Chapter 478: Baring of the Soul

"I don’t do clinical with women... they

matter."

He said it simply, like it was obvious truth rather than revelation that made her chest tight.

"I matter?" The question came out smaller than she intended, vulnerable in way she hadn’t allowed herself to be in decades.

"You matter," he confirmed, and something in his voice carried conviction that made her believe him despite every instinct suggesting this was manipulation.

He reached over, picking up what remained of his shirt—completely unsalvageable, buttons scattered across office like evidence. He studied it with mild amusement. "Well. This is problem."

Catherine felt laugh bubble up—slightly hysterical but genuine. "I destroyed your shirt."

"We destroyed my shirt," he corrected. "Team effort. But yeah, walking out of here like this is going to raise questions."

She felt reality crash back—the practical concerns of maintaining discretion, protecting reputations, hiding evidence of what they’d done. "I need..." She gestured vaguely at her destroyed state. "I can’t let anyone see me like this. And you need a shirt before you leave."

"Private bathroom?" he asked.

"Through there." She pointed to door near her desk, and was pathetically grateful when he kept supporting her weight, helping her walk on legs that felt like they’d forgotten their purpose.

The bathroom was continuation of her office’s luxury—marble and chrome and mirrors that currently showed her exactly how destroyed she was. Catherine stared at her reflection and barely recognized the woman looking back.

That woman had been claimed. Marked. Changed.

The bite mark on her shoulder was already darkening into bruise—his teeth imprinted in her skin like brand. Tomorrow she’d have to wear high collars or scarves, make excuses, hide evidence of what happened.

And part of her didn’t want to hide it at all.

"Stay here," Eros said, and left briefly, returning with her purse from where it had been knocked off her desk in the chaos. "You keep emergency clothes here?"

"Closet in the corner." She pointed, and watched him retrieve perfectly pressed spare blouse and skirt she kept for exactly these kinds of emergencies—though "these kinds" had never included "

fucked into oblivion by new teenage recruit."

He helped her clean up with surprising gentleness—warm cloth against her skin, wiping away evidence of what they’d done, treating her destroyed state with care rather than dismissal. His hands were steady, professional almost, but carrying underlying tenderness that made her want to cry for reasons she couldn’t articulate.

"You don’t have to do this," she said quietly. "The aftercare. You proved your abilities. The evaluation is over."

He paused, meeting her eyes in mirror. "This isn’t aftercare for the evaluation, Catherine. This is taking care of my woman."

The distinction made her throat

tight.

He helped her dress—new blouse buttoned properly, new skirt smoothed into place, helping her look presentable again even though they both knew what lay beneath the professional exterior. She tried fixing her hair and gave up after thirty seconds. Would have to claim she’d taken shower or something.

People would believe what they needed to believe.

"Better?" he asked.

She looked at her reflection again. Still obviously fucked—couldn’t hide the flush in her skin, the slightly dazed look in her eyes, the barely visible edge of bite mark peeking above her collar despite her best efforts. But functional. Passable. CEO-adjacent if not quite CEO-commanding.

"Better," she agreed.

They walked back into her office, and Catherine felt fresh wave of embarrassment looking at the destruction. Her desk. The scattered papers. The shattered crystal. The general evidence of complete loss of control.

"I’ll help you clean up," Eros offered.

"No." She shook her head. "I’ll... I’ll handle it. Tell people I was frustrated with contract negotiations and had moment. They’ll believe that."

He studied her with expression that suggested he saw right through the excuse but wasn’t going to argue. "So. When’s my first client? For real this time."

She should’ve been shocked at the transition back to business. Should’ve needed more processing time, more emotional decompression, more something.

Instead, she felt oddly grateful. He understood that she needed to feel productive to process personal shit. That talking about work helped her regain footing.

"Give me two days," she said, voice steadier now that they were discussing logistics. "I need to choose carefully for your debut. Someone who’ll appreciate what you can do but won’t be so high-profile that any complications become disasters."

"Two days works." He moved toward the door, and she felt sudden panic at losing his presence.

"Wait."

He paused, hand on doorknob, looking back with raised eyebrow.

"I just..." She struggled for words. "Thank you. For not treating me like just another conquest. For caring about whether I was okay. For—" Her voice cracked. "For seeing me as more than just your boss or another woman to satisfy."

He crossed back to her in three strides, and before she could react, he pulled her into hug. Not sexual. Not possessive. Just warm, solid, genuine embrace that made something in her chest completely shatter and rebuild simultaneously.

"You deserve worship and the care as you’re my precious woman now," he said against her hair, voice carrying conviction that made her believe it. "Don’t forget that. Don’t wait another twenty-three years to remember it."

He pulled back, hands on her shoulders, meeting her eyes directly. "Don’t wait twenty-three more years before asking for what you need, Catherine. Don’t wait until you’re drowning to admit you need air. You know where to find me now."

"Even though I’m your boss?" She tried to make it light, teasing, but it came out vulnerable.

"Especially because you’re my boss." His smile carried warmth she didn’t fully understand. "Means you understand what I’m doing here. What Meridian actually means. And you deserve liberation as much as any client I’ll serve."

He released her, moved back toward door, and this time she let him go despite every instinct screaming to keep him close.

Hand on doorknob, he paused one more time. "Oh, and Catherine? Next time you need me—and there will be a next time—just call me. Don’t make me wait until you’re masturbating to surveillance footage again."

She felt herself flush but couldn’t help laughing. "You’re

insufferable."

"I’m honest." He winked, and she saw flash of seventeen-year-old cockiness beneath the divine confidence. "There’s a difference."

Then he was gone, office door closing with soft click that somehow felt like promise instead of ending.

Catherine stood there in her cleaned-up clothes, in her kingdom of glass and steel and carefully maintained control that had just been thoroughly demolished and somehow rebuilt into something better.

She looked at her destroyed desk. At the papers scattered everywhere. At the evidence of complete loss of professional dignity.

And she smiled.

Because tomorrow she’d be powerful Catherine Reynolds again—CEO who commanded respect from everyone who entered her empire.

But tonight she was just

Catherine.

Woman who’d been reminded what it felt like to be worshipped instead of just productive.

Woman who’d been liberated from cage she’d built herself.

Woman who finally understood what her body was capable of feeling when touched by someone who actually gave a damn.

She touched the bite mark on her shoulder—hidden beneath collar but permanently branded into her skin—and whispered:

"Thank you."

The city lights twinkled below her window, indifferent to her transformation.

But she wasn’t indifferent.

For the first time in twenty-three years, Catherine Reynolds remembered how to feel alive.

And that made all the difference.