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Ethan: Tonight you move in with me.

Thalia: Make me.

The message is barely sent before my gaze lifts toward his office, drawn there like I don’t have a choice. He’s inside with Nick, Chris, Chase, Kai, and two of his lawyers, all of them gathered around his desk in the middle of what looks like a serious discussion—the same one they were having when I arrived ten minutes ago, when the atmosphere already felt off in a way I couldn’t quite place.

He reaches for his phone, and I catch the moment his eyes drop to the screen.

I don’t wait to see more.

My attention snaps back to the files spread across my desk, forcing myself to focus on the lines in front of me, even though I haven’t processed a single word since I walked in. There’s a pressure in the room I can’t ignore, a silent change in the way people move, in the way glances linger a fraction too long before being pulled away, as if there’s a question hanging in the air that no one is willing to ask out loud.

“Thalia.”

His voice lands closer, too close, and my entire body goes still, a piercing tension locking through me before I even manage to turn my head.

“We need to talk.”

The words drain the strength from my legs so quickly it’s a good thing I’m already sitting.

“Uh… I was just checking something,” I manage, grasping for the first excuse that comes to mind, my voice not nearly as firm as I’d like it to be.

Please don’t do this here.

“Now.”

There’s no raising of his voice, no visible insistence—he doesn’t need it. The word falls between us with authority, final in a way that leaves no space for argument.

Around us, the shift is obvious.

Movements slow. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Attention redirects without subtlety.

I can feel it without looking.

When I finally do lift my gaze to him, it’s not defiance he finds, but a silent plea I don’t dare put into words.

Don’t.

Ethan doesn’t even pretend to consider it.

He steps closer, unbothered by the attention, closing the distance between us as his hand wraps around mine with calm certainty, pulling me up from the chair. I rise because resisting would only make this worse, not because my body is cooperating—my balance feels unreliable at best, my pulse already out of control.

“You can all get back to work,” he says, his tone changing seamlessly into the one they all answer to without question. “My woman and I have something to discuss.”

Heat rushes through me so fast it almost stings, shame and awareness crashing together as I become painfully conscious of where I am, of who is watching, of what that sentence just confirmed out loud.

I don’t argue.

I let him guide me, my hand still caught in his, each step toward his office making the tension grow under my skin.

The door closes behind us with a soft click.

“Privacy on.”

“No,” I say with urgency, the protest slipping out faster than I can filter it, breath catching halfway through. “What are you doing? They’ll think God knows what we’re doing in here.”

“Hey.”

The single word warms the air more effectively than anything else.