Catherine Schaffer is going to ruin me.

I don’t know what I intended when I came to the Basiqué offices knowing that she was here. A terse discussion, probably, that would alleviate some of the pressurized worry building in my chest.

I saw her fall.

It wasn’t that long ago that I came in early on some instinct, some mystical sign, I don’t know, in time to catch her before her temple crashed into the sharp, modern corner of Sarzó’s desk. Over that first weekend we spent together I saw how she needed more and more sleep to wake up every time, more and more time to recover, but she refused to acknowledge it. I watched the storm brewing on the horizon and I didn’t care at all if I got wet.

We haven’t had the discussion yet.

That’s what makes all of this so difficult.

Love is one thing. Putting words to that feeling is one thing. Commitment is another, and through all our days of talking about our goddam hometowns and childhood friends, we never got around to giving our relationship a firm title.

And that means I have no real right to feel as pissed as I felt when I discovered she left the penthouse and went to work.

At first—and I’ll admit it—I was in such a state because I thought I’d been clear the day before. It took a good thirty minutes to remind my dumbass self that there’s a line—a huge dividing line—between the games we play in the bedroom and our actual life together.

It’s easy for those lines to blur.

For her, they haven’t.

For me, the things we do are a natural extension of how I live my own life. I am in total control.

And then it hits me again like a sucker punch: I’m not in control. Because if I was, Catherine Schaffer would be long-forgotten by now, another notch in my belt, left behind like the rest of the women I’ve dated in the past.

I’m not in control because I love her too much to let her go.

Of course, she goes anyway.

On top of that, I’m not entirely sure that I’ll be able to turn off how I’ve always been, or that I even want to. It’s served me extremely well in every other aspect of life. It’s why my net worth is one of the highest in the city…not to mention the rest of the country.

I’m powerful in my own right.

When she walked in, I was ready to be clear with her on my expectations, especially when it comes to her health, because that’s how much she means to me.

But the sway in her hips, the glint in her eyes…

I had to have her.

Teaching her a lesson was only a side benefit, and then that spitfire of a woman went and turned the tables on the entire arrangement.

How could I resist her when she bent over my desk for me, ready to submit to me…but only under her own terms? I don’t think anything’s ever turned me on more in my life.

Now she’s back down the hall, doing god knows what for Sarzó.

I’m about to leave when there’s a knock at my door.

“Mr. Hunter?”

It’s not Cate.

“Come in,” I call, pulling out my leather portfolio. I’ve been sitting at my desk since Cate rearranged her skirt and slipped out the door, the spring in her step not quite compensating for how worn down she still feels…even if she won’t admit it.

The door opens and a curvy woman who can’t be more than five feet tall comes in with timid steps, clutching a stack of papers.

“Mr. Hunter, my name is Lauren, from accounting.”

“Hello, Lauren.”

She takes a deep breath, obviously flustered to be in my presence, which isn’t uncommon. Last week I might have been harsher, more dismissive, but something about Cate has me looking at things differently. At Basiqué, Cate can’t be the only one who’s doing too much. She is, however, the only one who has a billionaire boyfriend to protect her from the worst effects.

Not boyfriend, I remind myself. Not yet.

Lauren’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “There’s a full report in your email, Mr. Hunter, but the department heads wanted me to personally deliver this summary to you.”

I wave her forward, and she puts the thin stack on my desk.

“Thank you, Lauren.” I nod at her, giving her a smile. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

“Thank—thank you, Mr. Hunter,” she says, the relief obvious in her face.

When the door closes behind her retreating back, I’m already deep into the summary details.

The numbers don’t look good.

In fact, they look dismal.

Website traffic has fallen, ad revenue is on the decline for both the print and web properties, and subscriptions are down.

Basiqué was supposed to be a powerhouse.

As it stands, it’s barely supporting itself.

I sigh, resigning myself to keeping it alive with influxes of cash…for the space of three heartbeats.

No.

I cannot let Cate cloud my judgment.

This is exactly the kind of bullshit that I’ve been trying to avoid for years.

It’s far too late to convince myself that I don’t love her.

It’s not too late to stop my feelings from influencing my business decisions, however, even if it means closing her beloved magazine. If it comes to that and she leaves me over it…

That’s the risk I have to take.

First things first. Sarzó needs to know that Basiqué is hanging by a thread. So is her career, and by extension, so are the most important dreams of the woman I love.

This meeting should be a thrill.