# Chapter 5: Jealousy

The fluorescent lights of the open-plan office hum at a frequency that only seems to exist in corporate spaces designed to subtly drain the soul. I’m hunched over my monitor, fingers flying across the keyboard as I finalize the Q3 integration metrics for our client portal. The air smells like stale coffee and dry-erase markers. It’s Tuesday. It’s supposed to be a normal day.

Then Elias leans over my cubicle wall.

He’s been hovering around me for weeks. A junior systems architect with an easy smile, expensive cologne, and a habit of making prolonged eye contact. Today, he doesn’t bother with pretense. He braces his hands on the edge of my desk, leaning in just enough to block the view from my row, and lowers his voice.

“You look incredible in that blazer, Tessa. Does it come off, or am I supposed to keep pretending I don’t want to see it?”

My pen stops mid-air. I don’t look up immediately. I finish typing the final line, hit save, and only then do I turn my chair. He’s close. Too close. His breath is warm, his smile predatory. My stomach tightens, not from attraction, but from the sudden, sharp awareness of being watched.

I’ve seen Roman’s office. The glass walls are tinted, but not opaque. I’ve watched him through them when I need to focus. And I know, with absolute certainty, that right now, he’s looking down at us.

I force my voice to stay level. Professional. “I’m in the middle of a deadline, Elias. Step back.”

He chuckles, low and deliberate. “Always so serious. You’d relax more if you let someone carry the load for you. I could take you to dinner. Somewhere without fluorescent lighting. Somewhere you could actually breathe.”

His hand brushes my shoulder. Just a graze. Intentional. Testing.

I flinch. I don’t apologize for it. I stand, tucking my blazer shut, and meet his eyes. “I don’t date coworkers. I don’t date men who don’t respect boundaries. Take a step back. Now.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer, then pulls away, but the smirk doesn’t fade. He straightens his shirt and walks off, whistling softly. The office doesn’t notice. Or if it does, it pretends not to.

I sit back down. My hands are trembling. I grip the edge of the desk, breathing through the sudden surge of adrenaline. I tell myself it’s fine. I told him to back off. I set the boundary. It’s his problem if he ignores it.

But then the glass door to the corner office clicks open.

I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. The temperature in the room seems to drop. The ambient chatter dies. The elevator dings somewhere down the hall. And then I hear it: the sharp, measured click of Italian leather on polished concrete. Roman’s footsteps. They don’t echo. They claim.

I finally look up.

He’s standing at the edge of the atrium, a black tablet in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit. His jaw is set so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. His eyes aren’t on me. They’re on the space where Elias just stood. And they’re dark. Not with anger. Not yet. With something colder. Something that feels like a storm gathering behind glass.

Roman doesn’t shout. He doesn’t yell. He never does. He’s a man who operates in silence and consequence. He taps his tablet once, twice, and then speaks. His voice cuts through the open floor like a scalpel.

“Elias Vance. My office. Now.”

It’s not a request. It’s a summons. Elias pales. He mutters something into his phone, shoves his chair back, and walks toward the corner office without looking at me. He doesn’t deserve to look at me. Not after this. Not after whatever he thought he was allowed to do.

I stay seated. My heart is hammering against my ribs. I should feel relieved. I should feel vindicated. Instead, I feel exposed. Roman’s silence is louder than any outburst. It’s the kind of silence that precedes ruin.

Five minutes later, the glass door opens again.

“Tessa.”

My name. Low. Precise. Commanding.

I stand. My legs feel unsteady, but I walk. I don’t run. I don’t hide. I step into the atrium, past the reception desk, past the quiet murmur of assistants who suddenly pretend to be extremely busy with their coffee cups. Roman’s office is at the end of the hall. The door is already open. He’s inside. Standing by the window. Back to me. The city sprawls below him like a circuit board he controls.

The door clicks shut behind me. The lock engages.

I’m alone with him.

He turns. His expression is unreadable. That’s the worst part. His face is carved from ice, but his eyes are burning. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t offer me a chair. He just looks at me, and the weight of his gaze pins me in place.

“Did you tell him to stop?” he asks.

His voice is quiet. Too quiet. It vibrates in my chest.

“Yes,” I say. “I told him to step back. I told him I don’t date coworkers. I told him to respect boundaries.”

He takes a step forward. Then another. He’s in my space before I realize he’s moved. He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. He just stands close enough that I can smell him. Cedar. Bergamot. Something expensive and sharp. Something that makes my skin prickle.

“Good,” he says. “Because he’s fired.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I blink. “What?”

“Elias Vance is terminated. Effective immediately. Security escorted him out twenty minutes ago. His access has been revoked. His laptop is gone. His keycard is in my drawer.” He says it like he’s reading a weather report. Like he’s discussing the humidity. “He crossed a line. He touched you. He spoke to you like you were an option. He will not work in this building again. He will not work in this industry again, should he seek reference.”

My breath catches. “Roman, you can’t just fire someone because they flirted with me. That’s not— that’s not how corporate policy works. You can’t—”

“I am the policy,” he cuts in, voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet register. “I am the CEO. I am the man who built this company from a garage and three sleepless nights. You do not get to lecture me on procedure when it comes to you. Not ever.”

He closes the distance. His hand comes up, not to strike, not to grab, but to cup my jaw. His thumb presses into the hinge of my jaw, tilting my face up. His grip is firm. Unyielding. Possessive.

“I don’t share,” he says. The words are quiet. Brutal. Final. “I don’t tolerate it. I don’t allow it. You are mine. You have been since the day you walked into this building and looked at me like I wasn’t a monster. Like I was just a man. You don’t get to pretend you don’t know what you do to me. You don’t get to act innocent when men like him look at you like you’re something they can take.”

My pulse roars in my ears. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you to claim me. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“You already did,” he says. His thumb strokes my bottom lip. “Every time you walked into my office. Every time you looked at me. Every time you let me watch you work. Every time you didn’t run. You claimed me by staying. And now I’m claiming you back.”

His other hand moves to my waist. His fingers dig in. He pulls me against him. The desk presses into my lower back. I gasp, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t give me space to breathe. He crowds me, corners me, owns the air between us.

“I watched him touch your shoulder,” he says, voice rough now. Raw. “I watched him look at you like you were his. And I lost control. Not of my temper. Of my restraint. You should be grateful I don’t destroy him completely.”

I should be terrified. I should pull away. I should tell him this is too much, that he’s gone too far, that this isn’t how this works. But my body betrays me. My back arches into his. My breath hitches. My hands flutter against his chest, not to push him away, but to feel him. To ground myself in the heat, the tension, the sheer, overwhelming force of him.

He notices. Of course he does. Roman notices everything.

His eyes darken. “You want me to stop?”

“No,” I whisper.

His mouth crashes into mine.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. His lips are hard, demanding, starving. He tastes like coffee and control and something dangerously close to desperation. I make a sound against his mouth, half protest, half surrender, and he groans. His hand slides from my jaw to my hair, tangling in the strands, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t wait. He takes.

I melt. I hate that I melt. I hate that my hands are already on his chest, gripping the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer. I hate that my body remembers his before my mind can catch up. He kisses me like he’s been suffocating. Like I’m oxygen. Like I’m the only thing keeping him from tearing the building down around us.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth down my neck. His teeth scrape my collarbone. My breath shudders. My fingers dig into his shoulders. He growls, low and animal, and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, and he carries me to the desk. He lays me back against the polished wood. My papers scatter. My monitor tilts. I don’t care.

His suit jacket hits the floor. Then his tie. He doesn’t look away from me. His eyes are black with want, with jealousy, with something feral. He kneels between my legs. His hands are everywhere. He unbuttons my blazer with quick, precise movements. He slides it off my shoulders. He doesn’t hurry. He savors. He stares at me like I’m a prize he’s finally claiming.

“You’re mine,” he says again. The words are a vow. A threat. A prayer. “Say it.”

I should refuse. I should fight. But the way he looks at me… the way he’s been looking at me… it’s too much. It’s been too much. I break.

“I’m yours,” I whisper.

His control snaps.

His mouth is on mine again, but this time it’s not just a kiss. It’s a claiming. He slides his hand up my thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of my skirt. I gasp. He doesn’t stop. He pushes my skirt up, bunches it at my hips, and slides his hand under my panties. I’m already wet. I hate that I’m wet. I hate that I’m so fucking turned on by his possessiveness, by the way he acts like I don’t belong to anyone else because I don’t. Because I never did.

He finds my clit. Circles it. Presses down. I cry out. He shushes me with his mouth, swallowing my sound, his hand never stopping. He works me like he’s solving a problem. Like he’s mapping me. Like he’s memorizing every twitch, every gasp, every shudder. My back arches off the desk. My fingers clutch his shoulders. He grips my hips, pinning me in place.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I force my eyes open. His gaze is burning. Dark. Unrelenting.

“Tell me who I am,” he says. His thumb presses harder. My breath hitches. My thighs tremble.

“You’re…” I choke on the words. “You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.”

He growls. His hand moves faster. Deeper. He slips two fingers inside me, curling them, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. I’m close. I’m so close. I haven’t even been penetrated yet, and I’m trembling on the edge. He knows it. He always knows it. He smiles, just a fraction. Cruel. Satisfied.

“You don’t get to come until I say so,” he murmurs. He pulls his hand out. I whimper. He slides his fingers to my mouth. “Lick them.”

I don’t hesitate. I open my mouth. He watches me, eyes dark, as I slide my tongue along his knuckles, sucking the slick from his skin. He shudders. His jaw tightens. His hand moves from my mouth to my throat. Not tight. Not choking. Just enough to feel. To remind me. To own.

“Good girl,” he says. The words are filthy. Beautiful. “Now take it.”

He unzips his pants. Slides them down. His cock springs free. Thick. Hard. Veined. Aching. I stare at it. I’ve seen him in meetings. In boardrooms. In this very office. But I’ve never seen him like this. Never seen him undone. Never seen him hungry.

He guides me. He lines me up. He pushes inside in one slow, deliberate thrust. I gasp. My back arches. My nails dig into his shoulders. He’s huge. He stretches me. He fills me completely. I feel him in places I didn’t know existed. He holds still. Lets me adjust. Lets me feel every inch.

“Breathe,” he commands.

I do. I try to. He doesn’t give me time. He starts to move. Slow at first. Then faster. Harder. His hips snap against mine. The desk groans. My head falls back. I’m taking him. All of him. Every thrust is a claim. Every grind is a promise. He’s not just fucking me. He’s branding me. Marking me. Telling everyone, even in silence, that I belong to him.

His hand slides up my chest. He pinches my nipple. I cry out. He leans down, bites my shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. I whimper. He doesn’t stop. He drives into me like he’s trying to reach something deeper than my body. Like he’s trying to reach the part of me that’s been waiting for him. The part that knows, even when I fight it, that I was never meant for anyone else.

“Roman,” I beg. “Please. I’m close. I’m—”

“Not yet,” he snarls. He grabs my hips, lifts me, changes the angle. Hits me deeper. Harder. My vision whites out. My stomach drops. I’m unraveling. I’m breaking. I’m his.

He pulls out. I gasp. He lines me up again. Slides in. Bottoms out. Holds me there. I’m trembling. He leans down, his mouth at my ear.

“Look at me,” he says. “Look at me when you come.”

I do. Our eyes lock. His are dark. Feral. Unbroken. I feel him pulse inside me. I feel him claim me. And then I shatter.

The orgasm hits like a lightning strike. My back bows. My thighs clamp around him. I scream his name. I cling to him. I fall apart in his arms, and he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t slow down. He rides me through it. Drives through it. Keeps me anchored while I tremble. Keeps me his while I break.

He doesn’t come right away. He makes me feel every second. Makes me feel him. Makes me feel the weight of him. The heat of him. The absolute, undeniable reality of his presence. And then, with a guttural groan, he buries himself to the hilt, his body locks, and he spills inside me. Hot. Thick. Unrelenting. He holds me through it. Through his own release. Through the aftershocks. Through the silence that follows.

We stay like that. Breathing. Trembling. Connected. His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just exist in the aftermath. In the weight of him. In the truth of us.

After a long moment, he pulls out. I whine. He doesn’t care. He zips his pants. Straightens his shirt. He doesn’t look ashamed. He doesn’t look regretful. He looks satisfied. He looks like a man who just took what was always his.

He steps back. Adjusts his suit. The CEO mask slides back into place. But his eyes… his eyes are still dark. Still burning. Still mine.

He reaches into his drawer. Pulls out a silk handkerchief. Hands it to me. “Clean yourself. Then sit down. We have a board meeting in forty minutes. You will sit next to me. You will not speak unless I give you permission. You will not look at anyone else. You will remember this.”

I take the handkerchief. My hands are shaking. My thighs are slick. My lips are swollen. My shoulders are bruised. My body is his.

I nod.

He turns. Opens the door. Pauses. Looks back at me.

“And Tessa?” His voice is quiet. Cold. Final. “If he ever speaks your name again, I will destroy him. If any man looks at you again, I will blind him. You are not up for grabs. You are not negotiable. You are not mine to lose. You are mine to keep. Understood?”

I meet his gaze. I don’t flinch. I don’t look away.

“Understood,” I say.

He nods. Closes the door. Leaves me alone in the office.

I sit at the desk. My skirt is tangled. My blazer is on the floor. My lips are marked. My body is humming. My heart is racing.

I should be angry. I should be terrified. I should be running.

Instead, I reach for my phone. I open my calendar. I block out the next hour. I type in a single line:

*Meeting with Roman. Priority One.*

I don’t need to add anything else. He knows. I know. And tomorrow, when Elias is gone, when the whispers die down, when the office returns to its hollow routine, I’ll walk back into this building. I’ll sit at my desk. I’ll type my metrics. I’ll drink my coffee.

And I’ll wait for him to watch me.

Because I’m not his employee. I’m not his project. I’m not his responsibility.

I’m his.

And he’s mine.

The door clicks shut. The lock engages. The city hums below. I close my eyes. I let the silence settle. I let the truth take root.

Jealousy isn’t a flaw. It’s a promise. And I just made mine.