Chapter 3 Office Ambiguity

# Chapter 3: Office Ambiguity

"You're glowing," Lisa remarked, studying me over her coffee cup. "Either you've discovered the fountain of youth, or you're getting laid."

I nearly choked on my latte. We were seated in the company cafeteria, the Monday morning rush swirling around us. Three weeks had passed since I'd agreed to Kane's dangerous proposition, and apparently, the effects were visible.

"I've been using a new serum," I lied, avoiding her knowing gaze.

"Mm-hmm. And does this 'serum' have a name?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Before I could respond, a hush fell over the cafeteria. Kane had entered with Max Thompson, the company's ambitious Vice President. As always, Kane commanded attention without effort, his tall frame impeccably dressed in a navy suit that made his eyes even bluer.

Those eyes found mine across the crowded space, and a slight smile curved his lips before he returned his attention to Max. My stomach flipped embarrassingly.

"Oh my God," Lisa whispered, her gaze darting between Kane and me. "No. Ava, tell me you're not—"

"I'm not anything," I hissed. "Keep your voice down!"

She grabbed my wrist. "The new serum is Richardson? Are you insane?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I insisted, though my burning cheeks betrayed me.

"Your face literally lit up when he walked in. And he definitely looked at you." She leaned closer. "Spill. Everything. Now."

"There's nothing to spill," I muttered, gathering my things. "I have a meeting in five minutes."

In truth, I was meeting with marketing's creative team, but Kane had mentioned he might stop by. These "coincidental" encounters had become more frequent—he'd appear in the break room when I was making coffee, schedule meetings that required my specific input, even ride the same elevator despite his office being on a different floor.

Each time, he maintained perfect professionalism, yet managed to brush against me or whisper something that would leave me flustered for hours. It was a calculated game, one that left me constantly on edge.

The meeting was already underway when I arrived. I slipped into an empty seat, nodding apologetically to Marcus, our director.

"As I was saying," Marcus continued, "the board wants fresh campaigns for the summer launch. Richardson specifically requested more innovative approaches."

Twenty minutes later, Kane appeared at the door. The room immediately straightened, conversations halting mid-sentence.

"Don't let me interrupt," he said smoothly, taking the empty seat directly across from me. "Please continue."

Marcus stumbled back into his presentation, clearly nervous under Kane's scrutiny. I kept my eyes on my notes, feeling Kane's gaze like a physical touch.

"Ms. Mitchell," Kane said suddenly, "you've been quiet. What are your thoughts?"

All eyes turned to me. "I think we should focus on experiential marketing," I said, finding my professional voice. "Our research shows customers want to feel connected to brands on a personal level."

Kane's eyes gleamed with approval—and something more private. "Elaborate."

For the next few minutes, I outlined my ideas, gaining confidence as I spoke. The team seemed impressed, nodding along. But Kane's focused attention made it hard to concentrate.

"Excellent insight," he said when I finished. "In fact, I'd like you to lead this project."

Marcus blinked in surprise. "Sir, typically senior team members—"

"Ms. Mitchell has demonstrated the vision I'm looking for," Kane interrupted smoothly. "Unless you have objections to her capabilities?"

"No, of course not," Marcus backpedaled. "Ava is very capable."

After the meeting disbanded, whispers followed me back to my desk. Being singled out by the CEO was both a professional boost and a social complication.

"The golden girl," sneered Greg, a colleague who'd been angling for promotion for months. "Must be nice having friends in high places."

I ignored him, but the comment stung. Was this what Kane's "arrangement" would mean? Constant suspicion from colleagues, assumptions about favoritism?

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: *My office. 5 PM.*

I knew who it was without asking. We'd exchanged numbers "for professional purposes" last week, though so far our messages had been anything but professional.

At 5:05, I knocked on Kane's office door, entering when he called out. The executive suite was impressive—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, minimal but expensive furnishings, and a desk that could double as a dining table.

Kane was reviewing documents, his jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up. He looked up as I entered, his expression unreadable.

"Close the door."

I did, then stood awkwardly, unsure if this was a professional meeting or something else. "You wanted to see me?"

"Always," he replied, the single word laden with meaning. "But professionally speaking, I wanted to discuss your new role."

He gestured to the chair across from his desk, all business now. For twenty minutes, we discussed the campaign, my ideas, the timeline. His insights were sharp, his feedback constructive. This was the confusing part—he was genuinely good at his job, and working with him was intellectually stimulating.

"That covers everything," he finally said, closing the folder. "Any questions?"

"Just one. Why did you really give me this project?"

Kane leaned back in his chair. "Because you deserved it. I don't mix business with pleasure, Ava."

"Says the man who's sleeping with his employee," I countered.

A smile played at his lips. "Fair point. But I'd have given you this opportunity regardless. You're talented."

The compliment warmed me more than it should have. "People are talking."

"People always talk." He stood, moving around the desk to perch on its edge near me. "Does that bother you?"

"Of course it does. I've worked hard to be taken seriously."

Kane studied me, his expression softening slightly. "No one who hears your ideas could doubt your competence. The rest is just noise."

His hand reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The simple gesture sent electricity through me.

"We should be careful here," I whispered.

"We should," he agreed, not moving away. "But I've been thinking about you all day."

My breath caught as his fingers traced my jaw. "Kane—"

"I like how you say my name," he murmured. "Especially when you're underneath me."

Heat flooded my body at the memory of our last encounter—his weight pinning me to the bed, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.

A knock at the door made us spring apart. Kane straightened, instantly composed. "Come in."

Max Thompson entered, his sharp eyes taking in the scene—me flushed and flustered, Kane's proximity to my chair.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"Just wrapping up," Kane replied coolly. "Ms. Mitchell is leading the summer campaign."

Max's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Is she now? Interesting choice."

Something in his tone made my skin crawl. Kane must have felt it too, because he moved slightly between us, his posture subtly protective.

"Did you need something, Max?"

"The board report. But it can wait until you're..." he paused meaningfully, "...finished here."

After he left, tension hung in the air. "He suspects something," I said quietly.

"Max suspects everyone of everything. It's why he's effective at his job." Kane touched my shoulder lightly. "Don't worry about him."

But I did worry, especially when Max began appearing wherever Kane and I interacted. He watched us with calculating eyes, never saying anything directly but making his suspicions clear.

The pressure mounted over the next two weeks. By day, I worked tirelessly on the campaign, determined to prove my worth. By night—at least twice a week—I met Kane at the club, losing myself in his arms, forgetting the complications waiting in the morning light.

Then came the company cocktail party celebrating a major new client acquisition. The entire staff gathered in a upscale hotel ballroom, dressed in formal wear and sipping champagne.

I wore a burgundy dress that Lisa had insisted was "killer but still professional," my hair swept up to expose my neck. Kane's eyes found me the moment I entered, his conversation with board members faltering briefly.

"He hasn't taken his eyes off you for ten minutes," Lisa whispered, appearing at my side with drinks. "You need to be more subtle if you don't want the entire company knowing you're sleeping with the boss."

"I'm not—" I began automatically, then sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows you well. But Max Thompson is watching both of you like a hawk."

She was right. Max stood across the room, his gaze calculating as it moved between Kane and me.

"Be careful, Ava," Lisa warned. "Men like Richardson come and go. Your reputation stays."

Her words haunted me as I mingled, making small talk while acutely aware of Kane's presence across the room. I was reaching for another drink when Greg, slightly drunk and still bitter about the campaign, stepped into my path.

"So what did you do to get that promotion?" he asked loudly enough for nearby colleagues to hear. "Extra hours in the executive suite?"

Conversations around us quieted. My face burned with humiliation and anger.

"My ideas got me that promotion," I replied coldly. "Maybe try having some of your own."

Greg stepped closer, alcohol making him bold. "Come on, we all see how Richardson looks at you. No one gets that kind of attention without—"

"Without what, exactly?"

Kane's voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stood behind Greg, his expression thunderous.

Greg paled, turning slowly. "Sir, I was just—"

"Harassing a colleague? Undermining a talented team member?" Kane's voice was controlled but ice-cold. "My office, 9 AM tomorrow."

The surrounding crowd pretended to return to their conversations, though everyone was clearly listening.

"Ms. Mitchell," Kane continued, his tone softer but still professional, "the client has been asking about your campaign concept. Would you mind joining us?"

I nodded mutely, following him toward a group of executives. As we walked, his hand settled at the small of my back—a gesture that could be interpreted as merely polite, but felt unmistakably possessive.

Just before we reached the client group, Kane leaned down slightly, his breath warm against my ear.

"You're the most captivating woman in this room," he murmured, voice pitched for me alone. "And everyone should know you're mine."

The boldness of his statement, made in such a public setting, should have alarmed me. Instead, a dangerous thrill ran through me as I realized our carefully compartmentalized arrangement was beginning to blur at the edges.

When his arm remained around my waist as he introduced me to the clients, making his claim visible to anyone watching, I knew we had crossed yet another line. The question was how many more remained before we reached the point of no return.