Chapter 3

Claire's POV

I stood in the hospital corridor, the sterile smell of antiseptic stinging my nose, as Daniel's piercing blue-gray eyes bore into mine. His words from moments ago echoed in my head—"People like you don't help people like us without wanting something in return." My pulse hadn't slowed since he'd stepped close, the heat of his presence still lingering on my skin. I forced myself to focus, to regain the upper hand. This wasn't the time to falter.

But that night, after I left the hospital, I found myself analyzing our confrontation, mentally cataloging how to neutralize this potential threat to the company's reputation. I needed to understand his weaknesses, his pressure points. It was purely strategic—or so I told myself.

Yet as the hours passed, my thoughts kept straying from professional analysis to personal details—those broad shoulders, the raw pain etched into his face, the way his voice carried a quiet strength even in grief. I tossed in my bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin, irritated by this lapse in focus. This wasn't like me at all. I was always in control, always three steps ahead. And yet, here I was, restless over a man I barely knew, a man who should have been nothing more than a problem to solve.

The next morning, I sat in the conference room at Stanton Group headquarters, the Seattle skyline a gray blur through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Emily, my assistant, stood across from Daniel, her tablet clutched like a shield. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made the room feel smaller than it was.

"Mr. Brown," Emily started, her voice measured, "we've reviewed the details of the accident. While the legal complexities are being sorted out, our primary concern is your sister. We are prepared to offer immediate compensation for her care."

Daniel's jaw tightened, his arms crossed over his chest. Even in a simple black jacket and jeans, he looked imposing, like a wall I couldn't push through. "I understand what you're saying," he said, his tone low and clipped. "But no thanks. You can leave now."

I stepped forward from where I'd been observing by the window, my heels clicking on the polished floor. "Daniel, think about Sarah. Long-term treatment isn't cheap. This could help."

His gaze snapped to me, sharp and unyielding. "I'll figure out a way to take care of her myself."

I held his stare, my fingers brushing the edge of my tailored blazer. Frustration bubbled inside me, but I kept my voice smooth. "I admire your resolve. But pride won't pay hospital bills." I slid my business card across the table toward him. "When you change your mind—and you will—call me. Just know, by then, things between us won't be so... friendly."

He picked up the card, his rough fingers lingering on it for a split second before he tore it in half, letting the pieces fall to the table. "I don't need your games, Ms. Stanton."

I watched him walk out, the door closing with a heavy thud. My chest tightened, not with anger, but something else—something I refused to name. I turned to Emily, who looked pale. "What now, Ms. Stanton?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I adjusted the cuff of my sleeve, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "We wait. He'll come to me."

Later that day, in the back of my chauffeured sedan, the leather seat cool against my legs, I stared out at the rainy Seattle streets. Emily's concern replayed in my mind, but I brushed it aside. Daniel would break. They always did. Still, my fingers tapped restlessly on my knee, a nervous habit I hadn't indulged in years. Why did I care so much about his next move?

Days passed, and I buried myself in work. But every quiet moment, my thoughts betrayed me. My attention would drift from spreadsheets and contracts to the memory of his defiance, the unwavering dignity in his posture even when asking for help. I hated how my carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble just thinking about him, how my usually steady hands would pause mid-task, betraying a distraction I couldn't afford. During meetings, I'd catch myself missing key points, my mind reconstructing the contours of his face instead of focusing on profit margins. This wasn't just inconvenient—it was dangerous.

It was late, nearly dusk, when Emily called. "Ms. Stanton, Daniel Brown is here. He's been waiting in the lobby for hours."

My pen halted mid-signature, a drop of ink bleeding into the contract beneath it. A rush of anticipation replaced the afternoon's tedium so quickly it left me momentarily disoriented. "Bring him to my office."

When the door opened, I was behind my desk, the city lights casting a soft glow through the windows. Daniel stepped in, his frame filling the doorway. He looked worn, dark circles under his eyes, but those blue-gray orbs still burned with intensity. My breath caught for a moment before I steadied myself.

"Mr. Brown, it's been a while," I said, rising with a small smile. I gestured to the chair across from me. "Sit. Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?"

I poured a glass of ice water from the pitcher on my desk, deliberately avoiding coffee. He took the glass but didn't drink, his fingers gripping it tight. "I need money," he said bluntly, his voice rough, like he'd forced the words out.

I tilted my head, studying him. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid. "Mr. Brown, you're not very good at asking for help, are you?"

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glass still untouched in his hand. "Sarah doesn't need charity. I'm here to borrow the money for her treatment. I'll pay back every cent."

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "I'm not a bank, Daniel. If I give you this, I need something in return. A guarantee you'll keep quiet about the accident."

His brow furrowed, suspicion flashing across his face. "What exactly do you want?"

I picked up my phone from the desk, tapping it lightly against my palm. "I need leverage. Something to ensure your silence."

His eyes narrowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "What are you getting at?"

I stood, walking around the desk to stand closer to him. The air between us shifted, charged with something heavy. He looked at me, pride warring with desperation. A dangerous idea sparked in my mind, a way to shatter that pride, to bind him to me completely. It was cruel, it was risky, but it was the only way I could be sure. The only way to regain control not just over him, but over myself.

"I need you to take off your clothes. All of them. I'll record it. That's my insurance."

He shot to his feet, towering over me, his face a storm of shock and anger. "Are you serious right now?"

I didn't flinch, though my heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. "You came to me, remember? Sarah can't wait forever. Medical insurance has its limits. You know that."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "I'm a man, Claire. Even if this video leaks, it won't ruin me. I've got nothing to lose."

"Then why hesitate?" I challenged, my gaze locked on his. I could smell the faint scent of his cologne, something rugged and clean, mixed with the raw edge of his frustration. My eyes flicked to his clenched fists, the veins standing out on his forearms. I wanted to touch him, to feel that strength under my fingers, but I held back.

His silence stretched on, the only sound the faint hum of the city outside. I watched his face transform—rage giving way to calculation, then to a haunted look I recognized all too well. The weight of responsibility. The burden of having someone's life in your hands.

"Sarah doesn't have time," he finally said, his voice barely audible. "I've tried everything else. The VA benefits aren't enough, and no bank will approve a loan this size without collateral." His eyes met mine, filled with a mix of defeat and determination that made my chest tighten. "I'd rather live with shame than watch my sister die."

Then, slowly, with a resignation that seemed to age him years in seconds, he reached for the zipper of his jacket, sliding it down with deliberate movements. My throat went dry as he shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. Next came his shirt, each button undone revealing more of his hard, sculpted chest. Scars marred his skin—jagged lines that looked like old knife wounds, a puckered mark near his shoulder that could only be from a bullet. Each mark told a story of pain, of survival, and it made my stomach twist with a hunger I couldn't name.

He stopped at his belt, his hands hovering there, his gaze never leaving mine. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice rough, almost a whisper.

I didn't answer, my eyes traveling over him, taking in every detail—the sharp lines of his abs, the way his muscles tensed under my scrutiny. When he pushed down his jeans, leaving him in just tight black briefs, I couldn't look away. The outline of him was clear, and my composure fractured, sending shards of unwanted desire through every nerve ending, making me acutely aware of the narrowing space between us. My fingers tightened around my phone, the cold metal grounding me as I fought to keep my expression neutral.

"Keep going," I said, my voice quieter than I intended, betraying the storm inside me.

Daniel's hands paused, his chest rising and falling faster now. His eyes darkened, locked on mine, and for a moment, I thought he'd refuse. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs. My breath hitched, the room suddenly too small, too warm. I couldn't tear my eyes away, not even if I wanted to.