chapter94
Thalassa was meticulously organizing the conference room when her attention was captured by a stack of design drafts left on the mahogany table.
They were breathtaking—fluid lines and innovative silhouettes that spoke of high-fashion expertise. One design, a velvet skirt in a soft primrose yellow, particularly fascinated her. It possessed a modern edge that felt familiar yet entirely unique.
“Thalassa! What are you doing with those?”
The sharp voice of Faye shattered her concentration. The secretary hurried in, sweeping the papers into a protective heap. Her gaze was icy. “These designs represent months of confidential work by our senior team. As a member of the maintenance staff, you should understand the boundaries of your role. Curiosity can be a liability.”
Thalassa didn't flinch. She maintained a calm, professional demeanor. “You’re right, Faye. Confidential documents are the lifeline of this company. Which is why it’s surprising to find them left in an unmonitored room. As the president’s secretary, perhaps ensuring their security is a detail that deserves more of your focus.”
Faye’s expression tightened at the logical retort. Straining to keep her composure, she pointed toward the hallway. “The conference room is finished. The president’s private office requires immediate attention. See to it.”
When Thalassa entered the executive suite, the atmosphere was heavy with the weight of Lysander’s presence. He was focused on a series of reports, the silent intensity of his concentration creating a palpable pressure in the room.
Thalassa worked quietly, determined to be as unobtrusive as possible. She moved to sanitize the expansive desk, leaning over to reach the far corners with practiced efficiency. She was focused on her task, unaware that her movements, though professional, highlighted the graceful silhouette of her form against the morning light.
From behind his monitor, Lysander’s focus wavered. He watched her for a moment—the quiet diligence she brought to even the most mundane tasks was a stark contrast to the performative elegance he usually encountered.
A sudden, sharp ring broke the silence as Thalassa’s sleeve caught the edge of the desk phone, sending it sliding toward the floor.
“I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, moving quickly to intercept it.
In her haste, her foot caught the base of the heavy executive chair. She lost her balance, stumbling forward. Before she could hit the ground, a pair of strong arms reached out, catching her with a swift, decisive motion.
Thalassa found herself momentarily anchored against Lysander’s chest. The scent of him—crisp linen and cold steel—enveloped her, sending her heart into a frantic rhythm. Her hand braced against his shoulder, her pulse echoing the sudden, electric tension between them.
She looked up, meeting his deep, searching eyes. The air in the room seemed to vanish.
“Mr. Sinclair... I... my apologies,” she whispered, regaining her footing with a shaky breath.
Lysander didn't release his hold immediately. The sudden, unscripted contact had pierced through his usual professional armor. For a heartbeat, the office and the reports didn't matter—only the genuine, startled warmth of the woman in his arms.