HIS GUARD LET DOWN

(Izzy's POV)

The day he finally took the bait, I swear I felt my boobs grow more firm.

The message came just after 8 p.m.

Julian Sterling: Still at the office. Care for a drink?

Just six words. Simple. Discreet. Loaded.

I let it sit. Three minutes. Five. Then typed back:

Isabella Vale: Only if it’s good bourbon.

Julian Sterling: Always is.

The trap was already set, and he had finally taken the bait. The veneer of professionalism had started to crack, and now the man beneath was peeking out—restless, reckless, tempted. Perfect.

By 8:45, I was back in the tower. I took the elevator straight to the top floor, the quiet hum of the cables like the whisper of a promise. The office was bathed in low light, the skyline glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like a city draped in diamonds.

His door was ajar. The scent hit me first—leather, oak, and a hint of expensive cologne. Masculine. Commanding.

He looked up from behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie gone. A tumbler in his hand.

"Didn’t think you’d actually come," he said.

I arched a brow, stepping in. "You asked."

He gestured toward the bar cart. "Help yourself."

I poured two fingers, neat. We clinked glasses without ceremony.

Silence stretched, not awkward—anticipatory.

"Long day?" I asked, easing into the seat opposite him.

He sighed, taking a slow sip. "Every day is long lately. Some days I forget why I even built all this."

I tilted my glass, watching the liquid swirl. "Maybe you built it to escape something. Or someone."

Julian chuckled, low and rough. "You sound like my therapist. Only better dressed."

"I’m not here to analyze you," I said, my voice soft. "I’m here to listen. Or distract you. Whichever you need."

His eyes lifted to mine. Searching. Wanting.

"You’re dangerous, Isabella."

"So are you."

He stood slowly, walked around the desk, and leaned against its edge. Closer now. Close enough to feel the tension coiling in the air.

"You’re not like the others," he murmured. "You make everything... complicated."

"Life is complicated."

He looked at me like he wanted to devour me—or run.

I stood, taking slow, deliberate steps toward him.

"We could pretend," I whispered. "That this is just bourbon. Just conversation."

"But it’s not."

"No," I said. "It never was."

Then his hand was at my waist. Warm. Certain. I saw the war in his eyes—husband, father, CEO—versus man. Just a man, aching.

I closed the distance. The kiss exploded between us, sharp and fast. His mouth claimed mine with years of repressed hunger, his hand tangling in my hair as I pressed my body flush against him.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a fire breaking through stone walls, a hunger too long denied.

He pulled me up onto the desk. My heels thudded softly against the wood. Papers scattered. He didn’t care. Neither did I. My fingers made quick work of his shirt. His mouth moved down my throat, hot and desperate.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed.

I didn't. I couldn't.

I was here to destroy him, and yet I was being destroyed in return.

His mouth returned to mine, and suddenly we weren’t two people anymore, but something elemental—reckless, crashing. A secret written in sweat and gasps.

He whispered my name like a sin. I bit his lip like a dare. Somewhere in the tangle, my fingers slipped the USB drive into his computer. A blink of progress. A flash of triumph.

But as he laid me bare, his breath hot against my skin, something shifted. The plan—so clear, so sharp—blurred. His hands were not just greedy, they were reverent. This wasn’t just seduction. It was... surrender. From both of us.

Later, as we lay tangled on the rug, skin to skin, breathing hard, I glanced up at his desk. There, carelessly left open, were files. Financial reports. Contracts. Passwords scribbled on yellowing notes.

A buffet of secrets.

I slipped from his arms, wrapping the throw from the couch around my body. I moved like a shadow, efficient and silent. My phone camera clicked softly as I took the shots I needed. The drive was already uploaded.

Job well done.

And yet... I lingered.

Julian stirred. "Come back to bed."

I hesitated.

I could still feel his kiss on my lips. Still hear the way he’d said my name, not like a conquest, but like a question he didn’t want the answer to.

I slipped back beside him, curled against his chest… from that night on, Julian fucked me very often, with every chance we get, my plan didn't involve this much sex but his dick is good, it's treat and I love a good treat… and that's how we got to the point where my palms rested against the cool mahogany of his desk, its surface cluttered with documents I’d organized that morning. Now, half of them lay scattered like confetti, displaced by our breathless frenzy. Julian’s mouth grazed my collarbone, slow, reverent, like he was discovering religion in the scent of my skin.

"Isabella," he breathed against my neck, his voice raw with restraint, desire—maybe even confusion. "We shouldn’t be doing this."

I smiled. "We already are.”

I told myself it was a strategy. Just another move.

But even then, a whisper of doubt crept in.

What if he wasn’t the only one falling?

What if I’d just crossed a line I couldn’t uncross?