The morning air inside the Rocha Group headquarters was always climate-controlled to a crisp, efficient temperature, but today, Bridget felt like she was sitting in a freezer.
She stared blindly at the spreadsheet on her monitor. Her stomach had been tied in a tight, painful knot since she woke up. Every time her desk phone blinked, her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape her chest.
She had blocked the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. She had blocked the man who held her entire career, her entire livelihood, in his massive, terrifying hands. The image of that child's drawing on his Instagram-the undeniable proof of his secret life-kept flashing behind her eyes, making her throat constrict with panic.
"Ms. Frank."
Bridget gasped, her shoulders jerking upward. She spun her chair around.
Alex, the executive assistant, stood perfectly rigid beside her cubicle. His face was a blank, unreadable mask, but his eyes held a grim warning.
"Mr. Rocha requires your presence in his office. Immediately," Alex stated, his voice carrying clearly across the silent marketing department.
Every head in the vicinity snapped up. Dozens of eyes bored into Bridget's back.
Bridget swallowed hard, her mouth completely dry. She grabbed her tablet with trembling fingers, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the cold metal edges. She stood up on shaky legs and followed Alex toward the elevators.
The ride up to the top floor felt like an execution walk. The numbers above the doors climbed higher, and with each floor, the air seemed to grow thinner. Bridget's lungs burned as she struggled to draw a full breath.
The elevator chimed. The heavy metal doors slid open, revealing the cavernous, silent expanse of the executive floor.
Alex led her to the massive double doors of the CEO's office. He opened one side, gestured for her to enter, and then firmly pulled the door shut behind her. The heavy click of the lock echoed like a gunshot.
The office was freezing. The temperature was at least ten degrees colder than the rest of the building.
Jevon stood with his back to her, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the gray Manhattan skyline. He wore a tailored black suit that stretched tightly across his broad shoulders. He radiated a dark, suffocating hostility that made the hairs on Bridget's arms stand up.
Bridget forced her legs to move. She stopped a few feet away from the massive ebony desk. She bit her lower lip hard, tasting the faint, metallic tang of blood.
"Mr. Rocha," she started, her voice sounding thin and pathetic in the massive room. "I have the morning schedule updates-"
Jevon spun around. The movement was so sudden, so violently fast, that Bridget physically flinched backward.
A loud thud echoed as he slammed the sleek black smartphone down onto the polished ebony wood, making Bridget jump.
The screen of the phone was lit up. It displayed a messaging app. Right in the center of the screen, a red exclamation mark sat next to a failed message, with the words User not found glaring underneath.
Jevon placed both his large hands flat on the desk. He leaned forward, his broad chest expanding as he took a slow, deep breath. His pitch-black eyes locked onto her face with the precision of a sniper.
"Explain this," Jevon demanded. His voice wasn't a yell. It was a low, deadly rumble that vibrated right through the floorboards and into the soles of her shoes.
Bridget's heart hammered against her ribs. Her mind raced frantically. She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't look this terrifying billionaire in the eye and say, I know you have a secret child and I don't want to be your mistress. He would destroy her.
"I... I don't know," Bridget stammered, her fingers gripping her tablet so hard her joints ached. "My phone has been acting weird. The operating system updated last night, and the anti-harassment filter might have glitched. It must have blocked numbers not in my contacts."
It was a terrible lie.
Jevon let out a harsh, freezing laugh. The sound held absolutely zero humor. He didn't believe a single syllable that just left her mouth.
He slowly walked around the edge of the massive desk. His long legs closed the distance between them with terrifying predatory grace.
Bridget instinctively took a step back. Then another.
Jevon kept coming. He backed her up until the back of her knees hit the edge of the heavy leather sofa. She lost her balance slightly and fell back onto the plush cushions.
Jevon didn't stop. He stepped right between her knees, looming over her. He placed one hand on the backrest of the sofa, right beside her head, trapping her completely.
"A system glitch," Jevon repeated, his voice dropping to a dark whisper. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the crisp cedarwood and the dark, bitter scent of black coffee on his breath. "Your 'system glitch' makes me question your professionalism. Until the issue is resolved, all matters related to my office must be reported to me in person. Including my dinner."
Bridget's breath hitched. This wasn't about logistics; it was a power play, a punishment wrapped in corporate jargon. "I can fix the settings right now-"
"No," Jevon cut her off, his dark eyes dropping to her trembling lips. "Because of your glitch, I am forced to ensure my meals are secured in person. You will continue to come to my penthouse tonight. You will cook."
"Mr. Rocha, I can't," Bridget blurted out, panic rising in her throat. "I have personal matters to attend to after work."
Jevon's jaw clenched. The muscle ticked violently under his skin. "Cancel them. Or I will ensure your next performance review is... entirely unsatisfactory."
The threat was absolute. It was a brutal, undeniable display of his power over her life. Bridget's shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of her body, leaving a hollow ache in her chest. She gave a slow, defeated nod.
Hours later, the workday ended. Bridget didn't even try to run. She walked out of the building like a prisoner of war and climbed directly into the back of the idling black Maybach.
Jevon got in beside her. The heavy door slammed shut.
The air pressure inside the car dropped instantly. Neither of them spoke a single word during the entire drive to Tribeca. The driver up front kept his eyes strictly on the road, not daring to breathe too loudly.
When they entered the penthouse, Jevon ripped his silk tie from his neck and threw it onto the sofa. "Kitchen. Now," he ordered.
Bridget didn't argue. She walked into the massive open-concept kitchen. She wanted to avoid his wrath at all costs. She found some vegetables in the fridge, grabbed a knife, and started chopping. Her hands shook slightly as she threw the carrots and celery into a pot of broth. It was a simple, pathetic vegetable soup, requiring zero culinary skill.
Dinner was agonizing.
They sat at opposite ends of the long dining table. The silence was so thick it felt like physical pressure. The only sound in the massive room was the sharp clink of silver spoons hitting bone china.
Bridget kept her eyes glued to her bowl. She forced herself to swallow the hot liquid, though her stomach was churning too violently to digest anything.
Jevon ate his soup with slow, elegant precision. But his eyes never left her. He watched the way her throat worked when she swallowed. He watched the faint, nervous flush creeping up her neck and settling on her earlobes.
When the bowls were empty, Bridget practically sprinted to the sink to wash them.
Jevon walked over to the living room. He poured himself two fingers of amber whiskey from the crystal decanter. He sat down on the massive Italian leather sofa and picked up the silver remote. The giant flat-screen television flickered to life.
He tuned it to a Wall Street financial news channel. A boring anchor started droning on about stock market fluctuations and interest rates.
Bridget finished drying her hands. She had nowhere else to go. She walked awkwardly into the living room and sat down on the absolute farthest edge of the sofa, leaving miles of leather between them.
She stared at the television screen, trying to pretend she was interested in the scrolling red and green numbers.
Thirty minutes passed. The anchor's monotone voice was driving her insane. The tension in the room was making her skin crawl.
Bridget finally couldn't take it anymore. She turned her head slightly. "Can we change the channel? To something else?"
Jevon slowly turned his head. He looked at her over the rim of his whiskey glass. The corners of his mouth twitched upward into a dark, wicked smirk.
"No"
The sheer, childish arrogance of his refusal sparked a sudden, hot flare of anger in Bridget's chest. The fear that had been paralyzing her all day suddenly morphed into reckless rebellion.
She saw the silver remote resting on the glass coffee table, right next to Jevon's hand.
Without thinking, Bridget lunged forward. She stretched her arm out, her fingers swiping toward the silver metal.
Jevon's reflexes were terrifyingly fast. He dropped his hand, his long fingers snatching the remote a split second before Bridget could touch it. He lifted his arm high into the air, holding the remote completely out of her reach.
"Give it to me," Bridget demanded, her competitive instinct overriding her common sense. She pushed herself up onto her knees on the sofa and reached for his raised hand.
She completely forgot the massive difference in their size. She forgot he was her boss.
She grabbed his forearm, trying to pull his hand down. Jevon let out a low, rough chuckle. He shifted his weight, easily keeping his arm raised.
In the chaotic struggle, Bridget's knee slipped off the edge of the leather cushion. Her kneecap slammed hard against the sharp edge of the glass coffee table.
"Ah!" Bridget cried out, a sharp jolt of pain shooting up her leg.
Jevon's playful expression vanished instantly. The color drained from his face. His protective instincts, honed ten years ago in a dark basement, fired instantly.
He dropped the remote. It clattered onto the thick wool rug. He lunged forward, his large hands grabbing Bridget's waist to stop her from falling onto the glass table.
He pulled her backward with too much force.
Gravity caused Jevon to lose his balance and fall backward onto the thick cushions of the sofa. Bridget followed suit.
She crashed heavily against his solid chest. The air rushed out of her lungs in a sharp gasp.
The television droned on in the background, but the living room suddenly felt completely silent.
Bridget was sprawled entirely on top of Jevon. Her legs were tangled with his. Her hands were pressed flat against his shoulders.
She froze. She could feel the hard, rapid thumping of his heart against her ribs. She could feel the searing heat of his large hands, which were still locked tightly around her waist, holding her flush against his body.
Their faces were inches apart. Jevon's breathing turned instantly ragged, his chest heaving under her weight. His pitch-black eyes stared up at her.
