Playing Fire with My Ice-King BOSS: V-Card for One Night, Ring Forever - Chapter 20: Chapter 20

Isabelle's POV
"You're absolutely glowing today!" Taylor said the moment I reached my desk, studying my face like I'd been thoroughly... satisfied.
"Is it that obvious?" I laughed, feeling heat creep up my neck.
Glowing—yeah, there was a decent chance it was just from getting the shit beat out of me two days ago.
"I saw Conrad lurking outside with flowers the other day. Did he fucking propose or something?" Taylor's gossip radar was in overdrive.
"Conrad can rot in hell." I gave Taylor the full breakdown about him and Skye, watching her face cycle through shock, disgust, and horror.
A lying, cheating bastard and a manipulative backstabbing bitch—they really were made for each other.
"Jesus, Belly. So where are you staying now? Give me your address so I don't spend all night worrying about you," Taylor said, shuffling through her design sketches.
I couldn't exactly tell her I was living with our billionaire CEO husband.
"Just crashing at a friend's place for now. I'll give you the permanent address once I figure out something long-term."
I definitely wasn't ready to drop the marriage bomb on Taylor yet.
"I heard we're leaving two days early for Paris Fashion Week. Please tell me you're prepared?" Taylor asked.
My stomach dropped to my fucking shoes—I'd completely blanked on that with everything else going on.
Paris Fashion Week was massive. Every major designer in the world would be there. If I could network with established names, it could make my entire career.
"Isabelle." Stephen appeared with a folder, walking toward my desk with that predatory smile that always made my skin crawl. "Let's go. Mr. Winslet wants to discuss Fashion Week logistics with us."
"Right now?"
"Yep."
"Okay."
Heading back up to the 30th floor, my anxiety spiked through the roof.
"Don't stress about it. Mr. Winslet might look intimidating as hell, but he's actually pretty reasonable most of the time. As long as you haven't royally fucked something up, he won't tear you apart," Stephen said, clearly reading my panic.
Reasonable? Gentle? After what I'd witnessed that night, the man was a complete savage when provoked.
I just nodded and tried to look calm when inside I was having a minor meltdown.
Knock knock knock.
"Come in."
He was sprawled on the couch, frameless glasses sitting low on his nose, several documents scattered across the coffee table. His brow was furrowed in concentration, like he was wrestling with some complex problem.
A pen dangled from his fingers, but he seemed stuck on whatever he was reviewing.
"Mr. Winslet," Stephen said.
"Sit." He didn't look up.
Stephen and I took seats across from him, and I tried not to stare at how the afternoon light hit his sharp jawline.
"Here are two portfolios to review first."
Gordon handed us each a thick folder.
I flipped through the documents—standard Fashion Week prep stuff—but my eyes caught on one particular name that made my blood run cold.
"Mr... Mr. Winslet..." I almost slipped and used his first name.
"Yeah?"
He suddenly looked up, those intense dark eyes locking onto mine like we were complete strangers instead of people who'd woken up in the same bed that morning.
"This 'Little Who' designer..."
"Fashion Week showcases work from established designers, but this 'Little Who' person submitted anonymously through a third party. I want to track down her contact information and potentially bring her on as a freelance designer for next year."
Jeremiah finished explaining and slid another stack of documents across the table.
Stephen and I started quietly discussing the details, which seemed normal enough, but I could feel Jeremiah's cold stare dissecting my every move.
When our eyes met again, I quickly shifted away from Stephen, putting visible distance between us.
Jeremiah's gaze was like a fucking sword—sharp and dangerous even when he wasn't actively wielding it.
Stephen didn't notice anything unusual, apparently accustomed to his boss's intimidating presence. He picked up the documents and handed half to me.
Gordon opened a prestigious design website on his phone and placed it on the table. "This is her profile, but we can't find contact information anywhere online."
I picked up the phone, looked at the painfully familiar avatar and uploaded sketches that I recognized because I'd created them myself, gave an awkward smile, and quickly set it back down.
My hands were literally shaking.
"Our in-house designers are pretty talented. Recruiting external talent at Fashion Week might be..." I started, my voice coming out smaller than intended.
"The famous ones are out of our league, and the unknown ones aren't worth the investment. This 'Little Who' operates completely independently—posts work when she feels like it, and her designs sell out immediately. We never get the chance to acquire anything. Our only option is to find her directly and negotiate a partnership," Gordon explained.
"Your flight leaves at dawn day after tomorrow. Don't come in tomorrow—stay home and pack. Paris is fucking freezing this time of year, so bring warm clothes. I'll send the detailed itinerary later. Those design portfolios I asked you to prepare—they're ready?" Jeremiah sat up straight, looking exhausted as he leaned back against the couch and focused on Stephen.
Stephen glanced at me, and Jeremiah's eyes followed that look, landing on me with laser intensity. I felt like a deer in headlights.
"Yes, completely ready," I lied through my teeth, my voice shaking.
The truth was I hadn't prepared jack shit. I'd been so consumed with the Conrad and Skye disaster that Fashion Week had completely slipped my mind.
"Miss Blythe," Jeremiah said, his voice cutting through the air. "Am I that scary?"
I pressed my lips together and shook my head, but my heart was hammering so hard I was sure everyone could hear it.
Gordon was clearly trying not to laugh, covering his mouth with his fist.
"Don't take it personally, Mr. Winslet. Isabelle just isn't used to such high-stakes work environments. Being nervous is completely natural," Stephen said, trying to smooth things over.
Jeremiah didn't respond, just made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
I quickly gathered my things and followed Stephen out, feeling like I'd just survived an interrogation.
The moment we were in the elevator, my phone buzzed: Come back up before lunch ends. —Vampire Boss
Yes, Mr. Winslet.
I stared at the screen, not knowing how the hell to address him. At work, everything had to be strictly professional, even though we'd literally shared a bed last night.
Back in his office, Jeremiah stared at his phone with a dark expression.
He looked at what he'd saved me as in his contacts: "My Wifie," then at my response where I'd addressed him as "Mr. Winslet."
The contrast clearly bothered him.
During lunch break, while everyone headed to the cafeteria, I snuck into the elevator like I was conducting some kind of covert operation.
Gordon had programmed my face into the recognition system for easy access, which still felt surreal.
"I'm grabbing lunch downstairs. You two kids have fun," Gordon said with a shit-eating grin, leaving me standing there red-faced and panicking.
I tugged nervously at my shirt dress, feeling completely out of place.
Knock knock.
"Come in."
I slowly pushed open the door and was immediately hit with the smell of food—something that actually smelled good instead of cafeteria garbage.
"Mr. Winslet."
I noticed Chiara White, the secretary from the hospital, crouched by the couch arranging what looked like a proper lunch spread with actual plates and silverware.
Jeremiah stood up from his desk and walked toward me. My first instinct was to step back, but he casually took my hand and led me to the couch like this was completely normal.
Chiara finished setting up and discretely left, closing the door behind her.
"You don't need to be so formal when it's just us. Drop the 'Mr. Winslet' thing."
Easy for him to say.
Having secret lunch dates in his office felt like the most dangerous thing I'd ever done.
"Okay," I managed.
I kept telling myself we were married now—no need to be terrified, just act natural.
But the more I tried to relax, the more my anxiety spiraled. I was so tense that I didn't even notice when Jeremiah served me soup and slid it across the table.
"Thanks." I fumbled with my spoon like I'd never used utensils before.
"Am I making you uncomfortable?" Jeremiah took a sip of his soup and studied my face.
"No, not at all."
"This isn't like you."
Jeremiah's lips twitched with what might have been amusement as he continued eating.
I remembered how fierce and confrontational I'd been just days ago—calling him by his first name, ready to tear his head off at any moment.
Now, after signing that marriage certificate, I'd apparently transformed into some timid little mouse who could barely form complete sentences around him.
What the fuck was wrong with me?