Sleeping with the Enemy's Son

Ashley's POV I didn't expect it to feel this heavy. The office, the walls, the silence - all of it pressed in the moment I saw him walk through the glass doors. Alan Jean. My new business partner. My mistake. My secret. His presence was calm, composed, almost too quiet. But I felt it like static against my skin. He nodded once in greeting. "Morning." His tone was polite - stripped of warmth. "Morning," I replied, just as controlled. We weren't supposed to be alone in this room. But one by one, the executives filtered out after our brief introductions, until the door clicked shut and there was nothing but the sound of my own breathing. It was ridiculous how aware I was of him - the sound of his pen against paper, the subtle shift of his chair, the faint trace of his cologne that made my chest tighten. He didn't look at me at first. Just turned pages, calm and deliberate, as if this was any other meeting. And maybe it would've been... if I hadn't seen his cufflink that morning. If I hadn't realized the truth. I tried to focus on the proposal in front of me, but my mind refused to cooperate. "Let's go over the projections for the Jean–Walter merger," I said, hoping my voice didn't tremble. He looked up finally - eyes steady, unreadable. "Sure," he said. "If you can concentrate." My fingers stilled on the page. "Excuse me?" He leaned back in his chair, gaze not leaving mine. "You seem... distracted." "I'm not." His lips curved slightly. "You're sure?" I swallowed, forcing my tone to stay sharp. "I came here to work, Alan." "I know." His voice was low now, quieter - dangerous. "I just didn't expect that to be all you came here for." My pulse stuttered. "What's that supposed to mean?" He studied me for a moment that felt too long, too still. Then he looked away. "Nothing. Forget it." But the way he said it - quiet, rough, and too deliberate - told me exactly what he didn't say. I shifted in my seat, needing distance that didn't exist. "We should finalize the presentation slides before tomorrow's briefing." "Right," he said softly. "Work." The air between us thickened. Not from words - but from everything we weren't saying. Every time our eyes met, it was like stepping too close to fire. Every time I blinked, I saw the memory flash behind my eyelids - his hands, his breath, that single night we'd both sworn never happened. He stood suddenly, coming around the table. I froze. He stopped beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him even without touch. He set a document down beside my hand - his sleeve brushing my wrist, light but enough to make my breath hitch. "You missed this section," he said. His tone was smooth, professional - but the tremor beneath it betrayed him. "Thank you," I murmured, without looking up. But when I reached for the paper, his fingers grazed mine. Just barely. Still, it felt like a shock. I withdrew my hand instantly. "I'll handle it." He didn't move. "Ashley." My name from his lips wasn't a sound. It was a memory. I made the mistake of looking at him - and the restraint in his eyes was unbearable. "Alan, please don't-" "I just need to know if you regret it." The air disappeared. "I don't know what you're talking about." My voice came out soft, almost steady. He let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "You do." I stood, gathering the documents with trembling hands. "We're done here for today." He didn't stop me. Didn't say another word. But as I walked past him, I felt his gaze follow me - slow, heavy, unrelenting. When the door closed behind me, I exhaled shakily, pressing my palms against the cold wall. I'd thought I could manage this. That I could bury one mistake under professionalism and silence. But sitting across from him again had proven me wrong. Because whatever that night was - a lapse in judgment, a cruel twist of fate - it wasn't gone. It was still here. Alive. Waiting. Alan's POV She's pretending. Every glance, every clipped word - I can see her trying to hold the distance. But it's there between us. The pulse. The memory. The truth she refuses to admit. Watching Ashley Walter pretend the night never happened was almost admirable. Almost. I'd told myself not to bring it up. But the silence between us was unbearable. She was sitting right across from me, her focus glued to the paper, her breathing shallow. The same woman who had once leaned into me like she couldn't breathe without it. And now she acted like I was a stranger. I wanted to let her. I really did. But the words slipped out before I could stop them. "Do you remember?" Her pen stopped. Her eyes lifted, calm on the surface, but something flickered behind them. "Remember what?" I almost smiled. "Forget it." She pushed back her chair a little too fast. "We should wrap this up." There it was again - the tremor in her composure. The one she tried to hide behind that perfect posture. As she stood, I reached out, almost on instinct, and touched her wrist. Just long enough for her to freeze. The same spot where that mark rested - the one I'd seen, felt, kissed. She pulled away slowly, meeting my gaze. "This isn't going to work if you can't stay professional." "Then teach me," I said quietly. Her eyes widened just slightly - and then, she turned and walked out. No words. No glance back. But when the door closed, the scent of her perfume still lingered - maddening, subtle, impossible to forget. And for the first time in years, I realized something dangerous. I didn't just want her again. I wanted to break whatever rules she hid behind until she admitted she remembered too.