Under Pressure

(Jasmine's POV)

The rest of the morning blurred into a rhythm I barely noticed, emails, quick check-ins, people moving past my desk with folders and half-finished coffees. But underneath it all there was a tight coil in my stomach I couldn't shake, the ghost of Adrian's words still echoing from that hallway encounter.

Some games are worth replaying.

I buried myself in the Château Mirabelle projections. Numbers, demographics, campaign pillars. The kind of work that demanded my brain and left no room for wandering thoughts. Julian stopped by with two coffees in hand, dropping one on my desk with a grin.

"Bribery," he said. "Also, they moved the review meeting up to noon."

I looked up, startled. "Noon? I thought we had until tomorrow."

"You know how it is," Julian said, leaning against the partition. "The higher-ups get twitchy, they want answers now. Claire didn't look happy about it either."

I nodded slowly, feeling the coil in my stomach tighten. "Thanks for the warning."

Julian tilted his head, studying me. "You okay?"

"Fine," I said too quickly. "Just… sharpening my knives."

He laughed softly. "That's what I like about you, Ford. You don't just show up. You show up armed."

When he left, I revised my slides in a blur, fingers moving fast over the track-pad. Noon came too soon. Claire was already seated at the head of the table when I walked into the smaller conference room, her pearl earrings catching the light. Two senior strategists sat on one side. Julian gave me an encouraging look from the other. And then Adrian walked in last, sleeves rolled up, jacket draped over his arm, scanning the table like he was cataloging everything before sitting.

I handed out my one-pager. "Thank you all for the time," I began, voice steady despite the thudding in my chest. "This concept aims to reposition Château Mirabelle not just as a wine, but as an experience, something that fits into the life of the 25-to-40 market."

For a few minutes, I hit every point. Engagement funnels, pop-up tastings, curated digital content. I saw Julian nod once, even Claire's expression softened.

Then one of the senior strategists cleared his throat. "It's an ambitious take," he said, tapping his pen. "But isn't this demographic over-saturated already? And influencer partnerships? Risky."

I straightened. "The over-saturation is the opportunity. The competitors are predictable, seasonal campaigns, traditional tasting notes. We lead with authenticity, we break through."

Before he could respond, Adrian spoke.

"And what's your contingency," he asked, voice calm but cutting, "if the authenticity you're banking on fails to resonate? What's your plan B?"

The room went still. He was watching me, not unkind, but sharp enough that my pulse jumped.

"I would track engagement in real time," I said carefully. "We build in pivot points. If one influencer under-performs, we adjust midstream. If one pop-up tanked, we reroute budget. Fast corrections."

Adrian's eyes didn't leave mine. He didn't smile, but something flickered there, approval or amusement, I couldn't tell. "Fast corrections," he repeated. "Noted."

Claire closed her folder. "Good work, Jasmine. Get us updated numbers by end of day. We'll reconvene."

End of day. My chest tightened, but I nodded. "Of course."

As we all stood, I felt Adrian's gaze still on me, steady and unreadable. For a second, I thought about the hallway, about how close he'd been. Then I forced my eyes down to the papers in my hands and walked out.

By the time I left the conference room, my chest was still tight from holding my ground. The hallway outside was busy with midday traffic, people shuffling papers, heads bent over phones. I kept my head down, scanning my notes while walking, mentally rearranging the projections I needed to update before five o'clock.

I rounded a corner too sharply.

We collided hard enough that my papers flew from my hands in a flurry. A splash of dark liquid hit the floor between us, the sharp scent of coffee rising instantly.

I froze, looking up, and straight into those iceblue eyes.

Adrian.

His hand had already shot out, gripping my elbow to steady me, fingers warm against my sleeve. The hallway noise seemed to fade into a dull hum.

"Still moving too fast," he said, voice low, calm, but there was that edge again, like he was amused and irritated at once.

I blinked, heat creeping up my neck. "Maybe you should look where you're going."

He crouched, collecting the papers scattered across the polished floor. His cuff brushed the tiles, revealing the faintest scar along his wrist. He didn't look at me as he spoke. "I usually don't have to."

I bent down too, grabbing pages, careful not to meet his eyes. "You know, Wolfe," I said, stacking my papers, "if this is part of your mentoring strategy, ambush and humiliate, I'm not a fan."

He glanced up then, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. "Humiliate? I called on you because you could handle it. Most people wouldn't."

"Lucky me," I muttered.

He handed me the last sheet, fingers brushing mine briefly. That single touch sent a jolt straight up my arm. He noticed, I saw it in the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

"Fast corrections," he said softly, echoing my words from the meeting. "Let's see if you can make them."

He stood, towering over me, and stepped aside so I could pass. My heart was still racing, my hands gripping the papers too tightly.

I brushed past him, my shoulder grazing his. A charge of something unspoken crackled in that narrow space between us, then I kept walking, heels clicking faster against the floor, refusing to look back.

By five o'clock the office had thinned to a skeleton crew. Phones rang less. Chairs sat empty, pushed slightly askew. The hum of the HVAC filled the silence where chatter used to be.

I was still at my desk, screen glowing, numbers blurring together. I rubbed at my temple, adjusted the data on my slides, and doublechecked every bullet point on the onepager. Claire wanted the updated projections tonight. Fine. I'd give her something no one could poke holes in.

I didn't notice the sound of footsteps until they stopped just beyond my desk.

"You're still here."

I looked up. Adrian was leaning against the partition, jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. The low light from the exit signs caught the angle of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble.

"Working," I said, clicking through slides without looking at him too long. "You know, that thing people do when they have lastminute deadlines dropped on them."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I didn't drop that deadline. Claire did."

I turned in my chair to face him. "You signed off on it."

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. "Touché."

Silence stretched. The office felt different at this hour, softer somehow, but charged, like a held breath.

"You could have gone home," he said.

"I could have," I replied, "but then I'd be thinking about what I didn't finish. And that's not really my style."

Adrian dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a quiet laugh. "You were like this in college too."

I arched a brow. "Like what?"

"Relentless." He came around to the empty desk beside mine and sat on the edge, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "Always ready to argue with me. Always staying late in the student center, tearing apart your notes like the fate of the world depended on them."

I tried to focus on my screen, but my pulse was quick, loud in my ears. "Someone had to keep your ego from setting the whole campus on fire."

Adrian tilted his head, eyes catching mine. "You didn't hate it."

"I hated losing," I said quickly.

"You never lost to me," he murmured, and then there was no more space, his arm rested on the back of my chair, his shoulder brushing mine.

My breath caught. His eyes flicked to my mouth, just for a fraction of a second, before returning to my gaze.

The room seemed to shrink until all I could see was him, the faint stubble on his jaw, the subtle curve of his lips, the way his cologne mixed with the faint scent of my own perfume in the still air.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, enough that I felt the warmth of his breath against my cheek. My hands hovered over the keyboard, frozen.

The thought flickered across my mind, if I turned my head just a little,

He stopped, so close I could count the flecks of gray in his eyes. A low laugh rumbled in his chest.

"You've still got it," he said softly.

And then he straightened, pushing off the desk, stepping back into safer space.

"Finish strong, Ford," Adrian said, slipping his jacket back on. "Don't make me regret calling on you."

He walked away, his footsteps fading into the hush of the empty hallway.

I sat there, fingers hovering over the keys, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I stared at the screen, but the words blurred.

I pressed my lips together, trying to catch my breath, wondering if I imagined how close he'd been, how close we'd both let ourselves get.

The cursor blinked on my screen, stubbornly patient, while my pulse still refused to settle. I forced my attention back to the numbers, rewrote the heading on slide four, and recalculated the engagement metrics.

The office was nearly silent now, just the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the occasional creak of the old HVAC system. Somewhere far off, an elevator dinged and echoed down the corridor.

My email pinged.

Subject: Château Mirabelle Projections

From: Claire Anders

Time: 6:42 p.m.

Jasmine,

I need your revised onepager on my desk by 7:30. Adrian will be reviewing it with me. Make sure your numbers are defensible.

I read it twice, my heart sinking. Seventhirty. That gave me less than an hour to triplecheck everything. And "defensible" meant they were expecting another round of questions.

I muttered under my breath and dove in, adjusting the influencer tiers and adding a line about cost-per-conversion benchmarks. My fingers flew over the keys. My coffee had gone cold, but I drank it anyway.

Another ping, this time a chat message from Julian.

Julian: Heard about the extra review. You good?

Me: Define good.

Julian: You've got this. Need me to stall them?

Me: Just send me luck.

Julian: Luck sent. And maybe a drink later if you survive.

I smiled despite myself, then shut everything else out and worked straight through until the clock on my screen read 7:22. I hit print, gathered the warm pages, and hurried to Claire's office, heels clicking fast.

Claire was seated at her desk, glasses perched on her nose. Adrian was standing near the window, jacket gone, tie loosened even more than before, reviewing something on his phone. He looked up as I entered, gaze sharp, unreadable.

"Just in time," Claire said. "Let's see what you've got."

I handed her the stack, steadying my breath. Adrian took a copy without a word, scanned the first page, then looked up.

"You adjusted the demographic spread," he said.

"Yes," I replied, chin lifting. "The initial range skewed older. These numbers hit the target market better."

He hummed, flipping to the next page. "And the influencer strategy, how are you vetting them? Half of them could crash a brand overnight."

"I've got crossplatform audits lined up," I said. "Engagement checks, not just follower counts. I can send you the vetting spreadsheet."

He looked at me for a long moment, as though weighing my answer. Then he set the pages down slowly, deliberately.

"Not bad," Adrian said. "Keep working like this."

It wasn't praise exactly, but coming from him, it might as well have been. Claire nodded, clearly satisfied, and dismissed me with a flick of her hand.

I stepped out into the hall, pages still warm in my hands, adrenaline humming through me. Just as I reached the corner, I heard footsteps behind me, steady, quick.

"Ford," Adrian's voice called.

I stopped. He closed the distance in a few strides, stopping just close enough that the hallway felt smaller.

"That pivot you made, " he said quietly, "most people wouldn't have caught that under pressure."

I searched his face, unsure if he was complimenting me or warning me. "Pressure doesn't scare me," I said.

That smile again, subtle, sharp. "Good," he murmured. "Because this won't get easier."

And then he was walking past me, leaving behind that familiar mix of challenge and something far more dangerous lingering in the air.

The night air hit me the moment I stepped out of Slate & Forge. The streets were quieter now, the kind of quiet where car horns sound sharper and neon signs hum like distant insects. My heels clicked against the pavement as I headed toward the subway, the adrenaline of the day still thrumming under my skin.

I replayed every second in my head, Adrian in that late meeting, leaning in close enough that I could feel his breath, the way his eyes had lingered on mine as if he knew exactly how off balance I was. I hated that he knew. I hated that I didn't hate it enough.

By the time I unlocked our apartment door, the city had settled into its lateevening rhythm. The television glowed in the living room, some crime drama murmuring in the background. Tia sat crosslegged on the couch in a faded band tee, a mug of tea cupped in her hands.

"You're late," she said, eyebrows raised as I tossed my bag onto the chair.

"I know." I kicked off my shoes, flexing my sore toes. "Claire wanted the projections before seventhirty. Adrian was in the room."

Tia whistled low. "That man again. You okay?"

"Define okay," I muttered, pulling off my blazer. "He challenged me on three different slides and nearly scared the breath out of a senior strategist. Then he nearly… never mind."

Tia's eyes sharpened. "Nearly what?"

"Nothing." I waved it off too fast. "I just need a shower."

"You're dodging," she said, grinning. "You're not good at dodging."

I sank onto the couch beside her. "He stayed late. I stayed late. There may have been… banter."

Her grin widened. "Banter? Jazz, you're glowing. You realize that, right?"

"I am not glowing."

"You are. Spill."

I told her in halting pieces, the way he'd leaned against my desk, the way his voice had dipped low, the way he'd stopped just inches from me. Tia listened with an expression that was part smug, part delighted.

"Girl," she said finally, "you are playing with fire."

"I'm not playing," I said, voice low. "I'm working. That's it."

"Mhm," she hummed, unconvinced. "Just remember, fire can be useful… or it can burn your whole house down."

I smiled faintly, but her words stuck.

Later, in my room, I changed into an oversized tee and curled up against my pillows, the glow of my laptop still lighting the notes I'd been polishing. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, expecting maybe Julian checking in again.

Unknown Number:

Thank you for your ideas today. I'd like to talk more soon. – X.C.

I blinked at the screen, reading it again. X.C.

Xander Cole.

The name I'd seen on the client list. The millionaire investor whose account had sparked half the tension in that meeting.

My pulse spiked. I sat up, staring at the message, the shadows in my room suddenly feeling closer.

How had he gotten my number? Why was he messaging me directly?

Another buzz followed almost immediately.

X.C.:

Impressive work. You see things differently. That's rare.

I didn't respond right away. I just sat there, phone in hand, hearing Tia's voice in my head, playing with fire, and wondering just how many fires I was about to walk into.