Chapter 7: The Professional Mask

A perfectly professional sheath dress that hit just below her knees.

Paired with modest heels and a pearl necklace that looked like something her grandmother might have given her.

Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun.

No crimson silk. No diamonds. No devastating confidence.

Just Martina.

His Martina.

The woman who’d been invisible to him for five years.

Except she wasn’t invisible anymore. Now he noticed everything. The way the dress hugged her waist. The elegant line of her neck. The fullness of her lips as she pressed them together, concentrating on her computer screen.

The way her fingers moved across the keyboard.

Fast. Efficient. Beautiful.

“Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,” she said without looking up.

Her voice was perfectly professional. Perfectly controlled. Perfectly devastating.

“Your 8:00 with the Goldman team has been moved to 9:30. Traffic accident on the FDR. I’ve already sent them the updated meeting link and had coffee and pastries delivered to the conference room.”

“Your mother called. She’s expecting you for dinner on Sunday, and she specifically said not to bring work this time.”

“And you have a stack of contracts on your desk that need signatures before noon.”

Jordan stood there frozen.

She rattled off his schedule like Saturday night had never happened. Like she hadn’t walked into the Plaza on another man’s arm wearing a dress that probably cost more than her monthly salary.

Like she hadn’t looked at Jordan with eyes that held nothing but polite professional distance.

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice rougher than intended.

“Ms. Hayes, do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

She looked up then, meeting his gaze with those warm brown eyes that now held carefully constructed walls.

“What do you need?”

What did he need?

He needed to understand what happened. He needed to know if Marcus Ashford was the reason she was wearing pearls instead of diamonds. He needed to know if she’d been pretending for five years or if Saturday night was the pretense.

He needed to know if he’d lost her before he ever had her.

“Coffee,” he said instead.

“Please.”

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