Page 100 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

Cassian Laurent’spenthouse is one of the most obnoxiously luxurious places I’ve ever seen.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Seine, sleek black leather furniture contrasts against warm, golden lighting, and anentirewallis stocked with top-tier whiskey and wine. And yet, none of that matters. Because Cassian and Isabella are seconds away fromexploding. She’s pacing, her golden dress slipping off one shoulder, her heels long discarded on the floor. Her hair is slightly messy, because Iknowshe’s been running her hands through it in frustration.

“This is amistake,” she mutters under her breath.

Cassian watches her from where he’s leaning against the bar, pouring himself a drink with that slow,infuriatingprecision of his. His black dress shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make him look reckless, effortless, like nothing about this night has shaken him.

“You say that a lot,” he murmurs.

Isabella spins, her eyes narrowing. “Because it’strue.”

Cassian takes a sip of whiskey, his gaze steady. “Thenwhyare you still here?”

Silence stretches between them, a loaded silence. One I recognizeall too well.

She exhales sharply, crossing her arms. “Because youinfuriateme.”

Cassian smirks. “Likewise.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t…”

But before she can finish, he’smoving.

Closing the space between them in a slow, deliberate motion. “You want to know why you’re still here?” he murmurs.

She stills.

His fingers skim along her jaw, tilting her chin up slightly. “Becauseyoucan’t walk away from this any more thanIcan.”

For a moment, neither of them move. Then, sheshoveshim hard. Cassian stumbles back half a step, thengrins, because of course he does.

“Unbelievable,” Isabella mutters, rubbing her temples. “I hate you.”

Cassian chuckles, stepping forward again, invading her space. “No, you don’t.”

Isabella glares. “I should.”

His voice drops lower. “But youdon’t.”

And just like that, something between themsnaps. Because maybe this wasneverabout hate. Maybe it wasalwaysabout something much, much more dangerous.

The boardroomin London’s high-rise is sleek, modern, intimidating in its own way. It’s designed forpower plays, for corporate battles fought with contracts and signatures instead of weapons and tonight, it’s where we finish this.

Eleanor walks in like sheownsthe place. She’s dressed in a crimson power suit, her every movement dripping with confidence. She thinks she’s walking into the final act ofhervictory. That she’s about to force us out, take overPerfectly Matched, and walk away as thesolewinner. She has no idea she’s already lost. She strides to the head of the table, setting her designer handbag down. “Well,” she says smoothly, her voice full ofmanufactured politeness, “I suppose it’s time to…”

Then she stops, because I’m already sitting in the chair she thought would behers. Grayson leans back beside me, his expression unreadable, but his presence?Unshakable. And the board members? They aren’t looking ather. They’re looking atus. Her smile falters, just for afractionof a second. “What is this?”

I tilt my head, crossing my legs. “A business meeting.”

Eleanor’s lips press together. “Youthinkyou’ve won.”

I let my smile sharpen. “Oh, Eleanor.” I lean forward slightly, my voice smooth as silk.

“I know I have.”

And with that, the gameends.

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