Chapter 88: Consequences

I’m frozen.

Completely, utterly frozen.

Bael stopped walking the moment he saw me, and for a few seconds we just stare at each other... me in his chair with a strawberry halfway to my mouth, him in the doorway looking at me like he’s trying to process what he’s seeing.

Then Shen Rui appears behind him, arms full of files and documents.

He steps into the room smoothly, professional as always, moves to the desk where I’m currently sitting like I own the place.

Sets everything down with practiced efficiency.

Doesn’t look at me.

Doesn’t acknowledge the absurdity of the situation.

Just completes his task with perfect neutrality.

And that’s when I realize.

When my brain finally catches up to what the rest of me already knows.

I’m not just sitting in Bael’s chair.

At some point... I don’t even know when, don’t remember doing it... I crossed my legs and put my feet up on his desk.

On his extremely expensive, perfectly organized, probably-costs-more-than-a-car desk.

Like I own the place.

Like this is my office and my furniture and my space to do whatever I want with.

Oh no.

Oh god.

Shen Rui’s expression doesn’t change at all, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly... amusement, maybe, or secondhand embarrassment on my behalf... before he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

Bael hasn’t moved.

Is still standing there in the doorway, watching me.

Just... watching.

And then his hands move to his cuffs.

Unbuckling them.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

One cufflink, then the other, fingers working with practiced efficiency while his eyes stay fixed on me.

A smirk crosses his face.

Not a smile.

A smirk.

The kind that makes my stomach drop and my pulse spike and my entire nervous system go into high alert.

"Enjoying yourself, are you not?"

His voice is low.

Controlled.

Dangerous in a way I can’t quite define but absolutely feel.

I’m already moving, legs coming off the desk in what feels like slow motion, strawberry abandoned on the plate, hands scrambling to push myself up and out of his chair.

Trying to stand.

Trying to look less like someone who was just caught making themselves completely at home in someone else’s personal space.

"You must be very comfortable," Bael finishes, and starts walking toward me.

Not rushing.

Not fast.

Just purposeful, measured steps that eat up the distance between us with terrifying efficiency.

My face is burning.

I can feel the heat spreading from my cheeks down my neck, probably visible even in the office lighting, and my heart is hammering so hard against my ribs I’m worried he can hear it.

I’m on my feet now, instinctively backing up even though there’s nowhere to go.

The desk is right behind me.

Bael is in front of me.

And there’s something in the way he’s looking at me, something dark and focused and intense, that makes my entire body feel like it’s vibrating.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Something else entirely.

Something that makes my breath catch and my thoughts scatter and my skin feel too hot.

He’s getting closer.

Five feet away.

Four.

I don’t know what he’s planning to do but something in me... some survival instinct or self-preservation mechanism or just plain panic, says I really, really don’t want to find out.

Not like this.

Not when he’s looking at me like that.

Operation: Stop Bael.

That’s the only plan I have.

Stop him before he gets close enough to do whatever he’s planning with that expression on his face and that deliberate, controlled approach.

Three feet.

Two and a half.

I move without thinking.

Close the remaining distance in two quick steps, grab the front of his shirt in both fists, and press my forehead against his chest.

Hide there.

Stop looking at his face.

Stop seeing that expression that’s making my heart do dangerous things.

He stops walking and goes completely still.

I can feel his heart beating under my ears, steady, controlled, maddeningly calm compared to mine which is trying to hammer its way out of my chest.

"B-Bael," I manage, and my voice comes out shakier than I want. "I... I had to stand for a long time while submitting the designs. My legs were hurting so badly and I... I didn’t put my feet on your desk on purpose, I swear, it was just so painful I didn’t even realize I’d done it and..."

I’m rambling.

Making excuses that sound ridiculous even to my own ears.

But I can’t stop.

Can’t let go of his shirt or step back or look up because that would mean seeing his face again and I already know what I’ll find there.

That dark, intense look that makes me want to do stupid things.

"Bael," I try again, softer this time, almost pleading.

Hoping that saying his name will somehow diffuse whatever is happening here.

Hoping he’ll say something, do something, react in any way that tells me whether this is working or if I’ve just made everything catastrophically worse.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just stands there, completely still, letting me hold onto his shirt like it’s a lifeline.

The silence stretches.

My heart won’t slow down.

I need to see his face.

Need to know if this worked, if he’s calmed down, if I’ve successfully diverted whatever was about to happen.

I lift my head slowly.

Cautiously.

Look up at him.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

His eyes have gone dark.

Not angry.

Something else entirely.

Something that makes my breath stop in my throat.

He’s looking at me like he’s barely holding himself together.

Like there’s something dangerous right under the surface that he’s keeping controlled through sheer force of will.

Like one wrong move and that control is going to snap.

And that look—

God, that look is doing something to me.

Something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.

With need.

With the sudden, overwhelming urge to close the tiny distance between us and—

"Bael," I whisper.

His name comes out breathless.

Desperate.

And then I’m moving.

Leaning up.

Rising onto my toes.

I don’t decide to do it.

I don’t think it through or consider consequences or appropriateness or the fact that we’re in his office in the middle of the day.

Just act on pure instinct.

On the pull I’ve been fighting for weeks.

On the need to taste him that’s been building since this morning when he told me to call him, since he arranged for me to be brought here, since he looked at me with those dark eyes.

My lips touch his.

Soft.

Tentative.

A kiss that’s barely a kiss.

Just the brush of mouth against mouth, testing, asking—

His hand shoots out.

Grabs my shoulder.

And pushes.

Not hard.

Not rough.

But firm and steady and completely controlled as he moves me backward until my back hits the edge of the desk.

Holding me in place.

"Li Runze!"

My full name snapped out like a command.

Like a warning.

Like—