I Sent a Dirty Voice Note to My Billionaire Enemy

"Sarah called in sick with a fever." Caleb unlocked the doors of his matte-black SUV. "Get in the car, Harper."

"I can take a cab to the site," I replied, gripping the handle of my leather tote.

"We need to verify the asset inventory in an hour. Get in."

I yanked the passenger door open and slid onto the leather seat. Caleb climbed in beside me, pulling the heavy door shut. The confined space instantly shrank.

He turned the ignition. The air conditioning blasted, carrying a sharp, clean scent straight to my nose. Mint and cedar.

My fingers dug into my knee. Just three days ago, North had described his favorite cologne on our voice app. *Mint and cedar. Clean, sharp, keeps me awake during late nights.*

"Are you going to stare at the dashboard the entire ride?" Caleb asked, merging onto the highway.

"I am looking at the GPS," I lied. "Trying to figure out why we have to do this inventory ourselves."

"Because I want the original property deed in my hands today. The demolition crew needs a clear title by noon tomorrow."

"You could have sent a paralegal."

"I do not trust paralegals to navigate a condemned building." He cut the steering wheel sharply, taking the downtown exit. "Besides, you insisted on being involved in every step of the Oakhaven project. Consider this your final walkthrough."

"A victory lap for you, you mean."

"A necessary legal procedure," he corrected, his eyes fixed on the road.

We pulled up to the rusted chain-link fence surrounding The Oakhaven. The century-old brick facade loomed against the gray sky, magnificent and entirely abandoned.

I pushed through the heavy wooden double doors. Rusted hinges shrieked in protest. Thick beams of sunlight pierced the shattered stained-glass windows, illuminating millions of dust particles swirling in the stagnant air.

Caleb stepped inside and immediately swatted at the lapel of his tailored charcoal suit.

"This place is a biohazard," he muttered, brushing a thick layer of grime off his sleeve.

I walked past him, running my bare hand along the exposed brick wall. The rough, cool clay felt solid under my palm. "It stood for a hundred years. It has character."

"It has asbestos and dry rot," Caleb shot back. "Your sentimentality is blinding you to basic structural failure."

"My sentimentality recognizes craftsmanship," I argued, turning to face him. "You just see a lot size and a profit margin."

"I see a liability waiting to collapse on a pedestrian." He pulled a heavy brass flashlight from his coat pocket and clicked it on. The harsh white beam cut through the gloom. "The archive room is in the basement. Let's get the deed and get out."

"You really cannot wait to tear this down," I said, walking toward the narrow stairwell.

"I am eager to finalize the paperwork. The sooner this site is cleared, the sooner we break ground on the commercial tower."

"You are heartless."

"I am efficient."

The basement air felt heavy, smelling of old paper and damp earth. Rows of metal filing cabinets lined the cramped walls, leaving barely enough room for two people to stand side by side.

"Look for boxes marked nineteen-twenty," Caleb instructed, shining his light along the bottom row.

I moved down the narrow aisle. The metal shelves towered above me, stacked high with decaying cardboard. I scanned the faded marker labels.

"Over here," I pointed to the top shelf. "Property records. Nineteen-twenty to nineteen-thirty."

The box sat precariously close to the edge, far above my head.

"Wait," Caleb said, stepping toward me. "I will get it."

"I have it," I insisted.

I rose onto my tiptoes, stretching my right arm up. My fingertips grazed the bottom edge of the cardboard. I pushed upward, trying to slide it forward.

The damp cardboard buckled.

The heavy box tipped over the metal lip, plummeting straight toward my face.

I gasped, throwing my hands up to shield my head.

A solid weight slammed against my back. Caleb's long arm shot past my ear. His large hand clamped onto the side of the box, catching it mid-air.

The sudden impact knocked the air out of my lungs. My spine pressed flat against his chest. I felt the hard line of his jaw brush against my temple.

"I told you to wait," Caleb murmured.

His voice vibrated directly against my shoulder blades. The scent of mint and cedar wrapped entirely around me, suffocating and intensely familiar.

"You can lower the box now," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

"Can I?" he asked.

He didn't move. His chest rose and fell against my back. The heat radiating from his body seeped through my silk blouse. His arm remained extended over my shoulder, trapping me between the metal shelf and his torso.

"Caleb," I warned, staring at the white bandage still wrapped around his index finger, resting inches from my face.

"You are shaking, Harper," he noted, finally lowering the box to the shelf at waist level.

"It is cold down here," I lied, refusing to turn around.

"Is it?"

"Yes. Just open the file so we can leave."

He reached past my hip, his knuckles grazing my skirt as he flipped the cardboard lid open. The physical contact sent a sharp spike of adrenaline straight through my veins. I pressed myself closer to the cold metal shelf, trying to create an inch of space between us.

"You seem nervous," Caleb observed, flipping through the yellowed folders.

"I am annoyed," I corrected. "You invaded my personal space."

"I saved you from a concussion."

Before I could formulate a sharp reply, the single overhead bulb flickered.

A sharp electrical crack echoed through the basement.

The light died entirely.

Pitch blackness swallowed the room. The silence was absolute, heavy, and crushing.

"Caleb?" I asked, my voice rising in panic.

I took a blind step forward, trying to put distance between us.

A large, scorching hot hand clamped down on my wrist, yanking me backward into a hard chest.