The next morning, Cassidy woke up to an empty room. Her suitcase still hadn't been brought up. The butler had "forgotten" again.
She stood in the middle of the room in her pajamas, shivering. She couldn't go downstairs like this. She couldn't face the staff.
She walked to the dressing room door and pushed it open.
It was larger than her old apartment. Rows of suits, shoes, and ties were organized with military precision.
She hesitated, then reached for a white dress shirt hanging in the back. It was crisp, Egyptian cotton. She slipped it on.
It engulfed her. The hem hit her mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her hands. It smelled like him-clean, sharp, masculine. She buttoned it up, rolling the sleeves.
The door to the bedroom opened.
Kingsley walked in. He was sweaty, breathing hard from a run. His t-shirt clung to his chest.
He stopped dead.
His eyes swept over her-the bare legs, the oversized shirt, the messy hair. For a second, the mask slipped. His pupils dilated. His throat worked as he swallowed.
He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like a man starving.
"My luggage is missing," Cassidy stammered, pulling the collar tight.
Kingsley didn't speak. He walked toward her, slow and predatory. He backed her up until her calves hit the bench at the foot of the bed.
He placed a hand on the wall beside her head, trapping her. The heat radiating from his body was overwhelming.
"Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Osborn?" he murmured, his voice rough.
Cassidy's face burned. "It was force majeure. I had nothing to wear."
Kingsley reached out. His fingers grazed the collar of the shirt, brushing her skin. Her breath hitched. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to her lips. The air between them crackled with electricity.
"Please," Cassidy whispered, her hand coming up to push against his chest. "Don't. This is unprofessional."
The word was a bucket of ice water.
Kingsley froze. The heat in his eyes instantly crystallized into ice. He recoiled as if she had burned him.
"Don't you dare," he snarled, stepping back. "Don't you dare talk about professionalism while wearing my clothes and texting another man."
He ripped his running watch off his wrist and threw it onto the bench.
"Take it off," he commanded.
Cassidy blinked, confused. "What?"
"The shirt. Take it off. Now."
"Kingsley, I'm not wearing anything underneath-"
"I don't care," he yelled, his voice cracking with rage. "I don't want you wearing my clothes while you're thinking about him. It makes me sick."
Cassidy felt tears prick her eyes. The humiliation was absolute.
"Turn around," she whispered.
Kingsley turned his back, his shoulders heaving.
With shaking fingers, Cassidy undid the buttons. She let the shirt fall to the floor, standing there in her underwear, exposed and shivering. She grabbed her pajamas from the bed and scrambled into them.
"It's off," she choked out.
She ran past him into the bathroom and locked the door.
Outside, she heard a loud thud, as if a fist had just punched through a mahogany wardrobe door.
