Page 78 of The Jaded Notes

I must be letting my emotions show.

She turns away to leave the room. “You just went into explicit details on why you wanted to end our meeting. That’s never happened.”

“Hmm.” I say nothing more.

If I do, I’m bound to slip up.

She opens the door to the room. “Let me know when you’re ready to review the updates I’ve made.”

“Of course.” I slide my pen into my suit jacket and wait for Natalie to leave.

Once she’s gone, I take a breath and try to get my head on straight. I’m going to find out who’s on the phone with Livianna, making her as happy as she was when she was at my place.

My heartbeat is faster than I want, but I need to go to her right now. I stride out of the conference room and into the one where Livianna’s working.

She doesn’t notice me, so I close in on her. I come up behind her, casually place my hands on her hips, and peek down at her sketchbook.

She jerks slightly. “Hold on, Daddy. Jaxon just stepped in to check my designs.”

Oh, it’s just her dad. My pulse steadies, and I take a half step back.

She hits the mute button. “Give me another minute and we can go over my latest numbers.”

“Take your time.”

“Thanks.” She unmutes the call. “Sorry about that.”

As she continues talking with her father, I scan her drawings. She knows exactly what she’s doing. That much is obvious.

“I will.” She moves a piece of paper aside to show me another creation she had hidden beneath the other. “When will that be?”

I nod at the picture and let her conversation fade into the background.

I’ve flipped through hundreds of designs before. All with clean lines, clever tailoring, even a few that anchored multimillion-dollar campaigns for my alumni, but this one stops me.

Not because it’s beautiful. Beautiful is easy. This one is lethal.

The pencil work alone could seduce a boardroom. Midnight silk that looks like it would pour over skin instead of clinging to it.

The bodice is a contradiction of sharp structure and sinful exposure. A slit that isn’t for convenience—it’s a warning.

I trace the beadwork on the shoulder with my thumb, feeling the pull in my chest and twist in my gut I didn’t invite. Every line tells me what she’s creating.

How someone wearing it would own a room without asking for permission. How every man in it would think the outfit is for him and be wrong.

It’s a power play disguised as a dress, a declaration without words: I’m a fucking force to be reckoned with.

And then my mind betrays me. I visualize her in it—hair swept back, throat bare, and the fall of that skirt parting just enough to reveal the inside of her thigh.

The image is so sharp, so consuming, I have to grip the edge of the portfolio to ground myself.

I should be thinking,sell it to the highest bidder. Instead, I want to be the one unfastening it at the end of the night.

What is this woman doing to me? Whatever it is should have me ending it before she gets caught up in the danger that surrounds me and anyone in my personal life.

But I’m not about to stop what we’ve started. She’s a damn drug I became addicted to fast, and I’m going to ride out this high until I can’t take any more.

And that could be a long time because I’ve never fallen for anyone the way I’m falling for her.