Chapter 8 JEALOUSY LOOKS BAD ON YOU

My boss was already irritated before I even opened my mouth that morning.

I could feel it in the air the moment I walked into the meeting room. The atmosphere was too tight, too controlled—like someone had wound a spring and left it ticking. Rowan sat at the head of the table, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. But I’d worked with him long enough to recognize the signs.

His jaw was clenched.

That meant trouble.

The meeting itself was smooth. Numbers were approved. Timelines agreed upon. The stakeholders were pleased—overly pleased, even. Smiles were exchanged. Hands were shaken. Success hovered over the table like a reward we hadn’t fully earned yet.

When it ended, people stood, gathering their things, murmuring politely as they filtered out.

I was halfway to the door when I heard it.

“Althea.”

I stopped.

Slowly turned.

“Yes?”

Rowan didn’t look up immediately. He closed his laptop with deliberate calm, stood from his chair, and finally lifted his gaze to meet mine.

“I saw your ex come out of your room last night.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Caleb,” he clarified calmly. “He left your room around midnight.”

My chest tightened, heat rushing straight to my face. “And why were you watching my door?”

His expression didn’t change. “I wasn’t watching. I noticed.”

I laughed, sharp and incredulous. “That’s the same thing.”

“I hope you’re not back together,” he continued, ignoring my tone.

I stared at him, disbelief hardening into anger. “What?”

“Even if you are,” Rowan went on coolly, “kindly keep it discreet. At least until the deal is fully finalized.”

Something inside me snapped.

“We’ve already secured the stakeholders,” he added. “There’s no need for unnecessary distractions.”

I stepped closer, voice low but shaking. “Keep your business out of my personal life.”

His eyes darkened.

“I don’t want complications,” he said quietly.

“And I don’t want you monitoring who comes in and out of my room,” I snapped back. “You don’t own me.”

Silence fell between us—thick, ugly, charged.

Rowan held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. “Understood.”

“Good,” I said, already turning away. “Then we’re clear.”

I walked out before he could respond, my hands trembling at my sides.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced professionalism and simmering anger. I smiled when required. I answered emails. I nodded through conversations I barely heard. By afternoon, exhaustion sat heavy on my shoulders.

Then my phone buzzed.

Rowan Pierce: There’s a package waiting for you in front of your door.

I hissed under my breath.

Rolled my eyes so hard they nearly hurt.

“Of course there is,” I muttered.

I ignored it for a while, stubbornly finishing my work, pretending I didn’t care. But curiosity—and irritation—eventually won. When I finally walked back to my room, keys in hand, I was fully prepared to see a delivery box or a bellhop slip.

Instead, I opened the door and froze.

Rowan was standing there.

Holding a massive box.

He wasn’t in a suit this time—just a crisp shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. For once, he didn’t look perfectly in control.

He looked… tentative.

“I thought I’d deliver it personally,” he said.

I stared at him. Then at the box. Then back at him.

“What is that?” I asked flatly.

“An apology,” he replied.

I crossed my arms. “I didn’t order one.”

A small, nervous smile tugged at his lips. He shifted the box and opened it.

My breath caught.

Inside were neatly arranged items that screamed money and poor decision-making.

The latest iPhone.

An iPad.

Imported chocolates.

Perfume.

And—

I squinted.

A blonde, 32-inch, bone-straight wig.

Silence.

I slowly lifted my gaze to Rowan.

“You think,” I said carefully, “that you can buy my forgiveness with a stupid blonde wig?”

His smile faltered.

“I won’t even wear this,” I continued, anger bubbling over. “Blonde is not my color. And weren’t you the one who told everyone at work we must stick to natural hair?”

He winced slightly.

“And didn’t you personally instruct every natural blonde in the office to dye their hair brown or black because it ‘disrupted brand cohesion’?” I added.

That one landed.

Rowan cleared his throat. “That was… different.”

“Please don’t piss me off,” I said coldly. “I’m already very mad at you.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You could wear the wig out with your friends. Or something.”

I laughed bitterly. “Yes. Because I have so much time to myself.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I stared at him, unmoved.

He hesitated, then said, “Okay. What if I double your salary?”

I froze.

Slowly, I turned back to him.

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “now you’re talking.”

Hope flickered across his face. “Deal?”

“If you double it,” I said, meeting his eyes, “you’ll be forgiven.”

He nodded immediately. “Deal.”

I stepped aside. “Then come in. You’re blocking the hallway.”

As he carried the box inside, I watched him carefully.

Rowan Pierce—domineering executive, feared leader, man who bent boardrooms to his will—standing in my hotel room trying to buy peace with money and poorly chosen gifts.

“You’re unbelievable,” I muttered.

“And yet,” he replied softly, “you didn’t say no.”

That was the part that unsettled me most of all.

Because somewhere between jealousy, power, and apology, the lines were already blurring—and I wasn’t sure who was losing control first.