Heat Novels

The elevator in Marcus's building smells like stale coffee and broken dreams.

Or maybe that's just me.

I clutch the manila folder containing divorce papers I printed at the twenty-four-hour Kinko's at six this morning. My hands are steady. My makeup is perfect. I'm wearing the navy Armani suit I bought for my thirtieth birthday—the one Marcus said made me look like I was trying too hard.

Good.

I want to look like I'm trying. I want to look like someone who has her shit together, even though I spent last night sleeping on a guest bedroom floor because my husband and sister claimed the master.

Even though I can still smell cedar and bourbon on my skin.

Even though I'm about to walk into my husband's office building and demand he sign away our marriage while pretending I didn't fuck a stranger twelve hours ago.

The elevator dings. Fifteenth floor.

Deep breath, Elena.

You've got this.

The reception area is all glass and chrome, aggressively modern in that way companies use to prove they're innovative. A blonde in her early twenties sits behind the desk, her smile professionally vacant.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Marcus Cross."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm his wife."

That gets a reaction. Her eyes widen slightly, and I catch the flash of recognition. Oh good. She knows who I am. Which means she probably knows about the affair too.

Fantastic.

"Let me just... I'll call his extension."

She picks up the phone, turning slightly away. I catch fragments: "Your wife is here... No, she doesn't... I don't know, she just..."

When she hangs up, her smile is even more strained. "He'll be right out."

I don't sit. I stand there in my expensive suit with my folder of divorce papers, channeling every ounce of fuck-you energy I can muster.

Marcus appears three minutes later, looking harried. His tie is slightly loose, his hair not quite as perfectly styled as usual. He sees me and something crosses his face—annoyance? Fear?

"Elena. What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk."

"I'm at work."

"I'm aware." I gesture around us. "Nice office. Shame you'll be looking for a new one soon."

His jaw tightens. "Let's not do this here."

"Why not? Afraid your colleagues will find out what a piece of shit you are?" I keep my voice low, pleasant even. The receptionist is definitely listening. "Or have they already figured it out?"

"Conference room. Now." He grabs my elbow.

I yank away. "Don't touch me."

For a second, real anger flashes in his eyes. But we're in public, and Marcus is nothing if not aware of appearances. He forces a smile, gestures down the hallway.

"Please."

The conference room is generic corporate—long table, uncomfortable chairs, motivational posters about synergy. Marcus closes the door and rounds on me.

"What the hell, Elena?"

"Sign these." I slap the folder on the table.

He doesn't even look at it. "Divorce papers? Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious."

"Because of one mistake—"

"One mistake?" The laugh that comes out of me is sharp enough to cut. "You fucked my sister. In our bed. Repeatedly, I'm guessing, based on how comfortable you both looked."

"It's not what you think."

"Really? What is it then? Enlighten me."

He runs a hand through his hair, and I recognize the gesture. He's about to try the reasonable approach. The one where he makes me feel crazy for being upset.

"You've been distant for years, Elena. Cold. I tried to connect with you, tried to make this marriage work, but you were always somewhere else. With someone else in your head."

The accusation lands like he knew it would. Because he's not entirely wrong.

I have been somewhere else. With someone else.

For ten years, I've been half-present in my own life, haunted by steel-gray eyes and a choice I can never take back.

But I don't let him see the hit.

"So you fucked my little sister. Very mature problem-solving, Marcus."

"She needed someone. You were too busy being perfect to notice she was falling apart."

"Don't you dare put this on me." My voice drops to something dangerous. "You don't get to fuck my sister and then blame me for it."

"I'm not—" He stops, recalibrates. "Look. I know it was wrong. I know I hurt you. But we can work through this. Couples therapy, whatever you need."

"I need you to sign the papers."

"Elena—"

"Sign. The. Papers."

Before he can respond, someone knocks on the glass door. We both turn.

It's the receptionist, looking apologetic and terrified. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, Mr. Cross, but Mr. Kane's office just called. He wants to see you both. Immediately."

Marcus goes pale. Actually pale.

"Both of us?"

"You and Mrs. Cross. Top floor. Now."

I watch confusion and fear war on my husband's face. "Why would Kane want to see my wife?"

The receptionist shakes her head. "I don't know. But when Mr. Kane says immediately, he means immediately."

She disappears, leaving us in charged silence.

"Who's Kane?" I ask.

Marcus is staring at the table, his jaw working. When he looks up, there's something in his eyes I've never seen before.

Genuine fear.

"Dominic Kane. He bought the company three months ago. He's... fuck. He's not someone you say no to."

Dominic.

The name hits me like a physical blow.

No.

No, it can't be.

It's a common name. There are probably hundreds of Dominic Kanes in this city. Thousands. The odds of my one-night stand being Marcus's new boss are astronomical.

Right?

"Elena?" Marcus is watching me. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine." My voice sounds far away. "Let's just get this over with."

We take the elevator to the top floor in silence. Marcus keeps shooting me nervous glances, but I can't look at him. Can't think about anything except the growing certainty in my gut.

It can't be him.

Please, God, let it not be him.

The top floor is different. Where the fifteenth floor was all glass and chrome, this is old money. Dark wood, leather, the kind of understated luxury that costs more than most people make in a year.

Another receptionist—older, sharper—barely glances at us. "Mr. Kane is expecting you. Go right in."

Marcus straightens his tie. Squares his shoulders. Puts on his professional smile.

I follow him through the heavy wooden door.

The office is massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Expensive art on the walls. A bar cart in the corner with bottles that probably cost more than my car.

And behind the desk, rising to his feet with predatory grace, is the man from last night.

Steel-gray eyes. Dark hair silvering at the temples. Six-foot-three of controlled power in a suit that probably costs five figures.

The scent of cedar and bourbon hits me like a freight train.

Oh God.

Oh fuck.

"Marcus." His voice is the same—deep, commanding, the kind of voice that makes you want to either obey or defy just to see what happens. "Thank you for coming. And you must be Mrs. Cross."

He extends his hand across the desk.

I stare at it like it might bite me.

Because twelve hours ago, that hand was in my hair. On my throat. Between my thighs.

And now it's being offered in professional greeting while my husband stands right next to me.

"Elena," I manage. My voice sounds strangled. "My name is Elena."

"Elena." He says it like he's tasting it. Like he's savoring every syllable. "Beautiful name."

I force myself to take his hand.

The contact is electric. His fingers close around mine, firm and warm, and for one horrible, perfect second, I'm back in that hotel room. Back in his bed. Back in the moment before everything went to hell.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Once. Deliberate.

Then he releases me and gestures to the chairs facing his desk. "Please. Sit."

Marcus sits immediately. I lower myself into the chair next to him, my legs suddenly unreliable.

Dominic—because apparently that's who my one-night stand is, Dominic fucking Kane, billionaire CEO—settles back into his own chair. He's completely relaxed. In control.

Like he hasn't just blown my entire world apart.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you both here." He leans back, steepling his fingers. Those steel-gray eyes move between us, assessing. "I like to meet the families of my key employees. Get to know them. Understand what motivates the people who work for me."

"Of course, sir." Marcus is in full suck-up mode. "I appreciate you taking the time—"

"How long have you been married?"

The question cuts Marcus off mid-sentence.

"Ten years," I hear myself say. "Ten years this June."

"Ten years." Dominic's gaze locks on mine. "That's a long time. You must have been quite young when you married."

"Twenty-two."

"And you, Marcus?"

"Twenty-four, sir."

"College sweethearts?"

There's a beat of silence. Marcus glances at me, uncertain.

"No," I say quietly. "We met after college."

"Interesting." Dominic leans forward slightly. "And how are you finding married life, Elena?"

The question is so absurdly inappropriate I almost laugh.

"It has its challenges."

"I imagine it does." His eyes never leave mine. "Marriage is difficult. Especially when you're young. Sometimes we make choices we think are right at the time, only to realize later we've made a terrible mistake."

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure they can both hear it.

He knows.

He knows exactly who I am.

This isn't a coincidence. This isn't random.

He planned this.

"Mr. Kane," Marcus interjects, clearly uncomfortable with the personal turn. "If this is about my performance—"

"Your performance is exactly what this is about." Dominic finally looks away from me, turning his attention to my husband. "I've been reviewing files since the acquisition. Getting familiar with the team. And your name kept coming up."

Marcus straightens, preening slightly. "I've been with the company for eight years. I'd like to think I've made valuable contributions—"

"I'm sure you would like to think that." Dominic's voice is pleasant. Almost friendly. "Unfortunately, the numbers tell a different story."

The temperature in the room drops about twenty degrees.

"I... I'm not sure what you mean, sir."

"Don't you?" Dominic pulls a file from his desk drawer. Flips it open. "Discrepancies in the quarterly reports you filed. Expense accounts that don't quite add up. Client meetings that may or may not have actually happened."

Marcus has gone from pale to gray. "There must be some mistake—"

"There's definitely a mistake." Dominic closes the file. "The question is whether it's incompetence or something more deliberate."

I watch my husband squirm, and I should feel vindicated. Triumphant, even.

Instead, I feel sick.

Because Dominic isn't doing this for justice. He's doing this for me.

Or to me.

I'm not sure which.

"I can explain—" Marcus starts.

"I'm sure you can." Dominic stands, and we both automatically rise as well. "But not today. I want you to go back to your office and put together a detailed account of every project you've worked on in the last two years. Every client meeting. Every expense. Every decision."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

"You have until Monday morning." Dominic comes around the desk, moving into our space. He's so much taller than Marcus. So much more present. "I suggest you be very thorough. Very honest. Because if I find out you've lied to me..."

He lets the threat hang there.

Marcus nods frantically. "I understand. Thank you for the opportunity to clarify—"

"You're dismissed."

Marcus practically runs for the door.

I start to follow, but Dominic's voice stops me.

"Mrs. Cross. A moment."

I freeze.

Marcus hesitates in the doorway, looking between us. "Elena?"

"I'll meet you downstairs," I hear myself say.

"But—"

"I said I'll meet you downstairs."

He leaves. The door closes with a soft click.

And I'm alone with Dominic Kane.

The silence stretches. I can hear my own heartbeat. Feel the weight of his gaze on my back.

Finally, I turn around.

He's leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't read.

"You knew," I say. "You knew who I was. Last night."

"Yes."

"You planned it."

"Yes."

The confirmation should make me angry. Should make me feel manipulated, used.

Instead, I feel something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

"Why?"

He pushes off the desk, moving toward me with that predatory grace. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

He stops close enough that I can smell cedar and bourbon. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"Ten years ago," he says quietly, "you walked away from me. Left me standing at the altar with no explanation. No goodbye. Just gone."

My breath catches.

No.

He can't be—

"Dominic Kane," he continues, watching recognition dawn on my face. "Used to be Dominic Kincaid. I changed it when I changed everything else about my life. When I decided to become someone worthy of the woman who destroyed me."

The room spins.

Dominic Kincaid.

My Dominic.

The man I left on our wedding day because I was too scared, too young, too convinced that passionate love couldn't possibly last.

The man I've thought about every single day for ten years.

"Oh my God."

"Hello, Elena." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is achingly familiar. "Did you miss me?"

I can't breathe. Can't think.

"Your husband," he continues conversationally, "is embezzling from my company. Not much. Not enough to get caught easily. But enough that I could have him arrested tomorrow if I wanted."

"You—what?"

"I also have evidence that he's been having an affair with your sister for approximately six months." His hand slides from my hair to my jaw, tilting my face up. "Which you already knew, based on the divorce papers you brought with you today."

"How do you—"

"I know everything about you, Elena. Where you work. Where you live. That you take your coffee black with one sugar. That you volunteer at the animal shelter every Saturday. That you've been sleeping in the guest room for two years because you can't stand to let him touch you anymore."

Each revelation is a violation. A intimacy I didn't consent to.

And God help me, it makes me wet.

"You're insane."

"Probably." His thumb brushes across my lower lip. "Ten years of obsession will do that to a person."

"I don't—I can't—" I'm stammering like an idiot. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're mine." His voice drops to something rough. Possessive. "You were always mine. And I'm going to prove it to you."

"I'm married."

"To a man who's fucking your sister." He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. "How's that working out for you?"

I should pull away. Should slap him. Should do literally anything except stand here trembling while my ex-fiancé-turned-billionaire holds my face like he owns it.

But I don't.

Because he's right.

I am his.

I've always been his.

Even when I married someone else.

"What do you want?" I whisper.

"Everything." His other hand finds my waist, pulling me against him. "Your marriage. Your loyalty. Your truth. I want you to admit that you made a mistake ten years ago. That you should have married me. That every moment you've spent with him has been a lie."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'll destroy him anyway." He pulls back just enough to look at me. "The embezzlement alone is enough for criminal charges. Add in the affair, the way he's positioned himself to steal from you in the divorce... I can make sure Marcus Cross never works again. Never recovers. I can ruin him so completely he'll wish he'd never heard your name."

"That's—"

"Justice?" His smile is cold. "Revenge? Or just giving you what you're too afraid to take for yourself?"

I hate that he's right.

Hate that part of me wants exactly what he's offering.

"You can't do this."

"I already am." He releases me, stepping back. "Monday morning. Nine AM. I want you here. In this office. With Marcus's complete employment file."

"Why would I—"

"Because you want to." His eyes strip me bare. "Because you spent ten years in a marriage that was dead before it started, and you're finally ready to bury the corpse. Because I'm offering you a way out that doesn't make you the bad guy."

"I don't need you to save me."

"I know." He returns to his desk, settling back into his chair like we've just concluded a normal business meeting. "But I'm going to anyway. Whether you want me to or not."

I should argue. Should tell him to go to hell.

Instead, I ask: "What happens on Monday?"

"That depends on you." He picks up a pen, turning his attention to the papers on his desk. "You can walk away. Take your divorce papers, leave Marcus, start over somewhere I'll never find you."

"Or?"

He looks up, and the heat in his gaze nearly buckles my knees.

"Or you can stop running. Stop pretending. Stop wasting your life on a man who never deserved you." He pauses. "And let me show you what you should have had all along."

The offer hangs between us, heavy with promise and threat.

"This is crazy."

"Yes."

"You're asking me to help you destroy my husband."

"I'm asking you to help me destroy the mistake you made ten years ago." He stands again, coming around the desk. "Marcus is just collateral damage."

He's close again. Too close.

And I'm not moving away.

"Nine AM Monday," he repeats softly. "Don't make me come find you, Elena. Because if I have to hunt you down again, I won't be nearly this patient."

His hand comes up, fingers threading through my hair, and for one breathless moment I think he's going to kiss me.

Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing my ear.

"By the way," he murmurs, "you left your earring in my bed last night. The diamond one. I'm keeping it."

Then he releases me and returns to his desk, effectively dismissing me.

I stand there for a frozen second, my mind blank, my body betraying me with want.

Then I turn and walk out before I do something stupid.

Like beg him to keep me too.

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The elevator ride down feels like falling.

Marcus is waiting in the lobby, pacing. He grabs my arm the second I appear.

"What did he want? What did he say to you?"

I look at my husband—this man I've wasted ten years on—and I feel nothing.

No anger. No hurt.

Just exhaustion.

"He wanted to meet me," I say. "Get to know the wife of one of his employees."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Marcus doesn't look convinced, but he's too worried about his own ass to push. "I need to get back to my office. Pull those files together. Jesus, Elena, if he finds something—"

"He'll find something," I say quietly. "We both know that."

He stares at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should probably get a good lawyer."

I walk away, leaving him standing there.

My phone buzzes as I reach my car.

Unknown number.

I know who it is before I even open the message.

Monday. 9 AM. Don't disappoint me.

And underneath, a photo.

My diamond earring, sitting on his nightstand.

Next to a framed photograph I can't quite make out.

I should delete it. Block the number. Run as far and as fast as I can.