**Chapter 8: Choosing**

I’m packing my bag.

The thought is a slow, suffocating weight settling in my chest. My hands move automatically, slipping my phone into a zippered pocket, folding a sweater I won’t actually wear, sliding my passport into the side compartment like I’m preparing for exile. The resignation letter glows on my laptop screen. Twenty-three words. That’s all it takes to erase me from his life, from his company, from the storm that’s been battering us for weeks.

*Dear Mr. Vance, Please accept this letter as formal notice of my resignation, effective immediately. I believe it is in the best interest of both the company and our professional relationship…*

I don’t hit send. Not yet. I just stare at the blinking cursor, waiting for a sign that says this is the right choice. But there’s only silence. And the weight of every headline screaming my name like I’m a disease.

*CEO’s Inner Circle Tied to Leaked Server Data.* *Vance Tech Assistant: Gold Digger or Whistleblower?* *The Scandal That Could Sink an IPO.*

They’re painting me as the villain. Or the pawn. Either way, I’m the distraction. The liability. The thing dragging a billion-dollar tech empire toward the rocks before it even launches. I’ve seen the internal memos. I’ve heard the whispers in the boardroom. They want me gone. Roman won’t fire me. He won’t let them. But I can leave. I can step away before the press turns this into a circus, before his investors start breathing down his neck, before the company I’ve poured my life into becomes collateral damage in a media frenzy.

I close my laptop. Zip the bag. Stand.

My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. The city hums outside, indifferent to the fact that I’m about to dismantle two years of my life in one clean cut. I grab my coat. Keys. Wallet. I’m halfway to the door when the elevator dings.

Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Familiar.

The door clicks open before I can turn.

Roman stands in the hallway, backlit by the stairwell emergency light. He’s wearing a dark suit, no tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His jaw is tight, eyes dark and unreadable, the kind of stillness that precedes an avalanche. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. At the bag. At the laptop still open on the coffee table, resignation letter glowing like an accusation.

“Where are you going?” His voice is flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that cracks glass.

“I’m leaving,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. I make sure of that. “I’m resigning, Roman. Effective immediately. I don’t want to be the reason your IPO tanks. I don’t want to be the scandal that ruins everything you’ve built.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds like a gavel.

“You’re resigning.”

“Yes.”

“For my sake?”

“For ours. For your dignity. For the company.” I swallow hard. “It’s over. The press is tearing you apart. They’re tearing me apart. If I step away, they’ll move on. Eventually.”

He laughs. It’s a dry, bitter sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You think I give a single fuck about the press? You think I care about headlines, gossip blogs, or the vultures circling my quarter’s earnings?” He steps closer. The air between us tightens, charged like a live wire. “You don’t get to decide this for us. Not ever again.”

“I have to,” I whisper. “What if it costs you everything?”

He’s in front of me before I realize he’s moved. His hands grip my waist, fingers digging into my hips, pulling me flush against him. I gasp. The heat of him seeps through my clothes. His chin dips, eyes locking onto mine. Cold. Demanding. Unyielding.

“Let them talk,” he says, voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “I built this company on ruthless precision. I’ll crush every single one of them. I’ll buy the papers, bury the stories, sue every journalist who prints another word. But you…” His thumb strokes my lower lip, then slips into my mouth, tasting me like he’s claiming me all over again. “You don’t get to walk away. You don’t get to hide. You don’t get to save me by disappearing.”

My breath hitches. Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “What if it ruins you? What if they use me to bring you down? I’m already tired of being the thing that makes you vulnerable.”

His grip tightens. Just a fraction. Enough to make me feel it. Enough to make my pulse race. “Vulnerability is a weakness for men who haven’t found what I’ve found.” He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “If you leave, I’ll follow. There’s nowhere you can hide from me.”

The words hang in the air. Heavy. Absolute. Final.

My chest fractures. I want to believe him. I want to let the cold, calculating CEO melt into the man who memorizes how I take my coffee, who stays up until 3 a.m. reading my code reviews, who traces the curve of my spine like he’s mapping a religion. But the fear is a physical weight. It sits in my ribs. It whispers that I’m not worth the risk. That I’m the flaw in his perfect architecture.

“I’m scared,” I admit, voice breaking.

He stills. The possessive edge in his posture softens, just a fraction. His forehead rests against mine. His breath is warm. Unsteady. “Good,” he murmurs. “Be scared. But don’t leave.”

I close my eyes. Let the tension bleed out of my shoulders. Let him hold me. Let him be the anchor I’ve been drowning without.

When I open them, his hands are already on my blouse. Buttons. Fast. Efficient. He doesn’t ask. He never does when it comes to this. But his touch is careful. Reverent, beneath the command. He pushes the fabric down my arms, eyes darkening as my skin meets the air. He doesn’t rush. He never does. He traces the lace of my bra, then grips the edge and pulls it down. My breasts spill free. He groans, a low, ragged sound that vibrates against my collarbone. His mouth finds my neck. Sucks. Bites. Marks.

“Mine,” he murmurs against my skin. “Always mine.”

I arch into him. “Yours,” I whisper back. The word feels like surrender. It feels like home.

He pushes me back against the wall. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down to mine. The kiss is messy. Desperate. Full of everything we’ve been swallowing for months. Fear. Desire. Need. I can feel the hard line of him through his suit, the way his body tenses like he’s fighting the urge to tear it off. He breaks the kiss just long enough to shrug out of his jacket, then his shirt. Buttons fall. Fabric hits the floor. The cold CEO is stripped bare. Both literally and figuratively.

I watch him undress. My hands are shaking. I reach for his belt. He catches my wrists, pressing them above my head. “Let me,” he says. His voice is different. Softer. Raw. I nod. He undoes his pants, pushes them down, and I slide out from under him just enough to free him. He’s thick. Heavy. Already straining for me. I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his jaw clench, his eyes darkening.

“Tessa,” he breathes, hips jerking forward instinctively. “I need you inside me.”

“Then take me,” I say. My voice trembles. “Please.”

He guides me back down, positions himself, and pushes in. The stretch is exquisite. I cry out, head falling back against the wall. He’s so deep. So perfect. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He stills, forehead resting against mine, breathing ragged.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I force my eyes open. His are blazing. Unfiltered. Stripped of every mask. “I’m not letting you go,” he says. “Not ever. Not to the press. Not to the board. Not to your own fucking fear. You stay. Right here. With me.”

I nod, tears finally falling. “I know.”

He starts to move. Slow at first. A deep, rolling thrust that makes me gasp. Then faster. Harder. The wall groans beneath us. My nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks. He hates it when I mark him, but right now, he’s arching into it, his control fracturing.

“Fuck, Tess,” he curses, voice rough. “You feel so good. So fucking perfect. You’re killing me. I can’t— god, I can’t keep up with you.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him. The kiss is wet, desperate, full of everything we can’t say out loud. He breaks it to kiss down my neck, my chest, sucking on my nipples until I’m trembling. “You’re mine,” he repeats, like a mantra. “You’re not leaving. You’re not hiding. You stay. Right here. Right now. Say it.”

“I stay,” I gasp. “I stay. I’m yours.”

He picks up the pace. The friction is unbearable. I’m close. So close. “Roman, I’m—”

“Come for me,” he orders, voice commanding but laced with something dangerously tender. “Let me feel you. Let me know you’re still here. Still mine.”

I shatter. My body convulses around him, waves of pleasure crashing through me. I cling to him, nails raking down his back, gasping his name like a prayer. He follows seconds later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he empties himself inside me. We collapse together, breathing hard, hearts pounding. He doesn’t pull out. Just holds me, his arms like steel bands, his face buried in my neck.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

I close my eyes. Tears soak into his skin. Not from sadness. From relief. From being seen. From being chosen. From finally understanding that walking away was never the answer. It was never an option. He doesn’t want a liability. He wants me. All of me. Scandal, fear, trembling hands and broken pieces and all.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb wipes my tears. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft. “Okay,” I whisper. “We stay. We face it together. No more running. No more hiding. No more quitting.”

A slow, genuine smile touches his lips. Just for me. “Good.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Because if you ever try to leave again, I’ll lock you in this building. I’ll fire every journalist who prints your name. I’ll buy the city if I have to. You’re not going anywhere.”

I laugh. It’s shaky. Real. “I know. I’m not going anywhere.”

He shifts, pulling me fully against him, one hand sliding under my thigh, the other tracing the line of my spine. We stand there like that for a long time. Breath syncing. Hearts steady. The city still hums outside. The press still circles. But none of it matters. Not when he’s holding me like I’m the only anchor he has. Not when I finally understand that love isn’t about protecting someone from the storm. It’s about standing in it together.

I reach up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “What do we do now?”

He kisses my knuckles. “We face it. We let them talk. We keep working. We keep building. And at night…” He pulls me closer, lips brushing my ear. “At night, I remind you exactly who you belong to.”

I shiver. Not from fear. From certainty. “Yours,” I whisper.

“Good,” he says. And for the first time, the cold CEO doesn’t just say it. He means it. Fully. Completely. Irrevocably.

I close my eyes. Let the tension melt. Let the fear go. Let him hold me like I’m worth fighting for.

Because I am.

And so is he.