Playing Fire with My Ice-King BOSS: V-Card for One Night, Ring Forever - Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Isabelle's POV
Word about me being summoned to the CEO's office spread through the company like a goddamn wildfire.
Everyone was convinced I'd been grilled by the big boss, so by lunchtime in the 10th-floor cafeteria, I was getting death stares and whispered commentary like I was some kind of corporate criminal. It only made everyone more certain that the portfolio theft was real.
But honestly? I couldn't care less. I was starving.
I kept my cool and casually told Stephen across the table, "I need to take some time off starting day after tomorrow."
Stephen looked at my exhausted face, thought about this morning's shitshow, and reluctantly nodded. "Alright."
Taylor immediately jumped in to support me. "Yeah, you should definitely rest up. Once they get those security cameras working again, everything will be sorted out."
"I'm not taking leave because of this bullshit," I said firmly. "I'll figure out what really happened before I go anywhere. I'm not leaving the company hanging. I'm just fucking exhausted and need a break."
I didn't feel like explaining myself further. Instead, I pulled out my phone and PayPal'd Jeremiah fifty bucks with the note: "Breakfast money."
Upstairs in his meeting, Jeremiah's phone chimed.
In the middle of the stone-cold serious boardroom atmosphere, while everyone was sweating bullets about whose phone wasn't on silent, Jeremiah casually opened his PayPal.
When he saw my payment, he actually laughed out loud.
Every single executive in that conference room stared at him like he'd grown horns.
It was literally the first time any of them had seen the ice king crack a smile.
Gordon, standing behind him, immediately pieced everything together.
"Meeting's over. We'll pick this up after lunch," Jeremiah announced, accepting my fifty dollars without hesitation.
"Word from HR is that the CEO is looking for a new executive assistant," Taylor whispered after lunch, watching the HR director walk past our table. "And apparently he specifically requested a woman. Think our frozen prince is finally ready to thaw out?"
Ha. Thaw out? A billionaire CEO who'd accept fifty bucks for breakfast money wouldn't melt if you hit him with a flamethrower.
I just shrugged and didn't engage with her gossip.
After we parted ways, I headed down to the parking garage and called Conrad from my car.
Since I'd completely ghosted him last night, I'd fed him some story about my car breaking down and asked him to help get it serviced.
The hilarious part was that Conrad and Skye had actually run into each other outside the movie theater. Terrified I might catch them together, they'd played it off like they were just casual acquaintances.
Conrad had waited outside that theater all fucking night for me, only to get mocked by Skye for his trouble.
He was actually a decent actor, and you could tell he genuinely cared about me, which is why he immediately offered to help with my fake car problem.
I knew he'd jump at the chance to play helpful boyfriend—guilt makes people so eager to overcompensate.
Sitting in my car, I adjusted the tiny spy camera I'd hidden in my jacket and touched up my makeup.
Then I replayed this morning's scene in my head, analyzing everyone's reactions.
Most of the people throwing accusations seemed genuinely pissed off, but one face in the crowd had stuck with me—someone who'd been smirking like they were watching their favorite reality show.
Serena Stewart. Daughter of the head of transportation, and one of the design department's star players.
Everyone loved working with her because she had money and knew how to buy friendships with expensive little gifts. Plus, she was undeniably gorgeous.
I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but my gut was screaming that something was off about her reaction.
That afternoon, I bolted from the office ten minutes before quitting time—my first early escape since joining Winslet & Co.
I changed into all-black athletic gear in my car and positioned myself in the shadows near the elevator bank, watching the end-of-day exodus like a stalker.
Phone ready, I snapped photos of everyone leaving, paranoid I'd miss something crucial.
Finally, Serena click-clacked out in her designer heels and slid into that BMW with the 901 plates, cruising away like she owned the world.
Now I was absolutely certain it was her.
I spent several minutes strategizing my next move before stepping out of my hiding spot by the elevator.
Maybe because I was still fired up with adrenaline, I walked straight into someone emerging from the elevator doors.
My size 7 Converse tangled with expensive dress shoes, my phone went flying, and I stumbled forward like a complete klutz.
Suddenly, a strong arm snaked around my waist, catching me mid-fall and pulling me against a rock-hard chest.
The impact made my hair tie snap, sending my brown waves cascading around my shoulders in slow motion.
I instinctively grabbed onto his shirt to steady myself, and two buttons popped clean off, one nailing me right in the forehead.
"Fuck!" I hissed, pressing my face against his chest as pain shot through my skull.
That intoxicating sandalwood scent immediately flooded my senses, making my head spin for entirely different reasons.
I could feel the heat radiating through his dress shirt, the solid muscle underneath, the way his breathing had changed the second I touched him.
Slowly, carefully, I steadied myself and looked up at my savior.
"Mr. Winslet..." I breathed, my face immediately burning crimson.
Our eyes locked, and the air between us crackled with something dangerous.
I was acutely aware that my hand was still pressed against his chest, feeling his heart hammering just as hard as mine. My brown hair was a mess around my face, and his shirt was hanging open where I'd accidentally destroyed it.
Gordon had mysteriously vanished, probably giving us privacy we definitely didn't need.
In the dim parking garage lighting, Jeremiah's eyes traced over my disheveled hair before dropping to his ruined shirt.
Through the gap in the fabric, I could see his perfect collarbone, the defined muscles of his chest, and it took every ounce of self-control not to let my eyes wander lower.
"That's the second shirt you've torn," he said, his voice rougher than usual.
He wasn't wrong. The first casualty had been that night in his car.
The way he said it—like he was keeping score—sent heat shooting through me.
He slowly, reluctantly, released his hold on my waist, but neither of us stepped back.
I bit my lip and reached up to fix his shirt, my fingers trembling slightly as I tried to pull the fabric closed and straighten his tie.
Jeremiah went completely still, barely breathing as my hands brushed against the warm skin of his neck and chest. I could feel the tension coiled in his body, like he was fighting every instinct he had.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken want.
When I finally finished and stepped back, putting necessary distance between us, I bowed deeply.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Winslet. I'll replace the shirt."
He didn't respond immediately, just swallowed hard and bent to retrieve my phone from where it had skittered across the concrete.
"Here," he said, his voice barely controlled as he handed it back to me.
I took it with shaking hands, mumbled another apology, and practically fled to my car.
Sitting behind the wheel, I buried my face in my hands, my entire body still buzzing from that encounter.
What the hell was wrong with me? Why did every interaction with this man leave me feeling like I'd been electrocuted?
After waiting until I was sure Jeremiah had left, I snuck back into the building to execute my plan.
I made two cups of coffee in the break room, crushed half a sleeping pill into each one, and headed down to the security office.
I left the coffee outside the door with a note reading "Thanks for all your hard work" and knocked three times before disappearing around the corner.
The security guard opened the door, looked around confused, spotted the coffee, and took it inside with a smile.
Twenty minutes later, I knocked again. Silence.
I slipped into the office and got to work. The security system wasn't broken—the footage had just been edited and deleted. I found the original files in the computer's trash, copied everything to a flash drive, and got the hell out of there.
Back home, I heated up a frozen Lean Cuisine while reviewing the recovered footage on my laptop.
Bingo. There was Serena at 1:17 AM, clear as day, sneaking around where she had no business being. That explained the BMW I'd seen speeding out of the parking garage that night.
"Shit," I muttered, pausing the video on her face. "Did she see me with Jeremiah?"
Just thinking about him made my cheeks flush again—that moment in the parking garage playing on repeat in my mind.
This was complicated. Serena's dad ran Stewart Transportation, and they handled all of Winslet & Co.'s logistics. If this became public knowledge, it could seriously damage Jeremiah's business relationships.
I couldn't just go in guns blazing. I needed to be smart about this.
I grabbed my sad excuse for dinner and settled onto the couch, putting on Netflix to distract myself from the mess I was drowning in.
That's when I noticed his suit jacket still draped over the arm of my sofa...