from view, the countdown timer ticked down to *71:45:00*.
Brendan leaned forward, bringing his face inches from the screen. His massive, suffocating presence completely enveloped me.
"Pull up account number two. I want to see the live feed of that fifty million."
