Temptation: Breaking Victoria Sharp

Victoria had built her empire on precision. Every decision calculated, every move strategic, every emotion contained within boundaries she had constructed with the same meticulous care she applied to quarterly projections. Yet as Monday morning stretched into afternoon, she found herself staring at the same market analysis report for the third consecutive hour, the words blurring together in meaningless patterns that refused to coalesce into actionable intelligence.

It was pathetic, really. Humiliating in ways that made her jaw clench with frustrated self-awareness. Victoria Sharp, the woman who'd shook the tech world with immeasurable precision, who'd navigated international expansions while competitors stumbled over regulatory minutiae, who'd built a company culture where excellence wasn't aspirational but mandatory, couldn't focus on a simple quarterly review because her strategic officer had worn a burgundy cashmere sweater.

The admission sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and unwelcome and entirely too revealing about the state of her supposedly ironclad composure. She had spent the weekend convincing herself that James's fashion campaign was merely an amusing distraction, a temporary disruption to her usual routine that would resolve itself once she regained her analytical clarity. Instead, Monday had brought renewed awareness of his presence in her peripheral vision, the way he moved through the office with that new confidence, the casual authority with which he had handled the morning staff meeting.

He had worn a deep black mock neck sweater today, paired with charcoal chinos and brown leather loafers that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. The combination was effortlessly sophisticated, the kind of ensemble that looked simple but spoke to refined taste and substantial resources. More importantly, it fit his athletic frame like a second skin, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his chest in ways that made Victoria's concentration scatter like leaves in wind.

She'd found herself watching him during the staff meeting, noting the way the black material stretched across his back when he leaned forward to make a point, the confident gesture of his hands as he outlined quarterly objectives, the respectful attention other employees paid him. James Mitchell commanded the room without raising his voice, projected authority without demanding deference, and looked absolutely devastating while doing it.

The black mock neck was the exact shade she had worn to the Tokyo negotiations last spring.

Victoria pushed back from her desk with more force than necessary, her chair rolling across the hardwood floor until it bumped against the credenza behind her. The impact sent a small tremor through her carefully arranged display of awards and accolades, visible reminders of everything she'd accomplished through discipline, focus, and unwavering control.

Control that was apparently crumbling because a man had figured out which colors looked good on him.

The thought was so ridiculous, so completely contrary to everything Victoria understood about herself, that she felt something crack inside her chest. Not break, Victoria Sharp didn't break but crack, like the first fissure in ice before the spring thaw. She was coming apart at the seams, and the worst part was that she couldn't identify the precise source of her disintegration.

Was it the attraction? The awareness that had been building since their confrontation, intensifying with each perfectly coordinated outfit James wore? The way her pulse accelerated when he entered her office, the hyperawareness of his proximity during meetings, the unwelcome heat that flared whenever he looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed to see entirely too much?

Or was it something deeper, more threatening to the foundations she'd built her life upon? The growing realization that James Mitchell, patient, strategic, quietly brilliant James, had somehow moved from the periphery of her existence to its center without her conscious permission. He'd become essential in ways that had nothing to do with regulatory compliance or market analysis, indispensable in ways that made her feel exposed and vulnerable and entirely too dependent on another person's presence in her carefully ordered world.

Victoria had spent years cultivating independence, building walls that protected her from the kind of emotional messiness that destroyed focus and compromised judgment. She'd watched colleagues make fools of themselves over romantic entanglements, seen perfectly competent executives lose their edge because they'd allowed personal feelings to cloud their professional clarity. She'd sworn never to become one of those cautionary tales, never to let desire make her weak.

Yet here she was, unable to concentrate on quarterly projections because James Mitchell looked good in black mock neck.

The realization was intolerable. Unacceptable. Victoria Sharp did not lose focus over men, no matter how well they filled out sweaters or how perfectly they coordinated their wardrobes with her past fashion choices. She certainly didn't spend entire mornings replaying conversations about earning lips and challenges issued in moments of temporary insanity.

But even as she tried to reclaim her analytical clarity, Victoria found her thoughts drifting to the parking garage incident, to the moment she'd thought James was leaning in for something intimate only to discover he'd been retrieving a gift bag. The memory made her cheeks burn with fresh humiliation, but underneath the embarrassment was something else, disappointment that he hadn't been making an advance, frustration that she'd wanted him to be making an advance, confusion about when her feelings had shifted from professional respect to something far more complicated and dangerous.

She needed answers. Needed to understand why her usually reliable composure had deserted her, why her thoughts kept circling back to burgundy cashmere and near kisses and the way James's thumb had traced across her arm in the garage. Most importantly, she needed to regain control of whatever situation had developed between them, to restore the professional distance that had served them both well for months.

She's made up her mind. There was no need for strategy. This was for the best.

Victoria reached for her phone with decisive precision, her fingers finding James's extension without conscious thought. Two rings, then his familiar voice, warm and professional and entirely too appealing.

"James Mitchell."

"My office," Victoria said without preamble. "Now."