Page 37 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

So I told him the truth. “I did it because it’s what you’re supposed to do. You can’t choose your family, but you can choose to show up for them. Even if it’s a disaster.”

He went still, one hand on the lemon tree, the other fisted at his side. “That’s idealistic.”

“It’s human,” I shot back.

He moved so fast I flinched. He crossed the space between us and loomed, fists braced on the front and back of the chase, trapping me. His breath was warm, coffee and something darker. His eyes, for the first time, looked less like weapons and more like wounds.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low. “You don’t know what they did to me.”

“I know what they didn’t do,” I said, just as quiet. “They didn’t show up for you. That doesn’t mean you get to erase them.”

He stared at me, jaw working, eyes narrowing with fury and something I couldn’t name. For a second, I thought he was going to yell, or worse, fire me on the spot.

Instead, he straightened, stepped back, and let the anger drain from his body in one long, shaking exhale. “You’re impossible,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.

He looked away, pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you want to keep this job, you have to learn to anticipate me, not just outmaneuver me.”

I stood, closing the gap between us. I don’t know what possessed me, maybe adrenaline or the sick, sweet aftershock of confrontation, but I leaned in until we were eye to eye. “Maybe I don’t want to work for a man who only respects fear.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t-”

“You do,” I said. “You want people to be afraid of you because you’re afraid of needing them.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, the rush of blood loud enough to drown out the rest of the house. My whole body was wired, every nerve on fire. I hated him for making me feel this alive.

He took a step closer, just half a foot, but it felt like a chasm closing. I felt a jolt of anticipation. If he touched me now, I’d combust.

But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “You’re wrong about me. But you’re also right.”

I wanted to scream, or cry, or hit him. Instead, I said, “So, what now?”

“Now you clean up your mess. Run the event. Keep my uncle away from the press, and pray he doesn’t try to sell shares in a nonexistent vineyard. Do your job, Ms. Blake, and do it well.”

There was something soft in his voice when he said my name, and it made me furious.

“Understood,” I said, chin high.

He watched me a second longer, eyes raking over my face, my mouth, my hands. I saw the tension in his body—how badlyhe wanted to say something else, to do something else. But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a gentle click.

I stood there, knees shaking, breath ragged, and wondered how the hell I could want someone so much while simultaneously wanting to punch him in the face.

I hated myself for it. But I knew, in the pit of my stomach, that it was only getting worse.

He didn’t look at me for the rest of the day.

Not at lunch, not in the corridor, not during the logistics meeting where he systematically shredded my week’s planning like it was kindling. Instead, Gareth performed a flawless imitation of someone who had never seen, heard of, or even considered the concept of Eden Blake.

By five, my mood had gone from smoldering to radioactive. I was ready to email in my resignation, throw my phone out the window, and hitchhike to the nearest convent. Anything to stop thinking about the fight, about his hands on either side of my chaise, about the way his aggressive behavior had secretly excited me and got my body running hot and hungry for him.

Instead, I found myself outside his door at exactly 6:01, heart ramming against my ribs, uncertain whether I was here to grovel or gouge his eyes out. The note on my phone said “6p.m. - urgent,” unsigned but unmistakably him.

The door opened before I could knock. He stood in the threshold, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair loose from whatever tyrannical styling product usually contained it. He looked… God, he looked wrecked. Like he hadn’t slept for days, or maybe had, but only after losing a twelve-round fight with his own mind.