Corpor Wife 13

My day just got better, knowing Rhys didn’t eat the food Bianca brought him. I won’t lie, there was a certain satisfaction in that. It was clear now—things weren’t perfect between Rhys and Bianca. Maybe he was finally starting to second-guess his decision to throw me away.

Good.

I was still smirking when I saw my father, Fernand, standing in the hallway with a thick envelope in his hand. He didn’t pause before delivering his latest order.

“Power. Unity. Image. You and Damon are the face of Q3 now. Don’t mess it up.”

I waited until he turned his back before I rolled my eyes. Unity? There was nothing unified about two people who would rather go head-to-head in a boardroom than breathe the same air backstage.

But I said yes anyway. Because Monroe isn’t just a company anymore—it’s mine now. My battleground. My stage. And I wasn’t backing down, especially not from the man who thought he’d be the only one standing here.

As for the tension between us? I didn’t want to think about it. But the universe clearly had other plans.

Backstage at the Monroe Innovation Conference was a blur of sound and motion. Handlers barked instructions. Lighting techs yelled over each other. Mic checks buzzed through the speakers. Caffeine and adrenaline floated through the air like perfume. And in the center of it all stood Damon Ashcroft.

He paced with the precision of a man who expected the stage to answer to him. His navy three-piece suit was perfectly tailored, his hair combed with military discipline, his posture unshakable. He wasn’t reading the script anymore—he knew it by heart. He was just trying to burn off whatever control he still thought he had.

Finally, his eyes landed on me.

“We stick to the talking points,” he said.

I lifted an eyebrow. “I always thought improvisation was part of the charm.”

He didn’t smile. “You’re not here to perform.”

“Actually,” I said, brushing a nonexistent speck off my blazer, “I’m exactly here to perform. Just not for you.”

His jaw tightened. For a split second, we were back in the boardroom, facing off like two storms waiting to collide. The air between us pulsed with unspoken challenge.

“I’m covering product development,” he said firmly. “You handle the Q3 rollout. We split marketing and review projections together after the break.”

I stepped into his space, close enough to disrupt his rhythm. “Do you always deliver logistics like bedtime stories?”

He exhaled, sharp and slow. “Just try not to surprise me.”

“Oh, Ashcroft,” I murmured as I passed him the final slide packet. “You haven’t even seen what I’m capable of.”

Then I noticed it—his tie was slightly off. Barely crooked, but enough to pull my attention.

“Hold still,” I said.

He frowned. “What now?”

“Your tie.”

He hesitated, but didn’t move as I reached up and adjusted it. My fingers brushed the smooth silk, then the edge of his collarbone. His breath hitched.

His hand settled on my waist. Not to guide or steady me—just to touch. The weight of it was warm, unapologetic, and far too intentional.

Everything around us seemed to pause.

We didn’t speak. We barely moved. My pulse beat against my ribs like a warning, and I hated how aware I was of him. I finished fixing the knot, but neither of us let go. The silence stretched, charged with something neither of us wanted to name.

Then the stage manager called our cue.

We stepped back, away from each other, like nothing had happened. Like it hadn’t meant a thing.

The lights hit our faces as we stepped onto the stage, poised and synchronized. A united front. The crowd went quiet. Damon opened with practiced confidence.

“Monroe’s legacy is rooted in risk, vision, and the kind of leadership willing to chase both.”

I followed without missing a beat. “That’s why today, we introduce Monroe+. Not a campaign. Not a pitch. A transformation, one that begins with access, ends with accountability, and demands results in between.”

The applause came after a breathless silence. We moved through the rest like seasoned co-hosts. Strategy. Growth. Market penetration. Every word was seamless. Every shift in tone rehearsed.

But beneath the surface, there was something else. I could feel Damon watching me—not with suspicion or competition, but with interest. With curiosity. Like he was trying to find the version of me he once underestimated, and now couldn’t stop tracking.

She never left. He just hadn’t seen her clearly before.

When the final slide faded and the cameras began to lower, we stood side by side for the closing shot. Damon leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only I could hear it.

“You didn’t upstage me.”

I smiled without turning. “Didn’t need to.”

But he kept looking at me, not like a rival—but like a man standing too close to fire and daring it to burn him.

And just like that, I realized something I hadn’t been ready to admit before.

I’d stopped pretending to hate his attention.

I had started to want it.