They spotted Evans approaching, his confident swagger noticeably dimmed compared to earlier. The man’s smirk had faltered, his steps not quite as sharp, as if the Dutchmen had already clipped his wings. Winn didn’t spare him so much as a glance. Thɪs chapter is updated by n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net
He breezed past, shoulders squared, the embodiment of untouchable power.
Inside the conference room, the five men sat waiting. The table gleamed, glasses of water untouched, papers neatly stacked. Winn moved smoothly into host mode. "I’m sorry, gentlemen. Turns out elevators can’t be trusted not to mess with your timing nowadays."
"Goedemiddag," Ivy said brightly. Their faces softened into smiles at her effort. Well played, Winn thought, his eyes darting to her for half a second before he refocused on business. Ivy slid into her chair, fingers pulling the laptop from her bag, already clicking it awake.
The discussion was long, numbers exchanged, architectural models scrutinized. The investors had one condition: a Dutch villa must be included in the mall design, a cultural anchor that would make their people feel represented in the project.
The investors extended their hands, it wasn’t just to Winn. They shook hers too. "Good luck, Mr. Kane," one of them said. Winn accepted, his own handshake firm.
They exited the room. His stride carried a quiet satisfaction. Her idea, her instincts had saved him, and he hadn’t even acknowledged it properly.
At the elevator, Winn paused. The stainless-steel doors reflected his image back at him.
"You take the elevator. I will take the stairs," Winn said flatly.
"Mr. Kane," Ivy groaned, "what are the chances we’ll get trapped in the elevator twice in one day?" She gestured to the doors that were silently waiting for them, the hotel staff having promised it was safe.
"Chances I don’t want to take," Winn muttered without even looking at her, and he pivoted sharply toward the stairwell.
Ivy rolled her eyes skyward and huffed. She followed him through. Thank heavens they didn’t have to climb up these stairs, she thought. Now she understood why the House of Kane headquarters had deliberately designed its central offices without elevators.
Her formidable, untouchable boss had a weakness. And it was... refreshing.
Halfway down the stairwell, Winn stopped abruptly
In one swift, shocking motion, Winn turned, grabbed her by the waist, and crushed his mouth against hers.
Her brain short-circuited. For two heartbeats, all she could do was blink, lips pressed against his in stunned silence. Then her instincts took over. Her eyelids fluttered closed, her breath hitched, and her body betrayed her common sense. She leaned in. She let herself be kissed.
The kiss was a collision of restraint finally breaking. His mouth was hot. His hands pulled her against the hard lines of his chest, caging her in.
Her lips parted slightly on a gasp, and it was an invitation he didn’t hesitate to accept. Winn deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against hers in a slow, claiming stroke that left her shivering.
Her thoughts ran wild. This is insane. He’s my boss. He’s too old. I have a boyfriend. He’s off-limits. Each argument rose and promptly drowned under the sensation of his mouth moving against hers, the taste of him.
What was supposed to be a thank-you kiss turned reckless.
It took every ounce of Winn’s iron self-control to end the kiss. His body screamed to stay pressed against her, to devour the heat she offered, to forget the inconvenient little details of professionalism, and lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
He pulled back slowly, his breath mingling with hers for one lingering second before he opened his eyes. Her lips were kiss-swollen, her pupils dilated, her chest rising and falling. He wanted to dive back in. Instead, he whispered: "Thank you."
Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned on his heel and continued down the stairs with crisp, unflinching steps.
Ivy didn’t move. Her hand gripped the railing as if to steady herself, because her knees sure as hell weren’t doing the job. What. In. The. Fucking. Hell. Just. Happened? She could still feel his mouth on hers, taste the hunger he hadn’t even tried to hide.
By the time Ivy arrived back home, she’d convinced herself she needed silence, and maybe an entire bottle of Winn Kane’s wine to sort out the chaos in her chest. Instead, she found Steve sitting on her porch steps, his shoulders slumped, his elbows on his knees.
"Steve, I really have nothing to say to you."
"I got the job, Ivy," he blurted, as if the words were supposed to fix everything. As if employment was an eraser for betrayal.
"Congratulations," she bit out. "Now leave me alone."
"Ivy, please. I’m sorry. I needed this job. I needed to step up and...and be able to give you a good life. I wanted to be good enough so that when I asked you to marry me, you wouldn’t hesitate. I...I know you’re mad, and I deserve it. But I did what I did to get a job, to be a better man for you."
"You cheated on me—to be better for me? That’s your pitch? You fucked someone else because you wanted to propose?"
Steve looked at her with guilt, and a pathetic kind of hope.
Ivy simmered down, if only for a heartbeat, letting her temper ebb just enough to stop herself from screaming the neighborhood awake. She did understand the pressure of wanting to provide, of wanting to feel worthy in a relationship.
God knew she had danced for long nights at Commissioned, taken bruises in stilettos for that same reason. But just last Friday, she had refused fifteen thousand dollars for a private lap dance. Fifteen. Thousand. Dollars. And she’d walked away because she had a boyfriend.
This boyfriend. And that was what made this betrayal burn. "There would have been other opportunities for a job, Steve. We’re both still young. Don’t use me as your excuse for cheating."
"I didn’t cheat! I...I..." Steve stammered, hands flailing as if the air itself might build his defense for him.