POV Jocelyn

The Tokyo deal closed and suddenly everyone’s acting like Zayden Wolfe just discovered fire, cured cancer, and solved world hunger all before lunch.

His penthouse is crawling with investors, executives, and people who definitely have more money than sense or basic human decency.

Champagne flows like water during a drought, expensive art hangs on every wall like it’s showing off, and the city sprawls below us forty-three floors down like we’re gods surveying our kingdom of glass and steel and crushing debt.

I’m wearing black because it’s safe. Sleek, simple, leaves my shoulders bare because it’s hot as hell up here with all these egos radiating testosterone and entitlement.

Also, black makes me look like I could disappear at any moment, which is exactly how I feel.

“Ms. Hartwell!”

Some investor whose name I’ve already forgotten—Richard? Robert? Rich Asshole Number Four?—waves me over with the enthusiasm of someone who’s had too much champagne and not enough therapy.

“Tell me, how does it feel working for a visionary like our Mr. Wolfe?”

“Like being struck by lightning daily,” I say, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing server. “Repeatedly. Sometimes twice before coffee.”

He laughs like I’m joking, slapping his knee with the kind of performance that screams “I peaked in college fraternity life.”

I’m not joking. Working for Zayden is like being trapped in a psychological thriller where the villain has really good cheekbones and an MBA from hell.

“She’s delightful,” Rich Asshole Number Four tells his equally forgettable companion. “No wonder Zayden keeps her around.”

The way he says “keeps her around” makes my skin crawl. Like I’m a particularly interesting pet.

Mr. Wolfe’s across the room, surrounded by suits kissing his ass about quarterly projections and market dominance like he’s some kind of corporate deity. But I catch him looking.

Those green eyes drag down my dress like he’s taking inventory, cataloging every inch of exposed skin for reasons I don’t want to analyze.

Heat crawls up my spine. Annoying, inconvenient heat that has absolutely no business existing in my current employment situation.

He excuses himself from his circle of admirers and stalks over like a predator who’s spotted something interesting enough to hunt.

“If you’re trying to impress investors,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear, “showing skin isn’t a strategy. It’s a distraction.”

The barely concealed tension in his words makes my pulse spike in ways that probably violate several workplace safety regulations.

I smile, sharp enough to cut glass and draw blood. “Says the man who sells power in custom suits that cost more than most people’s cars.”

“That’s different.”

“How, exactly?”

“My suits cost more than your life. They’re investments in perception.”

“And my dress cost more than your emotional intelligence, which admittedly isn’t saying much. We all have our assets, Mr. Wolfe.”

His jaw ticks in that way that means I’ve successfully gotten under his perfectly controlled exterior.

Good. I love watching that mask crack.

“Careful, Ms. Hartwell. Someone might think you’re flirting with your boss.”

“Someone might be projecting their own inappropriate workplace fantasies.”

We stare at each other for a beat too long. The air between us crackles with something dangerous and electric and completely fucking unprofessional.

“Zayden, honey!” A voice cuts through our staring contest like nails on a chalkboard.

Vivienne. Of course.

She appears beside him like she materialized from my personal nightmares, wearing white cocktail dress with a deep neckline and a smile that could freeze molten lava.

“The Shanghai representatives want photos with you,” she continues, sliding her arm through his with the possessiveness of someone marking territory. “You know how they love their social media documentation.”

He glances at me once more and then walks away without another word, after something unreadable flickering in those green eyes. Leaving me standing there feeling like I’ve been emotionally whiplashed by a professional athlete.

“Territorial much?” I mutter into my champagne, watching Vivienne parade him around like he’s her personal trophy.

The party continues around me. Conversations about market trends, someone’s yacht in the Hamptons, another person’s art collection that they definitely don’t understand but bought because it was expensive.

I smile and nod at appropriate intervals while internally cataloging all the ways these people prove that money can’t buy personality or basic human decency.

I need air. And my phone. And possibly a lobotomy to stop thinking about how his eyes looked like they wanted to devour me whole.

I wander through the penthouse, past clusters of people discussing things I don’t care about and wouldn’t understand if I tried.

His place is obscenely beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows that make you feel like you’re floating above the city, minimalist furniture and art that definitely belongs in museums but somehow ended up on his walls.

Everything is perfect, expensive, and completely devoid of actual personality.

I find what looks like a study and slip inside, hoping to locate my phone and five minutes of peace away from the corporate performance art happening in the main room.

Instead, I find a massive oil painting that stops me dead in my tracks.

A tiger.

Orange and black. Vicious. Beautiful.

Eyes that burn with wild intelligence and barely contained fury, muscles coiled like it’s about to leap off the canvas and devour whatever’s stupid enough to get in its way.

It’s magnificent and terrifying and so fucking familiar it makes my chest tight with recognition I can’t explain.

“You seem drawn to it.”

I spin around so fast I nearly drop my champagne. Zayden’s standing in the doorway, drink in hand, watching me with an expression I can’t read but definitely don’t trust.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Old habit. Light footsteps. Comes from years of avoiding conversations I don’t want to have.”

He moves closer, and suddenly the study feels smaller. More intimate. Like the walls are closing in and taking all the oxygen with them.

“Tigers survive,” he says, staring at the painting instead of me. “Even when the jungle burns around them. Even when everything they know gets destroyed.”

“Is that supposed to be profound corporate wisdom?”

“It’s supposed to be true.”

Something in his voice makes me actually look at him—really look. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable peeking through the cracks in his usual arrogance.

“My daughter loves them,” I say without thinking, the words escaping before I can stop them.

“Tigers?”

“Yeah. Draws them constantly. Says they’re strong and beautiful and can protect themselves no matter what.”

I take another sip of champagne, trying to ignore how this conversation feels different from every other interaction we’ve had.

“She sounds smart.” His voice goes softer, almost gentle. “Strong. Like her mother.”

Our eyes meet across the small space between us and suddenly I can’t breathe.

There’s something passing between us—heavy and terrifying. Like recognition. Like déjà vu wrapped in electricity and really bad life choices. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing you want to jump.

His gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse hammers against my throat hard enough that I’m sure he can see it. The air between us goes thick with possibility and danger.

I take a step back. Then another.

“I should— I need to—”

I turn and run before whatever this is can swallow me whole.