Chapter 8
(Temporary Mask)
The crisp, recycled air of the office struck Amari's flushed skin with a forceful impact. The sound of Ace's belt buckle snapping into place interrupted the silence-the unspoken conclusion to a tense moment she was not prepared to confront.
She lingered at the desk for a moment longer than necessary, her fingers trembling as they gripped the polished mahogany. Amari Sam-she was a woman whose face appeared on billboards from Paris to Tokyo, whose presence commanded attention. Yet, in the dark reflections of the glass windows, she perceived a young woman frantically attempting to adjust her designer skirt, her movements hurried and lacking grace.
Ace had already seated himself in his chair. He did not look at her; instead, he simply adjusted his cuffs and reached for his fountain pen. The transition from primal hunger to cold professionalism was so seamless that it caused a visceral reaction.
"Fix your hair, Amari," he stated flatly, with a tone as emotionless as a dial tone. "You appear as if you have been in a conflict."
"Perhaps I have," she responded, her voice trembling slightly with a hitch in her breath.
She straightened her posture, embedding her runway-perfect stance into her frame. Reaching into her handbag, she withdrew a small gold mirror. Her lips were swollen, her eyes alight with a mixture of adrenaline and residual hurt. With unsteady hands, she reapplied a layer of sheer crimson gloss.
She smoothed her hair, tucked a stray lock behind her ear, and slipped out of her crumpled heels, clicking them back on with determination.
Without speaking, she turned sharply, head held high, and approached the heavy glass door. She did not glance back to see if he was observing; she was confident he was not.
Her heels' click echoed through the quiet lobby, reminiscent of gunfire in the calm morning. Maria sat behind her desk, eyes fixed on a screen that probably held no significant information.
As Amari approached, Maria looked up. Her face carried a neutral expression, but her eyes flicked-briefly-to the slight redness around Amari's neck and the uneven tuck of her blouse.
Amari paused at the desk. The frantic girl from earlier had disappeared, replaced by the heiress of the Risam Group.
"Maria," Amari said coolly, with authority.
"Ms. Sam," Maria responded cautiously.
Amari reached into her bag, producing a crisp, high-denomination bill, and placed it gently on the desk. "For the inconvenience I caused earlier. Purchase yourself something nice, and perhaps a book on discretion."
Maria's jaw tightened, but she did not reach for the money. "I do not require tips for performing my duties, Ms. Sam."
"It is not a tip," Amari replied, leaning slightly to ensure her expensive perfume filled the space. "It serves as a reminder. While I may be a distraction to your employer, I remain the woman capable of acquiring this building and converting it into a parking lot if I am sufficiently offended."
She observed a flicker of uncertainty in Maria's eyes and, for a moment, felt her influence rekindle. It was insubstantial, yet it was all she possessed.
"Have a pleasant day," Amari concluded, her smile sharp enough to cut.
She headed toward the elevators, with the gold doors sliding open to receive her. As the lift descended, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls-dignity reintegrated and her composure restored. Yet, as the numbers decreased, the weight of the two-year contract pressed against her chest like heavy chains.
• •
Ace remained motionless, his fingers gentle against his fountain pen, his gaze steady on the mahogany desk. He wasn't frozen by emotion; he was waiting for the air to clear.
The sandalwood scent in the room had been momentarily compromised. The aroma of Amari's perfume-an expensive, assertive floral-clung to the fibres of his suit like a brand. It was a sensory intrusion, a variable that refused to be dismissed.
He looked down at his ledger. The columns of figures persisted, but they no longer held his focus. His mind replayed the tactical mistake of the last hour: the warmth of her skin, the familiar arch of her back, the vibration of a moan against his neck. It had been a biological release, nothing more, yet the physical residue lingered.
"Tiresome," he murmured. His voice was flat, like a man observing a stain on a rug.
He closed the ledger with a soft, deliberate click.
For two years, the contract had operated with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. His attention on her discretion; her body for his stress relief. It was a closed loop. Amari's recent attempt to imbue the transaction with 'meaning' was a breach of protocol. He didn't feel "soft," as she'd claimed; he was simply annoyed that she mistook his silence for a hiding place.
His phone buzzed. A message from Maria: Ms. Sam left a reminder on my desk. I have placed it in petty cash.
Ace's expression remained unchanged. Amari was reclaiming her territory, striving to re-establish her leverage. It was a transparent move. Most men would see it as bold; Ace saw it as inefficient.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the city lights. He didn't see lives or stories below-he saw a grid of assets and liabilities. He wasn't lonely; he was solitary by choice. Feelings were the static that disrupted the signal, and he had spent a lifetime perfecting his frequency.
He traced the path her car would have taken. He should terminate the arrangement tonight. It was becoming cluttered. It was becoming disorderly.
But as he adjusted his cufflinks, he decided against it. Her utility still outweighed her volatility. He wasn't finished with the asset yet, and he wouldn't be until he had extracted every ounce of use he required.
