Chapter 7

Gabriel's Pov

Control.

That's what I was proud of. What I built my name on. What people feared me for.

Control over emotions.

Control over desire.

Control over every damn pulse that raced through my body when something — or someone — tried to drag me under.

And yet…

Here I was.

Leaning against the cold marble wall of a women's bathroom, heart pounding like I'd just run a goddamn marathon.

I wasn't a man who lost control.

Not in boardrooms. Not in bedrooms. Not in the way most men crumbled the moment temptation whispered their name.

But her?

She didn't whisper.

She wrecked.

One look. One touch. One cruel, knowing smirk, and I was done for.

She moved like sin. Smiled like a dare. And every time she walked away, she left something smoldering in my chest I couldn't extinguish, no matter how tightly I clung to logic.

Because of her.

That woman. That vixen. That problem.

I had no idea what the hell just happened in here. All I knew was that I walked in thinking I was the one doing the hunting, and walked out feeling like I'd been gutted and gifted the knife with a smile.

She didn't even kiss me.

Didn't even fucking kiss me.

And yet I was ready to fall to my knees for it.

Her eyes were sharp, endless, and taunting. A shade of something dangerous. They didn't just look at me… they read me. Like they already knew the parts I tried to bury beneath boardrooms and billion-dollar deals.

Her lips were full and flushed and parted just slightly when she spoke in that voice that wrapped around my spine like smoke.

Her body, Jesus.

That dress. That neckline. That stretch of bare, milky skin that disappeared into silk like an invitation.

She pulled the strings. She played the game.

And I let her.

No, I wanted her to.

I'd spent years untouchable. Years not needing anyone. Not chasing. Not wanting. I had left those habits buried in my mid-twenties, along with the versions of me that used to care.

But now?

Now, all I could think about was how her skin would taste if I kissed down that tempting neckline. How her breath would catch if I pressed her against a wall and finally claimed what she kept dangling just out of reach.

I wanted to ruin her composure. To watch that sharp mouth part with breathless moans instead of cocky retorts.

I imagined her under me, flushed and trembling, those defiant eyes wide with surrender.

How her legs would wrap around me like they were made to hold me there.

How she'd melt under my hands, not because I took control, but because she'd give it. Freely. Just for me.

And God, I would savor every second.

I'd map every inch of that soft, stubborn body until she begged.

And then I'd make her beg more.

I saw it. Clear as day. Her nails clawing at my back, her voice unraveling like silk around my name, that dangerous glint in her eyes flickering into desperation.

Because she was fired.

But I'd make her burn for me.

Completely.

And it wasn't just lust.

It was possession.

She wasn't a woman I wanted to sleep with and forget.

She was a goddamn addiction.

And I didn't plan to quit.

She could tease. She could run. She could play her little games with whispers and nails down my jawline like she had here...

But I'd catch her.

And when I did — she'd be mine.

Not just for a night.

For as long as she kept making me lose my mind.

And I was going to enjoy every second of the chase.

Every second of breaking her.

And letting her break me back.

Because I couldn't get her out of my fucking head.

The way she leaned in was like a secret.

The way her breath ghosted over my neck and lit me on fire.

The way she denied me, right when I was ready to take.

She was dangerous.

Addictive.

And I would chase her. I would hunt her. I would learn every trick in her book and rewrite the rules myself.

Because make no mistake — she would be mine.

And I was going to love the ride.

My phone buzzed.

Like a bucket of ice dumped over the heat she left behind.

I stared at it for a second, jaw clenched, fingers itching to toss it against the wall.

Instead, I inhaled. Slow. Deep. Found the steel that always lived beneath my skin.

And answered it.

"What is it, Cole?" I bit back the temptation to snap at him.

"Mr. Whitaker has been on my tail ever since you left. The man is obsessed with you and wants that meeting I cancelled with him last week, upon your instructions. He has me cornered right now and wouldn't leave without a date. Where are you?"

I sighed. Stephen Whitaker was a leech. He was a parasite dressed in bespoke suits.

A relic of the old-money crowd, slicked-back hair, fake charm, and business ethics that smelled like cheap cologne and rotting ambition. He was known for making money, sure. But the kind that came with lawsuits, hushed NDAs, and offshore accounts no one dared to ask too much about.

We'd crossed paths more times than I cared to remember. Every single one of them left me needing a drink and a shower.

For months now, he'd been pestering Cole for a partnership. Said we could "make a killing together." What he meant was: Let me ride your clean name while I keep my hands dirty.

I'd dodged him long enough. Maybe it was time to put an end to it, officially.

"Fine," I said. "Schedule the damn meeting for tomorrow."

There was a pause on the line. "At your office?"

I thought about it.

If Whitaker set foot in my building, he'd cling like a bloodstain. He'd schmooze the front desk, shake hands with interns, then refuse to leave without a promise—or a scene.

I wasn't in the mood for either.

"No," I said coldly. "At his."