"That concludes our projected ROI for the Meridian acquisition, gentlemen."
I close the presentation folder and meet the eyes of seven board members.
The chairman nods, his weathered face creasing into approval.
"Impressive analysis, Mr. Hale. Asher, your new assistant has a remarkable grasp of acquisition strategy for someone who came up through analytics."
"He does."
Asher's voice carries from the head of the table.
"Ethan has exceeded every expectation since his reassignment. We are fortunate to have him."
The praise cracks open doors I've been trying to keep shut since the weekend.
The board members file out, and I busy myself collecting materials while the room empties.
"Stay."
I look up to find Asher watching me, steel eyes burning with something that has nothing to do with quarterly projections.
"The meeting went well," I manage. "The chairman seemed satisfied with the analysis, and the acquisition timeline should proceed without complications."
"Ethan, I'm not asking you to stay for a performance review."
He rises and moves toward me with predator grace.
"I've spent forty minutes watching you command a room full of men who've been in this industry longer than you've been alive, and the only thing I could think about was clearing that table and laying you across it."
Heat floods my face.
"Asher, we agreed to maintain professional distance during business hours. Anyone could walk in."
"Anyone could," he agrees, stopping close enough that I smell his cologne. "But they won't. The board has a lunch reservation across town, and the floor is empty until two."
"That doesn't mean we should take unnecessary risks with something we've barely begun to understand."
My voice wavers because his hand has found my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
"What happened this weekend changed everything for me. I cannot afford to jeopardize it by being careless where everyone can see us."
"What if I don't want to be careful anymore?"
His thumb traces my lower lip.
"What if watching you succeed today made me want to claim you in front of everyone who ever made you feel worthless?"
"Then I would tell you that impulse control is one of the qualities I admire most about you, and we have plenty of time for claiming when we're somewhere private."
I lean into his touch despite my own warnings.
"I want you. That hasn't changed since Friday. But I need to know this can survive daylight and professional pressure and all the complications that come with wanting three men who also sign my paychecks."
"You're remarkable," he breathes.
The door swings open, and I step away from Asher so fast I nearly trip.
So much for professional distance.
The thought surfaces with bitter humor as Hargrove's calculating gaze sweeps between us.
You lasted exactly one business day before shattering every boundary you demanded.
The hypocrisy tastes sour in my throat. I wanted rules that would protect me, and I'm the first one breaking them.
"Mr. Varkas, I have a question about the Henderson account that couldn't wait."
Hargrove's voice slithers into the room, and I step away from Asher so fast I nearly trip.
"I apologize for the interruption. I didn't realize you were in a meeting."
His eyes dart between us—Asher's hand still raised, my flushed face, the charged air. Calculation moves behind his smile.
"What's your question, Hargrove?" Asher's voice has gone glacial.
"The Henderson projections need additional sign-off before submission. I wanted to confirm whether Hale's original analysis should be credited or if the revisions require new attribution."
Hargrove's gaze lingers on me.
"Standard protocol. Just want to make sure credit goes where credit is due."
"Credit the original analyst and note the revisions in the supplementary file. Ethan, you're dismissed."
I gather my materials and flee, Hargrove's eyes tracking my retreat with patient satisfaction.
The music room exists on the fourteenth floor, tucked between storage closets.
I discovered it during my second week, when insomnia drove me to wander the building at midnight.
Tonight, the keys feel like confession beneath my fingers.
I play without sheet music, letting muscle memory guide me through pieces I learned before my father decided piano lessons were turning his son into something unacceptable.
A notebook lies open beside me, and words spill across the page.
I want your frost to burn me.
I want your control to break.
I want to be the reason your ice becomes fire.
I want your hands to mark me where no one else can see.
I want to be claimed, consumed, kept.
I want everything you've been too careful to take.
"That's quite the composition."
I spin on the bench.
Blaine leans against the doorframe, amber eyes gleaming, with Cole behind him.
"How long have you been standing there?" My voice comes out strangled. "That notebook is private."
"Long enough to know you write poetry about our brother like he's a god you're desperate to worship."
Blaine prowls toward me.
"Cole, did you see the part about wanting his control to break? Our little composer has very specific fantasies."
"The lyrics are beautiful, Ethan."
Cole moves closer.
"They're also the most honest thing you've ever shown us, and I think that terrifies you more than the idea of us reading them."
"I didn't write them for an audience. I wrote them because I don't know what to do with everything I'm feeling, and music has always been the only safe place to put the things I can't say out loud."
"Then say them to us instead."
Blaine tilts my chin upward.
"You want Asher to lose control? Tell us exactly what you imagine when you think about him finally letting go, and I promise Cole and I will make sure you're ready for whatever he gives you."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
But my body betrays me, leaning into his touch.
"The three of you have turned my entire understanding of myself inside out in less than a week. I'm still trying to figure out how to exist in this new version of reality where wanting what I want doesn't make me a monster."
"It makes you human."
Cole presses against my back, his lips finding my neck.
"It makes you brave and honest and exactly the person we've been waiting for without knowing we were waiting."
Blaine kisses me, and I taste hunger and patience and the sweetness of being wanted.
His hands find my buttons while Cole's mouth works along my shoulder, and I'm gasping against the piano, my body singing with sensation that drowns out every voice that ever told me this was wrong.
They take me apart on the piano bench.
Cole enters me from behind while Blaine swallows every sound I make, and the keys press discordant notes beneath my palms as I shatter between them.
Afterwards, I slump against the instrument, boneless.
"We should get you home," Cole murmurs against my temple. "Asher is waiting. He's going to want to know about those lyrics."
"You wouldn't dare show him what I wrote."
"Of course not."
Blaine's smile glitters.
"But you're going to read them to him yourself, and we're going to watch his face when he realizes exactly how much you want him to lose control."
The door creaks.
We freeze.
Footsteps echo in the hallway—slow, deliberate, unmistakably approaching.
Someone else is still in the building.