The following days stretched out like a taut wire, humming with tension, and with every passing hour, Jemma’s presence became an open wound. I saw her each morning, her heels clicking a precise rhythm on the linoleum, her jacket tailored so perfectly it looked painted on. She drifted through the office with that same calm grace, the air around her sweet and sharp, like citrus and sandalwood. Over the hum of computers and the distant ring of phones, her voice slid—low, controlled, dangerously smooth. “Good morning, everyone,” she’d say, and the room would exhale.

I forced myself to return her polite nods, but my heart slamming against my ribs made even that an effort. Her smile was warm, but distant—like sunlight filtered through frosted glass. I remembered the curl at the corner of her mouth back in the conference room, that devilish promise of secrets and sin. Now there was only the bright, courteous mask. At every “How are you?” and “Thank you,” a piece of me broke off. My chest tightened until it felt like steel bands were squeezing my lungs. Despair wormed its way into my bones until I thought I’d never heal.

I should have been sated. Strangely enough, at home, nights with Bridgette had become a relentless blur of desire. Our sex life better than it had ever been. We tumbled together with an intensity that left me raw and trembling. Tracing her spine with my fingertips, our bodies spoke a language of fire—my hands memorizing every dip and curve, my mouth worshipping every gasp. Sometimes she teased me in the dark: “Thinking about making love with someone else?” Her tone was playful, but the question cut deep. “No,” I lied, but my mind would already be slipping back to the conference room—Jemma’s fingertips grazing the hem of her skirt, the way her breath caught when she’d cum

I saw her face when I closed my eyes: lips parted, eyes dark with invitation, nails dragging down my back. I’d push Bridgette away, my skin hot, my heart pounding so violently I thought it might burst. “Everything okay?” she’d ask, and I’d nod, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. But the fantasy looped in my head, a ribbon of flame that refused to burn itself out.

By the time a full week had bled by, I could no longer endure the silence. I scanned the office until I spotted Max hunched over his monitor, dark hair falling into his eyes. Swallowing my pride, I called out, loud enough for half the floor to hear, “Hey, Max—coffee break? I’m grabbing one. Want anything?” My voice sounded too cheerily casual, but my heart felt like it would leap from my throat.

Max looked up, blinking like he’d woken from a nap. Recognition lit his face, followed by that trademark smirk. “Absofuckinglutely,” he drawled, stretching the last word as if it were gourmet chocolate. He leaned back in his chair. “I was just about to step out. You mind if I tag along?”

I managed a nod. “Be glad of it.”

Outside, the air was crisp—autumn’s sharp bite that made me pull my collar higher. Max strode beside me, swinging his travel mug. “Long night?” he asked.

I forced a shrug. “Rough one.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “The wife giving you a hard time?”

I laughed, but it came out hollow. “No, nothing like that.”

Max paused at the elevator, then turned to me. “You sure? You’ve been off since last Thursday.”

Truth hovered on my tongue, he had to know what I was going through, but I swallowed it down. “Just busy.”

The elevator buzzed shut, and I studied Max’s neck in the dim light—a habit I couldn’t shake. There were dark hickeys there, ringed bruises that looked almost festive in their intensity. My stomach lurched. That should have been me. Angry words formed, but all I could manage was a stiff nod.

At the coffee shop, Max glided up to the counter, bantering with the barista like they were old friends. “Triple shot latte for me, thanks,” he said, flashing that grin. She blushed, her fingertips brushing his as she handed him the cup. He turned and winked at me. “See? Easy.”

I ordered my black coffee and watched the exchange, something acid sour rising in my chest. I remembered Jemma’s easy confidence—how she owned every room she walked into. My envy coiled around my ribs, tighter and tighter, until I could hardly breathe.

We settled into the stiff wooden chairs by the window. Steam curled from our cups, filling the space between us like a living thing. Max leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So, office gossip—turns out Carol and Bennett are a thing. HR is losing their minds.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Seriously?”

He nodded, looking triumphant. “Oh, yeah. They’re sneaking around the supply closet. It’s too tight in there.”

I forced a smile. “That’s… something.”

Max tilted his head, studying me. “Jemma shutting you out?”

My throat seized. I wanted to demand: Tell me why. Tell me everything. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead I wrapped my hands around the hot mug, pretending I hadn’t asked. “Yep,” I said softly.

He shrugged, spinning his cup. “She’s busy. Big project coming up.”

I bristled. That was it? No details about their dinners, no glimpses of her hair tumbling over his collarbone, nothing about the spark I knew had been there between them. Frustration slammed into me like a freight train. My teeth ground together, but when I opened my mouth, only the sound of my pulse drumming in my ears came out.

Then Max sat back, eyes lighting up. “You want in do you?” I nodded. Max continued, “Hey—Franco’s hosting that wine-and-cheese thing next Friday. After work. You in?” His tone was casual, but I felt my pulse ratchet higher.

An invitation. Hells to the yeah. I kept my face impassive. “Yeah… I’d like that. What should I bring?”

He waved one hand dismissively. “Just yourself.”

Just myself. I almost laughed at the simplicity. As if I weren’t a man unraveling, desperate for one more look, one more touch from Jemma. As if I could just stroll into Franco’s gathering and everything would be normal again.

Next Thursday loomed like a promise and a threat all in one. Nearly two weeks had slipped by since that stolen conference-room moment, and every second I’d spent pretending to be okay had only sharpened my need. I would not let another chance slip through my fingers. I’d do whatever it took—beg, grovel, drop to my knees if I had to. The thought of her—the honeyed lilt of her voice, the fragrant warmth of her skin, the steel-shaft of desire in her eyes—consumed me completely. I was a man possessed, and I would not rest until I reclaimed whatever it was that she’d taken from me.