The service elevator encounter had changed everything, yet nothing. They were back to the glass office, but the tension was no longer professional frustration; it was a tight, agonizing anticipation. Lila could feel Ethan watching her when she took notes; Ethan could feel the exact moment Lila's focus slipped.
The ultimate test of their new "alliance" arrived Monday evening: a private, high-level reception for the Reed Global board and prospective international partners—the very people Julian Vance had tried to poison. Lila had to attend, not just as a consultant, but as Ethan Reed's public shield.
Lila was forced to ride down in the executive elevator with Ethan. He was in a black suit, radiating power; she wore a deep emerald dress that was professional but sleek, designed to be an armor against the room.
"Tonight, we are a unified front," Ethan instructed, his voice low and formal. "You will not leave my side. And when anyone, especially the board chairman, asks about our working relationship, you will refer to the 'constructive tension' of our past and the 'unmatched synergy' of our present."
"I know the talking points," Lila clipped. "We're the dynamic duo who built an empire, broke up, and got back together to build a better one. It's a corporate fairy tale built on a lie."
"It's a necessary performance," Ethan corrected, his eyes hard. "And tonight, no one can see the crack."
The Performance
The ballroom was a blur of crystal, soft jazz, and influential murmurs. Lila found herself caught in the most exhausting role of her career: Ethan's ex-fiancée and new corporate partner. She smiled, she deflected, and she performed the synergy beautifully, using insider knowledge that only a former lover could possess to flawlessly anticipate Ethan's replies to complex questions.
At one point, the board chairman, Mr. Hemlock, cornered them.
"Ethan, I must say, Ms. Torres is remarkable," Hemlock commented, raising a brow. "I was concerned by the reports of... friction. But you two look like you never missed a step. It takes a remarkable commitment to put aside the personal history for the sake of the project."
Ethan slipped his hand casually onto the small of Lila's back, a public gesture that was both possessive and necessary to maintain the facade. The touch was burning hot through the silk of her dress.
"Our commitment to this project is absolute, Mr. Hemlock," Ethan stated smoothly. "Lila and I understand, better than anyone, the immense value of what we are building. The personal tension, if anything, is just an unmatched source of competitive energy."
Lila forced a bright, practiced smile. "It's true," she confirmed, leaning slightly into his touch, her voice laced with practiced authority. "We learned three years ago that the only way to succeed is to focus entirely on execution, without the distractions of sentimentality."
As they walked away, Ethan's hand lingered on her back, guiding her through the crowd. "Very well played," he murmured into her ear, the heat of his breath sending a shiver down her spine. "But you're shaking again."
"Just focusing on the execution," she retorted, her voice brittle. The lie was eroding her from the inside out.
Backstage: The Near Miss
Lila excused herself to the antechamber, a small, dark room near the kitchens, seeking three minutes of silence. She leaned against the velvet wallpaper, closing her eyes, trying to recenter herself before the final round of networking.
A minute later, the door clicked shut.
"I told you not to leave my side," Ethan's voice commanded.
Lila opened her eyes. He had followed her. He walked toward her, and in the small, confined space, the atmosphere instantly became suffocating. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, boxing her in against the wall, the music from the ballroom barely a muted pulse.
"You're falling apart, Lila," he whispered, his eyes scanning her face, looking past the makeup and the smile. "You look pale. You can't keep this up."
"And you're the one who built the trap!" she whispered fiercely, looking up at him, her chest heaving. "This whole night—this entire lie—is your fault. You wanted to prove I was trapped. Congratulations. You won."
"I didn't want you trapped," Ethan corrected, his voice raw. "I wanted you safe. I wanted you close enough that I could monitor the damage."
His gaze dropped to her lips. The air was gone. The distance was zero. All the calculated precision, all the professionalism, and all the residual hate vaporized in the tight, hot space. This wasn't a corporate performance; this was a personal explosion.
Lila lifted her hand, intending to push him away, but her fingers found the crisp linen of his collar instead, gripping the fabric.
"What are you doing, Ethan?" she breathed, the question half-challenge, half-desperate plea.
"Executing the only possible solution to this much proximity," he murmured, his eyes darkening with a familiar, reckless heat.
He lowered his head. Lila closed the infinitesimal gap, tilting her chin up. This was it—the break, the surrender, the end of the professional war and the beginning of the personal casualty. Three years of aching loss was about to crash over them.
But just as their lips were about to meet, the sound of the antechamber door rattling violently broke the spell.
"Mr. Reed? Are you in here? The board chairman is asking for you!" Mr. Vance's voice was frantic, muffled through the heavy wood.
Ethan froze. His control, honed over three years of disciplined isolation, snapped back into place. He closed his eyes for a split second, taking a ragged breath that did not touch her, then took a single, agonizing step back.
"Control," he muttered, the word a self-administered lash. He glanced at the door, then back at Lila, his face a perfect mask of regret and frustration.
"We have to go," he said, his voice now crisp and professional, the emotional moment over. "The board is waiting."
Lila watched him adjust his jacket and fix his collar—the collar her fingers had just crumpled. He had pulled back. He chose the boardroom over the kiss. Again.
She straightened her dress, smoothed her hair, and followed him out, the heat of the missed opportunity a cold dread in her stomach. The performance was not over. It had just begun.