Chapter 4 Heartbeat Violations

# Chapter 4: Heartbeat Violations

The Geneva Conference Center hummed with the multilingual murmur of the World Economic Summit, where tech giants mingled with policy makers and financial leaders. Wynne stood at the edge of the grand ballroom, observing Magnus in conversation with the French Finance Minister. Their "relationship" had now survived four months of public scrutiny, and they had developed a comfortable rhythm—appear together, maintain professional distance in private, ignore the growing inconsistencies in their arrangement.

When raised voices erupted from the Japanese delegation's table, Wynne's crisis manager instincts activated before her brain fully registered the situation. She moved swiftly across the room, arriving just as the Perry Group's Asia Pacific director fumbled through an apology in broken Japanese.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding," Wynne interjected smoothly in flawless Japanese, bowing at precisely the correct angle to the senior delegate. She continued in their language, explaining that the translation error in the contract was being addressed and offering a cultural context that soothed the rising tension.

When the Japanese executives nodded with newfound respect, she transitioned to Mandarin to address the concerned Chinese investors who had gathered nearby, explaining the situation and assuring them of Perry Group's commitment to cultural sensitivity.

Finally, she turned to the European stakeholders, switching to French to summarize the resolution and express gratitude for their patience during the minor diplomatic incident.

The room had fallen into impressed silence. From across the floor, Wynne caught Magnus watching her, his expression unreadable but intensely focused.

Later, as they rode the elevator to their respective hotel suites, Magnus broke their usual post-event silence.

"Three languages," he said. "Your file mentioned fluency in French, but not Japanese or Mandarin."

"My file?" She raised an eyebrow. "You have a file on me?"

"Standard procedure for executive contracts." He looked straight ahead at the elevator doors. "You saved us from a significant setback tonight."

"Just doing my job."

"No," he contradicted quietly as the elevator stopped at her floor. "Your job was crisis management for a specific incident four months ago. This was... exceptional."

The doors opened, but Wynne hesitated before stepping out. "Thank you," she said, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

Magnus nodded once, his eyes meeting hers briefly. "Breakfast meeting tomorrow, 7 AM. We should discuss contract adjustments."

---

The hotel's private dining room offered a spectacular view of Lake Geneva, though neither of them seemed to notice as Magnus slid a document across the table.

"Addendum to our original agreement," he explained, watching as she reviewed the pages.

Wynne frowned. "You want to extend the contract?"

"Six additional months, with modified terms." Magnus sipped his coffee. "The board is pleased with the stability our arrangement has created. Market perception remains positive."

She turned to the third page, where a new clause caught her attention. "Section 5.3—'Physical contact parameters expanded to include appropriate embraces during public appearances'?" She looked up, finding Magnus studying her reaction carefully. "We're adding hugging to the contract?"

"For authenticity," he replied, his tone businesslike despite the faint color that appeared high on his cheekbones. "Several publications have noted our... physical restraint."

"So this is a PR move."

"Precisely."

Wynne considered the document, turning pages slowly until she reached the final section. Clause 13 remained unchanged, its golden letters still prohibiting emotional attachment.

"You've increased the compensation significantly," she observed.

"Commensurate with the extended duration and expanded parameters."

She signed with the hotel's fountain pen, telling herself the flutter in her stomach was simply due to the financial implications for her firm. Magnus added his signature beside hers, their names intertwining on the page.

"I have another meeting," he said, standing abruptly. "The car will take you to the conference center."

As he gathered his papers, his sleeve caught the edge of his water glass, sending it crashing to the floor. Wynne instinctively reached out, steadying his arm to prevent him from stepping on the glass.

Their first unscripted physical contact.

For a moment, neither moved. Wynne became acutely aware of the solid warmth of his forearm beneath her fingers, the subtle scent of his cologne, the unexpected vulnerability in his startled expression.

"Careful," she said softly, releasing him.

Magnus cleared his throat. "Thank you," he replied, his voice lower than usual. Then he was gone, leaving Wynne alone with the broken glass and the lingering sensation of his skin against her fingertips.

---

The Geneva incident shifted something subtle between them. Though they maintained their professional boundaries, Wynne noticed small changes—Magnus standing slightly closer during events, occasional moments when his hand would brush against hers while walking, the new habit he had of guiding her through crowds with a light touch at her waist.

These observations occupied her thoughts as dark clouds gathered over Manhattan one Thursday afternoon. The forecast had predicted clear skies, leaving Wynne unprepared when thunder cracked overhead as she exited a client meeting near Central Park.

She had just ducked under a café awning when a black Town Car pulled to the curb before her. The window lowered to reveal Magnus in the back seat.

"Get in," he called over the sudden downpour. "I was on my way back from Morgan Stanley."

Wynne slid into the leather interior, grateful to escape the deluge. "How did you know I was here?"

Magnus hesitated. "Location sharing for executive security. Standard protocol."

Before she could question this explanation, the car jerked to a halt in gridlocked traffic. The driver sighed. "Flash flooding on Fifth Avenue, sir. We're blocked in all directions."

"How far are we from the office?" Magnus asked.

"Eight blocks, but in this weather..."

"We'll walk," Magnus decided, reaching beneath the seat to produce a large black umbrella. "No point sitting here indefinitely."

Wynne stared at him. "Walk? In this storm?"

"Afraid of getting wet, Ms. Valdez?" The challenge in his voice was accompanied by the faintest smile.

Minutes later, they hurried through the downpour beneath the umbrella's inadequate shelter. The wind drove rain sideways, soaking them despite Magnus's efforts to shield her. Pedestrians rushed past in blurred desperation while taxi horns blared uselessly in the immobile traffic.

"This was a terrible idea," Wynne laughed, pressed close to Magnus's side as they navigated a flooded crosswalk.

"I've had worse," he replied, his arm tightening around her waist as they dodged a spray of water from a passing bus.

They were thoroughly drenched by the time they reached the Perry building, hurrying through the lobby leaving puddles in their wake. In the private executive elevator, Wynne caught their reflection in the mirrored wall—her blouse clinging damply, his usually perfect hair plastered to his forehead, both of them looking ridiculously disheveled.

"Very dignified, Mr. Perry," she teased.

To her surprise, Magnus laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound that transformed his face. "Dignity is overrated sometimes."

The elevator doors opened to the executive floor, and they parted ways to find dry clothes. Wynne changed into the spare outfit she kept in her office, then headed to the conference room for their scheduled status meeting.

When she arrived, Magnus was already there, wearing a fresh suit that gave no indication of their recent adventure. He was absorbed in a call, gesturing for her to wait as he finished the conversation.

Wynne busied herself reviewing notes on her tablet. When she glanced up, she noticed Magnus had set his phone on the table—and froze.

His lock screen wallpaper was a photograph of her. Not a press image or posed shot, but a candid moment captured during her keynote speech at the Chicago Business Forum three weeks earlier. She recognized the blue dress, the gesture of her hand emphasizing a point. Her expression in the photo was animated, confident, entirely professional—yet the fact that Magnus had chosen this image for his most personal device seemed profoundly intimate.

He ended his call and turned, catching her staring at his phone. For a rare moment, Magnus Perry—master of composure—looked caught off guard.

"Your assistant sent the press photos," he explained quickly, flipping the phone over. "I was reviewing them for approval."

The explanation was plausible but didn't address why that particular image was his wallpaper. Wynne nodded, allowing him the pretense.

"Of course," she said. "Shall we begin the meeting?"

---

The following morning, Wynne's assistant burst into her office, excitement radiating from her expression.

"Have you seen them?" she asked, thrusting a bottle into Wynne's hands. "They're everywhere in the building!"

It was a water bottle—sleek, minimalist design with the Perry Group logo. But as Wynne turned it in her hands, she noticed something unusual in the glass texture. Embossed subtly into the surface was a small pattern—two intertwined letters: W and V.

"The new company water bottles just rolled out," her assistant continued. "Everyone's talking about it. They're saying Mr. Perry personally approved the design."

Wynne stared at the delicate initials, nearly invisible unless caught in the right light. Her initials, permanently embedded in a product being distributed throughout the global corporation.

"Interesting choice," she managed to say.

"Interesting?" Her assistant looked disappointed at this mild reaction. "It's practically a declaration! The design team said they submitted twelve concepts and he rejected them all until they created this one."

After her assistant left, Wynne placed the bottle on her desk, studying the intertwined letters. This wasn't part of their agreement—this subtle but permanent marking of company property with her initials. Like the phone wallpaper, the heart-shaped notes, the handmade chocolates, it existed outside the carefully defined parameters of their contract.

Clause 13 explicitly prohibited emotional attachment, yet evidence was mounting that Magnus might be violating that golden rule—perhaps without even realizing it himself.

More concerning was her own reaction: not professional alarm at this boundary blurring, but a warm, spreading sensation in her chest that felt dangerously like hope.