The CEO's Runaway Cinderella Returns

Isabelle stood stiffly in front of the desk. She locked her eyes on the wall behind Bennett's head, refusing to look at the shoe. If she didn't acknowledge it, maybe it would disappear. She forced her voice out, starting her report on the project's technical specs. The words came out tight, her throat constricting every time she swallowed. Bennett leaned back in his leather chair. He wasn't looking at the blueprints. He wasn't looking at her face. His long fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on the polished wood. Tap. Tap. Tap. Suddenly, he stood up. He moved around the desk, his long strides eating up the distance between them. Isabelle stepped back instinctively. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. There was nowhere else to go. Bennett stopped half a meter away. He looked down at her, his height blocking out the light from the window. "Spread the drawings out," he ordered. His voice was low, a rumble she felt in her own chest. Isabelle's hands shook as she unrolled the blueprint on the desk. The paper curled at the edges, refusing to lay flat. A gust of air from the overhead vent blew across the desk. The lightweight paper lifted, the corner flapping wildly. Bennett reached out to flatten it. His movement was casual, unhurried. But just as his hand touched the paper, it slipped. The entire roll of blueprints slid off the edge of the desk, falling to the floor right at Isabelle's feet. Isabelle bent down automatically to grab them. Her knees bent, her calf muscles stretching taut. Bennett bent down at the same time. Their heads nearly collided. She caught a whiff of that scent again-cedar and mint-and her brain went completely blank. Bennett's fingers didn't reach for the paper. Instead, his hand drifted. His fingertips brushed against the back of Isabelle's calf. It was a light touch, barely a whisper of contact. Right over the faint, silvery scar that sat on her skin. A mark left when she'd stumbled against a wrought-iron table leg in her haste to flee his hotel room five years ago. The moment his skin touched hers, Isabelle yanked her leg back. It felt like she had been burned. Her breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound in the quiet room. Her pupils dilated, blowing wide with shock. Bennett slowly straightened up. He held the blueprint in one hand. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools that gave nothing away. Isabelle stared at him, horror creeping up her neck. That touch was too deliberate. Too intimate. It was not an accident. But Bennett's face was a mask of innocence. He looked completely unbothered, as if touching her leg had been as meaningless as picking up a piece of paper. "Your leg is shaking, Ms. Dominguez." He raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. "Are you afraid of me?" Isabelle bit down on the inside of her cheek. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth. "It's just a little cold in here, Mr. Lloyd." Bennett didn't push it. He simply placed the blueprint on the desk and walked back around to his chair. He sat down, returning to his paperwork as if nothing had happened. That retreat terrified Isabelle more than anything else. It felt like the calm before a storm. She grabbed her bag, her fingers fumbling with the strap. She didn't say goodbye. She just walked out of the office as fast as she could without actually running. Back at her desk, Isabelle sat down heavily. Her hand drifted to her calf, her palm pressing against the scar. Her skin was slick with cold sweat. That touch was not an accident. He knew. But why wasn't he saying anything? A deeper, more chilling thought took hold. He was playing with her. Like a cat with a mouse. He didn't want to kill it right away. He wanted to watch it squirm.