I lift an eyebrow, impressed despite myself. "Seems thorough."

"It has to be," she says, not registering it as a compliment. "Last quarter we outperformed every other store in the region by almost forty percent because I adjusted our inventory based on my own forecasts instead of following corporate's model."

We walk through the employee corridor together. I notice how several staff members stop to ask her quick questions as we pass. They defer to her naturally, but there's none of that artificial respect people give to bosses they don't actually admire. They genuinely seem to value her input, and she answers each query with a decisive confidence that's at odds with how she carries herself around Evan.

I pull up the feed on my phone, tracking the movement inside the personal shopping suite. The bright display shows multiple angles, clear enough to see facial expressions, body language.

Izzy leans over to get a better look.

Her breast brushes against my arm, and I go completely rigid. The soft pressure sends a jolt through me.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, she places a hand on my forearm. Her fingers are warm through the fabric of my shirt.

Jesus.

I hold my breath, fighting every single urge in my body. My blood runs hot, a rush of heat that's impossible to ignore.

She notices the way I stiffen. I just hope she can't tell how absolutely hard my cock is getting for her right now. The reaction is immediate and intense.

She pulls back. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she says, cheeks going pink. "I just...didn't know you could pull that up on your phone."

I force myself to breathe. Then I give her a slow smile.

"I absolutely can."

She nods, clearing her throat, looking anywhere but at me. "I guess you're always watching."

I tilt my head. Smile a little wider.

"I absolutely am."

She exhales, straightens herself again, then steps onto the floor.

I watch the feed. At first, things seem fine. Izzy does what she does best—smooths everything over, handles the situation, keeps things professional.

She greets Monroe, listens to his very unimportant concerns, nods in all the right places. But I also notice something else—she's tactfully steering him toward items she clearly pre-selected. Even from the feed, I can see how she subtly positions herself between him and the staff, creating a buffer. She's protecting her people while still doing her job.

I force myself to relax. Maybe this'll be⁠—

No.

Of course not.

Because then it happens. He plays it so fucking well.

He positions himself just right. Hand hovering behind her. Foot angled in front of her. A perfectly choreographed accident.

She backs up, right into his waiting hand.

I go completely still.

He gives her ass a squeeze, then lets go before anyone can see.

Except I see.

The control it takes for me to stay still is inhuman. My fingers dig into my palm, and my entire body shakes with rage.

Monroe tilts his head, putting on his best oh, whoops, that was totally an accident face.

Izzy doesn't react. Not outwardly. She just keeps going. Like she didn't just get groped in broad daylight in her own damn store.

I clench my fists.

I gave her my word.

I wouldn't cause problems for her.

I'd wait.

She knows she just has to say my name, and I'll be there.

I force myself to breathe. To stay put. And then someone else steps into the frame.

I frown. The guy looks familiar. Then my brain catches up.

Evan.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Evan walks in like he owns the place, like he's someone worth noticing. It takes me about three seconds to figure him out. The way he carries himself. The way he talks too loudly, smiles too hard. The desperate undercurrent to his confidence, like he's constantly seeking validation.

It's textbook.

Low self-esteem.

So he finds a woman who should know she's out of his league, and instead of building her up, he drags her down—makes her question herself, chip away at her own confidence—all so he can feel bigger in comparison. A classic move from insecure men everywhere.

I grind my teeth, watching.

Monroe lights up when he sees Evan.

They shake hands, and clap each other on the shoulder.

Ah.

So they know each other. They're all grins and fake camaraderie, two men who think way too highly of themselves.

Figures.

What sticks out more, though?

Evan doesn't even look at Izzy.

Doesn't greet her.

Doesn't acknowledge her at all.

Just walks in, shakes hands with his buddy, and starts talking like she's furniture. Like she's not even worthy of basic courtesy from the man who's supposed to care about her.

Because that's who he is.

A man so fucking average he has to keep a woman like Izzy feeling small just to feel big.

They sit down on one of the couches, laughing, drinking whatever overpriced bullshit Monroe had Daniel bring him. The crystal glasses catch the light as they talk, gesturing animatedly about some deal or another.

And Izzy?

She's just standing there.

Awkward, waiting, watching, not sure if she should stay or go. I can see the tension in her posture, the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot.

She waits for a lull in the conversation and tries to make her escape.

I flip on the audio feed, adjusting my headset. I need to hear this. The sound crackles to life, voices suddenly clear despite the ambient store noise.

"Well," she says, polite as ever. "If you two want more time to catch up, you can let me or Daniel know if you need anything further⁠—"

Evan stops her.

"No, actually," he says, waving her closer. "I came to pick you up for your lunch break."

Izzy blinks. "Oh?"

"Yeah. I'm taking you to your first dietitian appointment."

She freezes.

Her face goes red.

Right there.

In front of Monroe.

In front of Daniel.

In front of the goddamn security cameras.

The fuck?

Evan doesn't stop.

No, of course he doesn't.

Evan turns to Monroe, completely ignoring Izzy, like she's not even standing right there.

"She's finally getting serious about her health," he says, like this is some cute little makeover project. "I booked her an appointment with a dietitian—first session's today."

Izzy goes rigid.

Even from here, I can see the subtle change in her posture—the way she draws inward, her hands unconsciously going to her sides like she's trying to make herself smaller. In this moment, I recognize a pattern, the same one I've seen whenever she talks about her weight. The confident store manager who just outperformed every other location by forty percent vanishes, replaced by a woman who's been told repeatedly she takes up too much space.

Evan doesn't notice.

Or maybe he does and just doesn't care.

"She's already getting there, obviously," he adds, laughing like this is some inside joke. "But, you know, a little bit of work, a few tweaks here and there, and she'll be in incredible shape. Just wait."

My vision blurs.

Tweaks?

A little bit of work?

Like she's some fucking car he's taking to a body shop?

Monroe laughs.

Then he says something that makes my vision completely black out.

"I did something similar for my wife," Monroe says, swirling his drink. "Just be careful, though. Izzy's got a great ass on her. Wouldn't want to lose that grip, if you know what I mean."

My fist connects with the concrete wall beside me, a deep thud echoing through the narrow corridor.

I swear I feel it give. A small indent, maybe just dust settling around my knuckles, but enough to tell me I hit it hard.