The word hung between us in the amber-lit restaurant, vibrating against the noise of clinking silverware and low chatter.

One of the things.

My brain, usually quite adept at handling high-stakes corporate public relations, completely short-circuited. I stared across the table at Rebecca Sloan, the woman who held the ultimate veto power over my career, and tried to remember how human lungs were supposed to operate.

“One of the things?” I managed to repeat, my voice slightly tighter than I intended.

Rebecca didn’t flinch. Instead, she took a slow, deliberate sip of her Chianti, her dark eyes never leaving mine. That tiny silver thumb ring caught the amber light as she set the glass back down.

“Don’t read too much into it, Mason,” she said, though the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “A creative director collects data points. You happen to be a surprisingly consistent data point.”

“A data point,” I echoed, leaning back into the leather booth. “That’s deeply romantic. Next thing you know, you’ll be putting me on a quarterly performance graph.”

“If your performance keeps improving, you might make the presentation deck,” she replied smoothly.

We stayed at the restaurant for another hour, moving from pasta to espresso, sliding effortlessly past the initial shock of our collision course. By the time we walked out into the cool Chicago night air, the heavy professional boundary that had kept us separated by a hierarchy of glass-walled offices felt dangerously thin.

When I walked her to her car—a sleek, practical sedan that completely contradicted her avant-garde aesthetic—she turned to me before opening the door.

“Mason?”

“Yeah?”

“If you say a single word about this to anyone at Landon Creative—especially David in HR or that gossip mine in media planning—I will personally reject every campaign you submit until the year 2030.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” She gave me a sharp, beautiful smile, slipped into her car, and drove off into the Lincoln Park traffic.

I stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, my hands deep in my coat pockets, grinning like an idiot.

I should have known better. In a city like Chicago, secrets don't stay buried for long. Especially when Derek Hale is your best friend, and your best friend has a very unique definition of entertainment.

Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a freight train.

I walked into the thirty-second floor of Landon Creative carrying a large iced coffee and a portfolio of revised drafts for our biggest upcoming client: Apex Financial.

The office was buzzing with its usual frenetic Monday energy. Creatives rushed past with laptops; account managers barked into Bluetooth earpieces; the espresso machine in the breakroom hissed like an angry cat.

I sat down at my desk, booted up my workstation, and immediately felt a shadow fall over my cubicle wall.

Derek was leaning against the partition, wearing a smirk that should have been classified as a weapon.

“Morning, lover boy,” he whispered loudly enough for half the creative department to hear.

I kicked my desk drawer shut. “Keep your voice down, you absolute sociopath. Do you realize what you did on Friday?”

“I played matchmaker. I brought two lonely, overworked souls together. I deserve a medal. Or at least free drinks.”

“You dropped me into a dinner ambush with my boss’s boss,” I hissed, standing up to block him from view. “Do you have any idea how complicated this makes my life?”

“Complicated?” Derek laughed softly. “Or interesting? Come on, Mase. I know my sister. Rebecca doesn’t date. She doesn’t socialize outside of high-end charity galas and board meetings. The fact that she stayed for dinner—let alone didn't fire you on the spot—means you survived the gauntlet.”

Before I could reply, a sharp throat-clearing sound cut through the ambient noise of the bullpen.

We both turned.

Standing a few feet away was Sarah Jenkins, a senior account director whose main hobby in life seemed to be documenting everyone else's corporate missteps. Her eyes flicked from Derek to me, her expression dripping with professional curiosity.

“Mason,” Sarah said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Rebecca wants to see you in the executive boardroom. Now. And she doesn’t look happy.”