Chapter 8: The Truth Between Them

Something flickered across her face.

Disappointment, maybe. Or relief.

It was gone before he could identify it.

“Americano, double shot, extra hot. I’ll bring it in.”

She stood, and Jordan caught the faintest hint of her perfume as she moved past him.

Vanilla and something floral.

The same scent that had haunted his office for five years. The same scent he’d never consciously noticed until now. When it felt like it was branded into his brain.

He watched her walk to the small kitchen area adjacent to her desk.

Watched her move through the familiar routine. Selecting his favorite mug. The one with the Blackwell Enterprises logo that had somehow become his through years of unspoken ritual.

She knew exactly how long to let the espresso pull. Exactly how much water to add. Exactly how he liked the temperature.

She knew everything about him.

And he’d learned nothing about her except that she could break his heart without even trying.

“Here you go,” she said, placing the mug on his desk with the same practiced grace she’d displayed a thousand times before.

But this time, their fingers didn’t brush.

This time, she was careful not to touch him.

“Martina,” he said.

Her first name felt heavy and dangerous on his tongue. In the office, he usually called her Ms. Hayes in front of others and Martina when they were alone. But saying it now felt like crossing a line he’d spent five years carefully avoiding.

“About Saturday night.”

“There’s nothing to discuss about Saturday night, Mr. Blackwell.”

Her voice was pleasant. Professional. Final.

“I was attending a charity gala on my personal time with a personal guest. Just as you’ve attended dozens of similar events with your personal guests over the years. My private life and my professional life are separate, as I’m sure you’d agree they should be.”

The words were perfectly reasonable. Perfectly appropriate. Perfectly designed to put him in his place.

Jordan’s hands tightened on his coffee mug.

“Of course. I simply wanted to say that you looked—”

He stopped, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound like what it was.

A man realizing he’d been blind.

“Professional. Very professional.”

Her lips curved into something that might have been a smile on someone else.

On Martina, it looked like armor.

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwell. Though I wasn’t aiming for professional on Saturday. I was aiming for beautiful. Marcus assures me I succeeded.”

Marcus.

The name hung in the air between them like a thrown gauntlet.

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