Chapter Eight: Exposure

The kiss went public at 9:17 a.m.

Not to the tabloids.

Not yet.

But the board's inboxes were flooded with a single high-resolution image: Nicholas Ashford and Emery Clarke, lip-locked on the rooftop, her hands in his hair, his pressed tightly to her waist.

A kiss that wasn't professional. Wasn't friendly. It was possessive. Erotic. And unmistakably damning.

Emery didn't see it until she walked into the executive floor.

Olivia's face was pale as she stood from her desk.

"You need to go to Marla's office," she whispered. "Now."

Emery blinked. "Why?"

"I don't know who sent it, but it's already been forwarded twelve times. The board's in emergency session."

Her stomach dropped.

And then the elevator opened.

Nicholas stepped out, phone in hand. His expression—a storm brewing behind glass. Controlled rage. Corporate fury.

Their eyes met.

Neither said a word.

Inside Marla's office, the air crackled.

The HR director didn't even pretend to be polite.

"You were warned."

Emery folded her arms. "I didn't break a rule."

"You broke trust," Marla snapped. "Do you have any idea what this looks like? You were promoted four months ago. Now you're sleeping with your boss, and it's public."

"I earned my position," Emery said evenly. "Every late night, every weekend, every saved contract."

"That may be true," said a deep, unfamiliar voice from the doorway, "but perception is power."

They both turned.

Lucas Vale.

Tall, dark-haired, devastatingly attractive. In a tailored navy suit and the kind of smirk you wanted to slap—or kiss.

Emery's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Lucas stepped inside with a grace that bordered on arrogance.

"I've just been named as Ashford's external consultant to assess leadership ethics. And transparency."

Marla looked smug.

Emery looked furious.

Nicholas was being cornered.

And Lucas? He was smiling.

Later that afternoon, Lucas found her alone in the break room.

He shut the door behind him without asking. Poured himself a coffee. Took his time.

"I never forget a face," he said, "especially not one that used to be on my father's dinner guest lists."

"I'm not the same girl," Emery said coolly.

"No," Lucas said, stepping closer. "You're sharper now. Sexier. And apparently screwing your boss."

She slapped him.

Hard.

He caught her wrist before she could walk out.

"You should be careful, Emery. Nicholas may be the king, but I own the guillotine."

She wrenched free. "Try it, Vale. And I'll burn this company down myself."

In Nicholas's office, the door slammed.

Emery marched in, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with rage.

"He brought you in to bury us," she said.

Nicholas stood slowly. "Lucas Vale doesn't bury people. He seduces them."

"Then why do I feel like the target?"

He moved closer. "Because you are."

She shivered. "I won't let him use me."

"I won't let him touch you."

Their mouths met again—fast, reckless, hungry.

But this time, it wasn't about lust.

It was about ownership.

That night, Lucas Vale sent another email.

A second photo.

From the elevator security cam.

Their bodies pressed. Their mouths joined. Her fingers buried in Nicholas's jacket lapel.

Subject line: "Still just whispers?"

And attached?

A single document.

Formal complaint.

Accusation: abuse of power.

End of Chapter Eight