"I have no idea," I answer honestly, my voice shaking. "I just destroyed my entire career. I should be terrified. I should be having a complete breakdown. But I—I feel?—"
"Free," he finishes, and something in his expression shifts, softens, becomes almost unbearably tender. "You feel free."
"Yes," I whisper, and then I'm kissing him, right there in front of his entire executive team, my hands fisting in his shirt as I pull him down to meet me, channeling every ounce of adrenaline and relief and terrifying exhilaration into the pressure of my mouth against his.
He responds immediately, one hand sliding into my hair while the other wraps around my waist, lifting me completely off the ground as he deepens the kiss with an applause around us fade into white noise.
When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and flushed and thoroughly aware that I've just added "making out with the CEO in front of his staff" to my list of spectacularly unprofessional decisions today.
"So," I say, my voice slightly unsteady, "about that job offer..."
Thrall's smile is sharp and satisfied and entirely predatory. "We'll negotiate the details. After you finish the afternoon session. I believe you threatened to cancel the wagyu skewers if anyone was late."
I check my watch, the expensive, practical timepiece I bought myself last year as a consolation prize for another missed promotion, and feel my eyes widen.
"It's 1:47," I announce, my professional instincts snapping back into focus with the precision of a steel trap. "Everyone has exactly thirteen minutes to be on the south lawn for trust exercises, or I'm making good on that threat."
The mass exodus toward the door is gratifying.
Thrall doesn't release me, his arms still wrapped around my waist, his expression amused and possessive in equal measure. "You're terrifying," he observes. "It's extremely attractive."
"I need to change," I inform him, trying to sound stern despite the way my heart is still racing from the kiss. "I can't lead a corporate retreat in your t-shirt."
"You absolutely can," he counters, but he sets me down carefully, his hands lingering on my hips. "But if you insist on maintaining your professional image, your luggage is still in your original cabin. I'll have someone retrieve it."
"I can get it myself?—"
"Romee. You just fought a battle that required significant emotional labor. Let me handle the logistics. You've been handling everyone else's logistics for years. It's someone else's turn."
The words hit somewhere tender, somewhere I didn't realize was bruised until this moment.
"Okay," I agree softly, and watch something like satisfaction flash across his features before he pulls out his phone to send a quick message.
Twelve minutes later, I'm back in professional attire—tailored pants, a crisp blouse, sensible flats—my hair restored to its usual sleek control. I check my reflection in the cabin mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
She looks the same as always.
But everything underneath has fundamentally changed.
I grab my clipboard, smooth my clothes one final time, and head toward the south lawn where twenty-three massive Orcs are waiting, on time, ready to participate in activities they absolutely hate.
Because I told them to.
And for the first time in three years, I'm doing this for myself.
Not for Richard.
Not for some impossible standard of perfection.
For me.
The afternoon session goes flawlessly.
CHAPTER 10
THRALL
Iwatch Romee's smug, pathetic excuse for a boss turn an unflattering shade of purple, spittle actually forming at the corners of his mouth as he screams at her to pack her bags. The man radiates the particular brand of impotent rage that comes from someone who has finally been confronted with their own mediocrity and found the experience intolerable.
