**Mature content**
Isabelle's background fueled her drive. Her mother's struggles had taught her self-reliance, but a failed engagement in her 20s—to a man who chose wealth over her—left a scar, a need to never be outmaneuvered again. Eva's secrets were a puzzle she'd solve, not just to protect her position but to prove she was untouchable. Her audits had failed, thanks to Marcus's interference, and now she'd turn to him, using every weapon in her arsenal—seduction included—to uncover Eva's truth.
Isabelle found Marcus in a quiet conference room, the blinds drawn, the hum of the tower muted. He was reviewing reports, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing toned forearms. "Marcus," she said, her voice smooth, closing the door. "We need to talk."
He looked up, his smile calculated. "Isabelle," he said, leaning back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
She crossed the room, her hips swaying, her smile a blade. "Eva Carter," she said, perching on the table's edge, her skirt riding up slightly. "You helped her bury the hiring files. I want to know why."
Marcus's eyes flicked over her, a spark of interest mingling with caution. "I'm a team player," he said, his tone light. "Eva's good for the company. Why the witch hunt?"
Isabelle leaned closer, her perfume sharp, her fingers brushing his hand. "Don't play coy," she said, her voice low, sultry. "You know something. Tell me, and I'll make it worth your while."
Marcus's smile widened, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. He had his own plan—use Eva to climb, undermine Isabelle, and secure a VP role. Revealing Eva's secrets would weaken his leverage, and Isabelle's seduction, while tempting, was a trap he'd sidestep. But he'd play along, enjoying the game.
"Worth my while?" he said, standing, closing the distance, his hand grazing her thigh. "That's a bold offer, Isabelle."
She smiled, her hand sliding to his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. "I'm a bold woman," she said, her lips inches from his. "Name your price."
Their eyes locked, the air crackling with tension. Isabelle's hand slipped beneath his shirt, her nails grazing his abs, a slow, deliberate tease. Marcus groaned, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her against him, feeling her curves through her suit. "You're dangerous," he said, his voice rough, his lips brushing her ear, nipping the lobe.
"You have no idea," she purred, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt, exposing his chest. She kissed his collarbone, her tongue flicking against his skin, tasting salt and heat. Marcus's breath hitched, his hands sliding under her skirt, tracing the lace of her panties, his touch bold but controlled.
The conference room was a cocoon, the world fading as their bodies pressed closer. Isabelle's lips found his, a fierce, hungry kiss, her tongue teasing his, her teeth grazing his lip. Marcus responded, his hands roaming her back, unhooking her bra through her blouse, his fingers brushing her nipples, eliciting a soft moan. She arched into him, her hips grinding against his, feeling his arousal through his trousers.
"Tell me about Eva," she gasped, breaking the kiss, her hands working his belt, freeing him. "What's she hiding?"
Marcus chuckled, his fingers slipping beneath her panties, finding her wet and ready, teasing her with slow, circling motions. "You're not getting that out of me," he said, his voice low, his lips trailing to her neck, sucking hard enough to mark her.
Isabelle's moan was sharp, her body trembling, but frustration flared—Marcus was holding back. She pushed him onto the table, straddling him, her skirt hiked up, her blouse half-unbuttoned, revealing lace and skin. "You'll talk," she said, her voice a sultry command, her hands stroking him, feeling him harden under her touch.
Marcus groaned, his hips bucking, but his eyes were sharp, his plan intact. He flipped her onto her back, pinning her to the table, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading them. "Not today," he said, his voice rough, entering her in one swift thrust, filling her completely.
Isabelle's cry was loud, unrestrained, her nails raking his back as he moved, each thrust deep and relentless. The table creaked, papers scattering, the room echoing with their sounds—her moans, his groans, the slap of skin. Isabelle's hands tangled in his hair, pulling hard, her lips finding his in a bruising kiss, her body arching to meet him.
"Marcus," she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, marking him. "Tell me, damn it."
He laughed, his pace brutal, his hands roaming her body, one slipping between them to tease her clit. "Not a chance," he said, his lips at her ear, his breath ragged. Isabelle's moan was primal, her body trembling as pleasure coiled tight, frustration mixing with desire.
When she came, it was explosive, her cry echoing, her body shaking, her nails drawing blood. Marcus followed, his groan raw, spilling inside her, his body shuddering against hers. They collapsed on the table, breathless, tangled, Isabelle's blouse open, her skirt pooled at her waist.
But as their breathing slowed, Isabelle's frustration surged—Marcus hadn't revealed a thing. "You're a bastard," she said, pushing him off, adjusting her clothes, her eyes flashing.
"And you're a hell of a negotiator," he said, buttoning his shirt, his smile smug. "But Eva's my play, Isabelle. Find your own."
She stormed out, her body still humming, her mind racing. Marcus's refusal was a setback, but she'd find another way to break Eva, her ambition and personal vendetta unyielding.
###
Across the city, Sophia's apartment was a shrine to her obsession, photos of Eva littering the floor, her laptop open to the anonymous email she'd sent Victor. Her failed flirtation at the gallery, Victor's cold rejection—*"I'm taken"*—had ignited her rage, her fixation on Eva now a blend of hatred and twisted desire. She paced, her blonde hair wild, her eyes feverish, clutching a new plan—a hired thug to intimidate Eva, a step toward violence she couldn't resist.
Damian Holt sat on the couch, his lean frame tense, his laptop open to Eva's files. "The email's out," he said, his voice cautious. "Victor's got the footage. But this thug idea—it's too far, Soph."
Sophia whirled, her silk robe slipping, revealing a black camisole. "You don't get to decide," she hissed, her voice trembling. "Eva's winning. I want her scared, broken, mine."
Damian's unease grew, his fingers tightening on his laptop. "You're losing it," he said, his tone firm. "This isn't about her anymore. It's you."
Her eyes flashed, and she straddled his lap, her hands sliding into his hair, her lips brushing his ear. "Do what I say," she whispered, her voice venomous, "or you're done."
Damian's resolve crumbled, his hands gripping her hips. "You're trouble," he said, his voice rough, but he didn't push her away. She kissed him, a fierce, possessive kiss, her hands unbuttoning his shirt, her nails scraping his skin, sealing their pact. But her mind was on Eva, her obsession driving her to hire the thug, a move that would change everything.
Back at the tower, Eva navigated Victor's schedule, her efficiency a mask for her racing thoughts. The leaked scandal's fallout was everywhere—Liam's reputation in tatters, Victor's family strained. Her phone buzzed with a news alert: *"Blackwood Heir Linked to Scandal."* The article named Liam, and Eva's guilt surged—she'd wanted revenge, but not this pain for Victor.
Marcus approached, his smug smile grating. "Isabelle's pissed," he said, his voice low. "She tried to play me, but I kept your secrets. You're welcome."
Eva's jaw tightened, suspicion flaring. "What did she want?" she asked, her tone sharp.
"Everything," he said, leaning closer. "But I'm with you, Eva. For now."
The implication was clear—Marcus's loyalty was conditional. "Stay out of my way," she said, standing. "I don't need your games."
As Marcus walked away, Eva's thoughts turned to Isabelle. Her seduction of Marcus, if true, was a bold move, revealing her desperation to unmask Eva. Isabelle's background—her rise from hardship, her need to dominate—made her a relentless foe, and Eva needed to counter her before she struck again.