Page 110 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

I go still. My mind runs the scenarios in under a second—another intruder, a breach, someone who’s gotten past Nathan’s security rotation. I shift my weight forward, lowering the laptop to the nearest surface. My phone goes into my pocket. My hands are free.

Sophie and I look at each other. There’s a split second of silent communication, and we move.

She reaches for the door handle. I position myself behind her left shoulder, close enough to intervene, far enough not to crowd her motion. She adjusts her grip and tightens her stance. She looks at me once more—a quick, confirming glance that says ready?—and pulls the door open.

Lucy Finley and Fabian Monroe spring apart like they’ve been electrocuted.

Lucy’s blouse is untucked on one side, the fabric bunched above her waistband. Her hair, usually pulled back in a neat ponytail, is half undone. Fabian’s glasses are so thoroughly fogged they’ve become opaque, and he’s holding a bottle of all-purpose cleaner in a way that suggests he grabbed the first object within reach and is now holding it like it explains everything.

They’re both flushed and panting and looking at Sophie and me with the pure, distilled horror of two employees caught making out in a supply closet by the CEO of the company.

“Mr. Cavill!” Lucy’s hands fly to her hair, trying to smooth it into something that doesn’t look like it was recently gripped by another person’s fingers. “We were just—I was—there was a—the supplies needed⁠—”

“Lucy,” I say. My voice is level. “Mr. Monroe.”

“Sir, I can explain—” Fabian starts, his glasses still opaque, his dignity in ruins.

“I’m sure you can.” I hold the door open wider, stepping back to clear the exit. “Perhaps somewhere other than between the mop and the paper towels.”

They scramble out. Apologizing over each other, words tumbling and colliding—so sorry, won’t happen again, completely unprofessional, we were just—practically tripping over their own feet as they flee down the corridor. Lucy’s heels click frantically against the floor, the sound accelerating as she rounds the corner. Fabian, still clutching the bottle of all-purpose cleaner, walks directly into the wall, bounces off, and keeps going without acknowledging it.

Sophie and I stand in the empty hallway. The closet door swings slowly shut behind us with a long, theatrical hiss.

We watch Lucy and Fabian disappear around the corner. The sound of their retreat fades and then the corridor is silent.

Sophie turns to me.

“We can safely rule those two out,” she says. “Whatever they’re leaking, it isn’t data.”

And I can’t help it, I laugh. The sound is low and warm, and it surprises me completely, but once it’s out, I can’t pull it back. It fills the corridor, and I have to brace a hand against the wall.

Then Sophie looks up at me and she smiles and I can feel my heart squeeze.

The corners of her eyes crinkle and she looks completely open and unguarded and all I can think is, God, she’s beautiful.

I’ve always known she was beautiful, but somehow, seeing her like this, open and smiling at me like we’re two normal people who just shared a funny moment in a hallway, undoes me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“Sophie, I—” I step forward. My body moving toward her without my permission, my hand rising, reaching for—what? Her face? Her arm? I don’t even know.

“Max—” she says, taking a step forward. Her eyes are soft and her lips are parted, and I think she’s going to close the distance between us.

Then she blinks, and the softness is gone. “Let’s go to your office,” she says, already turning.

I stand in the corridor for a second, my hand still half-raised, my heart beating fast.

Then I follow.

Sophie sits across from my desk, her files spread between us, the lamp casting a warm circle of light that catches the angles of her face.

“So far things have been uneventful in the research wing,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.

Except for Ethan’s demonstration of the knotting device, I think. I wonder what she thought about it.

“Diana Quinn seems dedicated and the team clearly respects her,” she continues. “But there are some things I noticed. She takes her phone to the bathroom every single time. She’s got a browser window she minimizes the second anyone walks by—and I mean she nearly jumps out of her chair doing it, Max. It’s not casual. She looks guilty as hell every time.”

She hands me a page and taps a line on it.

“But here’s the real one. Diana’s been accessing formulation files outside her project scope. Three times in the last week—files she has no reason to open. I had Declan pull her access logs.”