Chapter 6 6.

Chapter 6: Ashley’s POV

I didn’t like him immediately. Not his face. Not his voice. And definitely not his unnecessary comment.

“Looks like the Orwells didn’t take this collaboration seriously after all.”

The silence after that statement was painful.

Executives around the table suddenly became very interested in their documents. Nobody wanted to look directly at either of us.

Meanwhile, I sat there trying to decide whether to cry from stress or throw a water bottle at Marcus Bryson’s expensive head.

Possibly both. I smiled sweetly instead.

“Well,” I said calmly, “good morning to you too.”

A few executives shifted uncomfortably. Marcus didn’t react. That somehow irritated me more.

He sat across from me looking perfectly composed in his dark suit while I fought pregnancy nausea and homicidal instincts simultaneously.

Unfair.

“I was under the impression this meeting involved collaboration,” I continued pleasantly, “not public executions before coffee.”

One corner of his mouth moved slightly. Not a smile.More like his face briefly considered human emotion before rejecting it.

“Collaboration requires preparation,” he replied evenly.

“And arrogance requires no preparation at all apparently.” The room became even quieter somehow.

Was silence capable of increasing? Because this one definitely did. Clara looked moments away from cardiac arrest near the wall.

Nash was going to kill me internationally.

Marcus leaned back slightly in his chair, studying me now instead of dismissing me.

Interesting.

“Do you always speak emotionally during business discussions?” he asked. I smiled wider.

“Do you always insult women before introducing yourself?” A dangerous pause followed.

Then finally—

“Marcus Bryson.” His voice stayed calm. Controlled.

Like he genuinely believed introducing himself erased the fact that he entered the room acting like an expensive supervillain.

“Ashley Martin,” I replied. “Temporary disappointment representative for the Orwells.”

That actually earned a few startled laughs around the table. Marcus noticed.

And for the first time since entering the room, I saw it.

Annoyance.

Tiny. Controlled. But definitely there.

Oh. That was satisfying. Very satisfying.

Because Marcus Bryson looked like the kind of man rarely challenged directly. People probably agreed with him constantly out of fear, money, or survival instinct.

Unfortunately for him, I lacked corporate self-preservation.

“Shall we proceed?” one executive interrupted nervously.

“Yes,” Marcus answered without taking his eyes off me.

Which was honestly starting to feel aggressive. The meeting continued. Or at least attempted to.

Every discussion somehow turned into another argument between Marcus and me.

“This proposal lacks long-term structure,” he stated coldly.

“It lacks personality,” I corrected.

“This is a corporation. Not social media.”

“And yet somehow your personality still lowers morale.”

Several people coughed suspiciously into their hands. Marcus looked at me for a long moment. I smiled innocently back.

Inside, I was thriving. Because every time irritation flickered across his face, I felt weirdly victorious.

Petty?

Absolutely.

One executive nervously presented projected expansion numbers onto the screen. Marcus reviewed them briefly.

“The Manila branch performance is weak.”

“It’s underfunded,” I replied immediately. His eyes moved toward me again.

“It’s inefficient.”

“It’s surviving with half the resources your department receives.”

“It still underperformed.” I crossed my arms.

“Do you naturally enjoy sounding insufferable or is that executive training?” A very dangerous silence followed.

Oops. Too far? Maybe slightly.

But then— Unexpectedly— Marcus leaned back in his chair slowly. And laughed.

Not loudly. Not warmly.

But unmistakably laughed. The entire room froze.

Apparently Marcus Bryson laughing was a rare astronomical event. His gaze settled on me afterward, darker now somehow.

“You’re very confident for someone unqualified.”

Unqualified? I can accept underqualified but never that unqualified. There's a big, big difference with that.

“There it is,” I said immediately.

“There what is?”

“The billionaire superiority complex.” One executive looked ready to resign. Marcus remained calm.

“I prefer competence.” Oh.

“I prefer people with basic social skills.”

“Then this partnership will disappoint us both.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

And somewhere beneath the irritation, sarcasm, and verbal violence… something shifted slightly. Something dangerous.

Because now... I wasn’t nervous anymore. I was engaged.

Focused.

Awake.

Marcus Bryson irritated me so thoroughly that he somehow overpowered my anxiety.

Honestly, that felt medically impressive. The meeting dragged on another hour.

By then, my back hurt, my feet hurt, and my unborn child apparently hated corporate discussions because nausea kept attacking randomly.

I shifted carefully in my seat while another executive spoke.

Marcus noticed immediately. Of course he did. He observed everything. His eyes narrowed briefly.

“You’re pale.”

I blinked. Excuse me? Several executives looked between us curiously.

“I’m wearing makeup,” I replied carefully.

“You still look pale.”

Why did that annoy me? Probably because his tone changed slightly. Less sharp. More observant.

Like he was assessing a problem.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I didn’t realize this meeting included free medical consultations.” A few executives laughed nervously again.

Marcus ignored them completely. Then suddenly—

“Take a fifteen-minute break,” he ordered the room calmly.

Everyone looked shocked. Including me.

One executive blinked rapidly. “Mr. Bryson, we still have—”

“Fifteen minutes.” Nobody argued.

Apparently when Marcus Bryson spoke, corporations simply obeyed. The room slowly emptied afterward until only Marcus and I remained.

Which immediately felt like a threat. I gathered my papers cautiously.

“You know,” I muttered, “normal people usually insult me after learning my name. You’re very efficient.” Marcus watched me quietly from across the table.

“You’re not what I expected.” That caught me off guard.

“What exactly were you expecting?”

“Someone incompetent.”

Rude.

“Wow,” I said flatly. “And people say romance is dead.”

“You’re still unqualified,” he informed me.

“And you’re still emotionally constipated.”

That one landed. Direct hit. I saw the annoyance immediately.

God. This was becoming fun.

Marcus stood slowly from his chair, tall enough to feel unfairly intimidating even across the room. Then he walked toward me.

Calm. Controlled. Terrifyingly composed.

Meanwhile my pregnant self suddenly forgot basic breathing. He stopped beside me close enough for his cologne to reach me.

Expensive. Clean. Annoyingly attractive.

“Irritating your business partners isn’t a sustainable strategy, Ms. Martin.” I looked up at him coolly despite my heartbeat suddenly acting stupid.

“And insulting me the second you walked in was?”

His eyes held mine for a long second. Then quietly—

“You looked temporary.”

Something about that sentence hit strangely harder than the earlier insult. Before I could respond, Marcus stepped past me toward the door.

Then without looking back, he said calmly—

“Try not to embarrass the Orwells during the second half of the meeting.”

I stared at the closed boardroom doors after he left. Then muttered to myself—

“Oh, I definitely hate him.”