The CEO's Runaway Cinderella Returns

Isabelle couldn't sit still. The phantom sensation of his fingers on her skin felt like a snake, slithering around her ankle, tightening with every breath she took.

She opened the HR portal on her computer. She had three weeks of accrued PTO just sitting there. A desperate idea formed in her mind. If she could just get away for a couple of weeks, maybe he would lose interest. Maybe he would find a new toy.

She printed out the form and walked down the hall to Eleanor's office. She knocked, her knuckles rapping a staccato beat.

"Eleanor, I need to ask a favor." Isabelle stepped inside, holding the paper like a shield. "I'd like to take two weeks of my vacation time. Starting Monday."

Eleanor took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked at Isabelle with a flat, unsympathetic stare. "Now? The project just kicked off. The client's representative just arrived."

Isabelle bit her lip. "I know. But I really need the rest."

Eleanor let out a dry, humorless laugh. "That's impossible. Mr. Lloyd specifically emphasized that you need to be on this full-time."

Isabelle's heart sank. "I can hand my work over to Clara. She's up to speed."

Before Eleanor could respond, the office door swung open. Bennett walked in as if he owned the place-which, technically, his company owned a significant portion of the firm. He leaned against the doorframe, a coffee cup in his hand, looking completely at ease.

"Talking about me?" he asked, his gaze sliding past Eleanor to land squarely on Isabelle.

Isabelle snapped to attention, her spine rigid.

Eleanor immediately pasted on a professional smile. "Mr. Lloyd. Isabelle was just requesting some time off."

Bennett's eyes didn't leave Isabelle's face. He noted the pallor, the tight set of her jaw. "Vacation? I don't approve it."

His tone was flat, bored even, but it carried the weight of absolute authority.

Isabelle clenched her fists at her sides. "It's my legal right."

Bennett pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. He stopped inches away, close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw. "As the on-site consultant, your time off requires my signature." He looked down at her, his gray-blue eyes hard. "And I don't sign."

Isabelle took a deep breath, trying to find a way out. "Then assign someone else. Let Clara take my place."

Bennett reached out. His long fingers plucked the vacation form from her trembling hands. As he pulled the paper away, his thumb and index finger deliberately rubbed against the back of her hand.

It was the same motion. The same slow, deliberate drag of skin against skin. It mirrored the way he had touched her scar yesterday. It felt slimy, possessive, like he was savoring the feel of her.

Isabelle yanked her hand back, her head snapping up to look at him.

Bennett was staring right at her. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. But his eyes were dead. There was no warmth, no humor. Just pure, predatory intent.

"Replace you? No need." He held the paper up between them. Then, slowly, he tore it in half. The ripping sound was loud in the quiet office. "I'm already familiar with your... working style."

The words "working style" were soft, almost a whisper. They dripped with an intimacy that made Isabelle's scalp prickle.

Isabelle froze. In that instant, the last thread of her denial snapped. He knew. He knew it was her. From the very first moment on the terrace, he had known exactly who she was.

Everything-the shoe, the appointment, the touch-had been an act. A performance designed to back her into a corner, to force her to be the one to break first.

Bennett tossed the torn pieces of paper into the wastebasket. He turned and walked out of the office without another word.

Isabelle stood there, shaking. She was trapped. The walls were closing in, and there was nowhere left to run.