The Promotion

Chapter Twenty-One

Morning arrived softly, like it was afraid to disturb us.

Amber light seeped through the sheer curtains, painting the room in gold and honey, dust motes floating lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, birdsong drifted through an open window—gentle, unhurried, alive. It felt as though the world had decided to be kind today.

I lay perfectly still, barely breathing, afraid that even the smallest movement might break whatever fragile miracle this was.

Louisa slept sprawled across my chest, warm and real, her cheek pressed over my heart like she belonged there. Her arm lay loose and trusting across my stomach, her fingers curled slightly, nails pale against my skin. Every time she breathed, I felt it—soft, steady, intimate. My arm rested around her shoulders, my hand splayed across her back, memorising the slope of her spine, the way she fit against me as though this had always been meant to happen.

She drooled a little—just the faintest trace at the corner of her mouth—and the sight made something ache warmly in my chest.

Even asleep, she was exquisite.

I brushed a few strands of her hair back from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear. She stirred but didn't wake, her lips parting slightly, exhaling a breath that warmed my skin. My thumb lingered at her temple, tracing the curve there, committing it to memory.

Last night replayed itself behind my closed eyes—her laughter, the way she'd looked at me like she was seeing me, not the man everyone else saw. When she opened up to me, really opened up, it felt like standing in the centre of a storm and finding calm. Souls don't always connect, not like that. When they do, you feel it in your bones.

From the first moment I saw her, something in me had shifted.

I chuckled quietly, remembering that first night.

I never went to pubs alone. Ever. I preferred control—spaces I understood, environments where I didn't have to perform or pretend. But that night, something restless had driven me out of my apartment and into that dim bar. And there she was—slumped on a stool like the weight of the world had settled squarely on her shoulders.

She looked... familiar. Not recognisable, exactly—more like a feeling. As if I'd known her in another life.

I didn't want to scare her off. Didn't want to be that man. So I bought her a drink instead, kept my distance, let her come to me if she wanted. When she did, when she spoke, all I saw was stress etched behind her eyes and something fragile she was trying desperately to hold together.

When she told me she was thinking of applying for the job, I nearly laughed out loud—not at her, never at her—but at the sheer audacity of fate. I told her to go for it, not knowing if I'd ever see her again.

Then I did.

The car park.

My heart had stuttered like it had forgotten how to beat properly. Seeing her again felt like déjà vu with teeth. And still, I held myself back.

When Viv interviewed her, I watched every candidate from my office window like a man waiting for a verdict. Every rejection felt like a narrow escape. When Viv finally told me Louisa was the one, relief had crashed over me so hard I'd had to sit down.

And then the club.

God—the club.

The lights, the music, the way she moved against me like she trusted me without knowing why. Her hands on me made every muscle in my body go rigid. When she fumbled with her phone, nervous and flustered, I took it from her instinctively, wanting to help, wanting to be close.