The Promotion

Chapter Nineteen

The brown wooden electric gates slid open with a low mechanical hum, and the car rolled slowly down the gravel drive. Charles was already waiting at the front door, as though he'd been standing there for some time, anticipating our arrival.

He wore a crisp white shirt beneath a dark grey waistcoat, the matching trousers pressed sharply. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, posture relaxed yet possessive. A cigar hung loosely from his mouth, smoke curling lazily into the air. His hair was slicked back with far too much gel, shining unnaturally under the light.

"Alexander, my man!" Charles boomed the moment we stepped out.

He shook Alexander's hand firmly before pulling him into a hearty hug, clapping him on the back with familiarity. When they separated, Charles turned his attention to me.

His gaze made my stomach twist.

His beady eyes travelled over me slowly, deliberately, lingering far longer than was appropriate. I extended my hand politely, hoping to keep things formal. He ignored it completely.

Instead, his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me into him.

The smell hit me instantly—thick cigar smoke mixed with heavy, musky cologne. It clogged my throat, made my chest feel tight. I coughed, instinctively trying to turn my face away, awkwardly patting his back until he finally released me.

"Louisa," he said, the cigar still between his lips, "so lovely to see you again."

Inside, my stomach churned violently.

"Nice to see you too," I lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face.

"Right," Charles clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "The table's ready. I thought breakfast on the patio might be nice."

Alexander fell into step beside me as we entered the house. Without the chaos of the previous evening, the space felt larger—grand yet unsettlingly quiet. We moved through the main hall into what appeared to be a reception room: brown carpets, beige walls, black leather sofas arranged neatly in front of a large television. Beige curtains framed the bay windows, offering a glimpse of the garden beyond—lush and manicured, not unlike Alexander's, only without the pool.

From there, we passed through another door into the kitchen. It had a rustic charm—light brown tiled floors, cream cabinets edged with wood detailing, and granite-style worktops in warm earthy tones.

Another door led us outside.

The garden opened up around us, the morning light soft and cool. A table set for four sat neatly on the patio, laden with food and drinks. Alexander pulled out a chair for me, and I smiled up at him, grateful for the small, grounding gesture.

Charles took the seat opposite me.

I clenched my jaw as I felt his eyes on me again, openly assessing, unapologetic.

"Please," Charles said, lifting his glass, "don't wait. Enjoy. Louisa, tea or coffee?"

"Coffee, please. No milk. One sugar," I replied quickly, keeping my eyes down.

As he handed me the cup, his fingers brushed deliberately against mine.

I recoiled instinctively, the cup tilting as coffee spilled onto the table.

"Shit!" I gasped. "I'm so sorry."

I reached for a napkin, heart pounding, but before Charles could move, Alexander was there.

He gently took the cloth from me, wiping the spill in one smooth motion, his presence like a shield. Relief washed through me.

Breakfast dragged on painfully. Charles dominated the conversation, refusing to let us leave even once the plates were cleared. When Alexander's phone rang, my heart sank.