HHWM | Chapter 11: The Temptation Game

Greg returned to the office the morning after his son’s birthday wrapped in clinical silence. On the surface, he was the picture of executive composure, but beneath the charcoal suit, a storm brewed. He submerged himself in a deluge of analytical reports and back-to-back meetings—anything to build a wall between his conscience and the memory of the night before.

Saya entered, carrying a tray. Her movements were fluid, her smile a soft, practiced curve.

“Good morning, Sir. Black, two sugars,” she said, placing the cup on his desk.

Greg didn’t offer a smile in return. He met her with a gaze that was professional to the point of being icy, snapping a question about his afternoon briefings. Saya simply nodded and retreated to her desk. No questions. No lingering looks.

The silence should have comforted him, but it did the opposite. Her lack of reaction felt like the calm before a strike.

At her desk, Saya twirled a signing pen between her fingers—a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Her eyes, usually sharp with efficiency, now held a glimmer of hidden intent. Greg Santiago was a man of discipline, a man of ironclad responsibility. But she had discovered his crack.

Selene.

Saya had known about the girl for years. She was the “goddaughter,” the daughter of Greg’s best friend. She had been the one tasked to source the gifts: a simple watch, a luxury pen, and finally a custom-engraved necklace. Saya had heard the subtle shift in Greg’s voice whenever her name came up—a frantic care that went far beyond familial obligation.

As a woman, Saya’s intuition had been screaming for years. But after the party, suspicion had hardened into absolute certainty. The way Selene looked at Greg wasn’t the look of a ward; it was the look of a woman who owned a man’s secrets.

If he’s already broken his vows for her, Saya thought, swallowing hard, why should I let him fall into someone else’s trap when I’ve already laid my own?

The distance between them had always felt insurmountable. But now that Greg’s world was fracturing, she saw her opening. With a slow, deliberate motion, Saya reached up and unfastened the second button of her blouse—just enough to expose a hint of skin. She checked her reflection in the dark monitor, adjusted her lipstick, and took a steadying breath.

She grabbed a folder of urgent contracts and knocked.

“Sir,” she purred, her voice a silken thread. “There’s something here that needs your immediate signature.”

Inside the office, the air felt thick.

Greg felt it instantly—a creeping heat that defied the air conditioning. It started in his chest and pooled lower, making every breath laborious. Sweat broke out at the nape of his neck. When he tried to stand, the floor tilted, and the room spun in a nauseating blur.

“Shit…” he hissed, rubbing his temples. He stumbled, his balance failing him.

“Sir!” Saya was there in a flash, her hands catching his arm.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her grip firm.

The moment her skin touched his, a jolt of electricity surged through Greg’s frame. Instead of cooling him, her touch acted like an accelerant. Her scent—something floral and dangerous—clouded his senses.

“Something’s wrong…” he rasped, trying to pull away.

But Saya didn’t let go. She guided him toward the L-shaped leather sofa. As he sank into the cushions, she stumbled—a calculated trip—and pulled him down with her.

They collapsed together, Greg’s weight pinning her against the leather. Time slowed. He could feel the frantic thud of her heart against his chest, a rhythm that mirrored his own mounting fever. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Saya’s expression softened, her gaze turning liquid. She reached up, her fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck, and pulled him down into a desperate kiss.

Greg tore himself away, gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock. “What did you do?”

Saya smiled—a slow, predatory curve of the lips. She reached for the buttons of his polo. “The real question, Sir… is why I’m doing it.”

He caught her wrists, his grip bruising. “Saya? Stop. This isn’t you.”

“This is exactly me,” she countered, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The part of me that craves you. The part that’s tired of watching you from across a desk. Don’t you want me?”

Greg looked down at her. Her hair was a dark spill across the sofa, her blouse parted to reveal the pale, smooth curve of her chest. He wasn’t blind. He knew she was beautiful—he had known for years. But now, she wasn’t his secretary; she was a vivid temptation.

He was a man, and the heat in his blood was screaming for surrender. But he forced a sliver of logic through the haze. He respected her. She was indispensable to his career, the silent engine that kept his life running. If he took this, he wouldn’t just be losing his dignity; he’d be losing the only person he could truly rely on.

“No.” He pulled back, bracing himself to stand.

But a cold, sharp question froze him in place.

“Am I not a better option… than your goddaughter?”

Greg’s heart stopped. He turned back to her, his face pale. “Saya—”

“You have nothing to worry about,” she said, her voice a velvet threat. “Your past remains a secret—as long as you let me take her place.”

She slid up behind him as he sat on the edge of the sofa, her arms winding around his chest, her cheek pressing against his shoulder. Her hands roamed downward, tracing the line of his ribs.

“I know you still want her. I can feel the heat in you,” she whispered into his ear. “Why not use me… to burn away the memory of her?”

The silence in the office became suffocating. Greg could hear the frantic drumming in his ears. Her words were a shove toward the abyss, and the most terrifying part was that he wanted to fall.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Greg groaned, his strength fading.

“Don’t play the saint with me, Greg. Not after what you did with her. You can wear the mask for the world—but not for me.” She pushed him back down, her eyes narrowing with a dark intensity. “Or would you rather the world know your filthy little secret?”

It was like a bucket of ice water to his soul.

Greg’s jaw set, his eyes darkening. She had stripped him bare, weaponized his greatest shame, and held it over his head. He wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t a gentleman. And at this point, restraint felt like a waste of energy. The fever in his blood was a physical ache, a demand for release that drowned out the last whispers of his conscience.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

In one violent motion, he grabbed her waist and hauled her onto him, his movements fueled by a sudden, jagged rage—at her, and at himself.

“You asked for this.”

Across the city, in the quiet luxury of a hotel bar, a wine glass slipped from Selene’s fingers. It shattered against the marble floor, a sharp, crystalline sound that pierced the silence.

“Are you okay?” Era asked, concern etching her features.

The hotel staff moved in instantly, sweeping away the shards and mopping the spill.In seconds, the evidence of the break disappeared.

Just like he erased me, Selene thought, her eyes tracking the movement of the broom.

“I’d be lying if I said I was,” Selene whispered, watching the bartender pour a fresh glass. “My patience is wearing thin.”

Era tilted her head. “How are you going to deal with him?”

Selene took a slow, controlled sip of the wine, letting the bitterness coat her tongue. She stared into the dark liquid, her gaze cold and unwavering.

“I won’t make the same mistake twice,” Selene said, her voice a sharp blade. “This time… I’m going to make sure he has absolutely no reason to run.”