The next morning was chaos. Birdie had refused to put on her shoes, and the toaster had shorted out.
In the rush, Gracia had been finishing a Zephyr commission-a digital painting of a crimson storm. She had wiped a smudge of red oil paint off her cheek but missed the spot on the side of her neck, right below her ear.
She arrived at work breathless.
At 10:00 AM, she went to the pantry. She needed caffeine to combat the drowsy side effects of the cold medicine.
The door swung open.
Bridger walked in.
He wasn't alone; the VP of Operations and the Legal Counsel were trailing him. They took one look at the tension in the room, grabbed water bottles, and miraculously remembered urgent phone calls they had to make.
They fled.
Bridger stayed.
He leaned against the marble counter, his arms crossed over his chest. His suit was a dark charcoal, tailored to perfection.
He watched Gracia fiddle with the coffee machine.
"You look better," he said. It sounded like an accusation.
"The medicine helped," Gracia said, not looking at him.
"Good. I can't have my employees infecting the whole floor."
He moved closer. He was too close. Gracia could feel the heat radiating from him.
His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her neck.
He froze.
His gaze locked onto the red smudge.
To him, it didn't look like paint. It looked like a bruise. A love bite. A mark of possession.
Bridger felt a roar of blood in his ears. Last night. She was sick, she was broke, she was exhausted, and yet she had gone home to that man and let him mark her.
Jealousy, hot and corrosive, burned through his gut.
He stepped into her space, trapping her against the counter.
Gracia gasped, her back hitting the edge of the sink. "Mr. Jennings?"
His gaze was a physical weight on her skin, hot and heavy. He leaned in, not touching her, but so close she could feel the warmth of his body, see the fury tightening the muscles in his jaw. His eyes, dark and stormy, were fixed on the mark.
"What is this?" he growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to shake her bones.
Gracia flinched at the sheer venom in his tone. She instinctively wanted to slap him, to push him away, but his proximity was paralyzing. "Don't," she managed to whisper, a plea and a warning.
"Rough night?" Bridger sneered. "Or did your husband just want to make sure everyone knew who you belong to?"
Gracia's hand flew to her neck. Her fingers came away with a tiny smear of red pigment.
Paint.
Relief washed over her, followed instantly by terror. If she told him it was paint, he might ask why a data entry clerk was covered in professional-grade oil pigments. He might connect the dots to Zephyr.
She couldn't risk it.
She lowered her hand, hiding the red tip of her finger.
"It's none of your business," she said, her voice shaking. "My private life is private."
Bridger's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek. She wasn't denying it. She was protecting him.
"You're right," he said, his voice ice cold. "But your performance is my business."
He stepped back, putting distance between them.
"I want the ten-year historical sales analysis on my desk by 8 AM tomorrow."
Gracia's eyes widened. "That's... that's impossible. The archives aren't even digitized."
"Then you better start typing," Bridger said. "Unless you want to go home to your husband unemployed."
He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the coffee cups rattled on the shelf.
Gracia rushed to the mirror. She saw the red mark. She scrubbed at it with a wet paper towel until her skin was raw and red.
Now it really looked like a hickey.
She stared at her reflection, tears pricking her eyes. He hated her. He hated her so much that he was imagining sins she hadn't even committed.
