The CEO Above My Desk Chapter 130

***Rowan***

She’s still thinking about it.

Still holding onto it.

I move closer. Slower this time. More deliberate.

Until I’m standing right in front of her.

Then I lower myself down. Kneeling in front of her.

It shifts the dynamic instantly.

Puts me at her level.

Brings her focus exactly where I want it.

My hands settle lightly on her thighs, just above her knees—not possessive, not yet, just grounding.

“That,” I say quietly, “is not something you need to worry about.”

Her eyes flick to mine immediately. “But—”

I don’t let her finish.

“That’s not your problem,” I repeat, my voice still calm, still controlled—but firmer now. “It’s mine.”

Her lips part slightly.

“I’ll handle it,” I add.

Because I will.

Everything.

My thumb brushes lightly against her leg, a small, grounding motion.

“I don’t want you thinking about it,” I continue, softer now. “Not tonight.”

She studies me.

Searching.

Then slowly... She nods.

Good.

I lean in slightly, closing the last bit of space between us. My hand lifts, brushing her hair back gently, my fingers lingering just long enough to make her still. Then I kiss her. Not like before. Not consuming. Not overwhelming.

Slower. Deliberate.

My lips press against hers, controlled but warm, a quiet contrast to everything else I am. Enough to remind her I’m here. Enough to steady her.

When I pull back, I don’t go far. “Get some sleep,” I murmur.

Her brows knit slightly. “What about you?”

“I have work to finish,” I say.

Always.

“I’ll join you after.”

She nods again. But then... “What should I wear?” she asks.

That does it.

A slow smirk pulls at my mouth.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her like I’m deciding something.

Then I lean in just enough that my voice drops.

“Nothing,” I say.

Her breath catches.

“Wear nothing.”

I hold her gaze for a second longer. Let it sink in.

Then I stand. Because if I stay any longer, I won’t be working.

I step out of the bedroom without another word, pulling the door shut behind me with a soft click.

The sound echoes just enough in the quiet space to remind me that she’s in there.

Safe.

Contained.

Where I can keep her.

I don’t linger.

I don’t think about the way she looked sitting on my bed.

Or the way she didn’t argue when I told her to sleep.

Or the way she’ll listen.

Instead, I move.

Up the stairs.

Back to where I function best.

The loft greets me the same way it always has.

Clean.

Organized.

Predictable.

I cross straight to the desk, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it over the back of the chair before dropping into it. The monitors flicker to life the second I log in, systems reconnecting, feeds syncing, files loading.

Everything where it should be.

Everything under control.

Or it should be.

I pull up the camera system for the other house.

The one we just left.

The one that was supposed to be secure.

The feeds populate one by one.

Front entry.

Hallways.

Kitchen.

Perimeter.

And there he is.

Marcus.

Standing in the middle of my kitchen like he owns it now.

I’m not surprised.

Not even a little.

He’s not alone.

There’s a full team with him now—agents, analysts, uniforms moving through the space with purpose, equipment laid out across my counters, cables running, laptops open.

They’ve turned it into a command center.

Good.

My jaw tightens slightly as I lean back in the chair, watching the way they move.

Controlled chaos.

Structured.

Efficient.

They’re finishing something.

A meeting, maybe.

People are shifting, repositioning, some heading out, others staying.

I tap the keyboard once.

Audio comes online.

Voices cut through the quiet immediately.

“…this doesn’t make sense,” one of them is saying, sharp, frustrated. “You’re telling me we have a councilwoman tied to permit fraud, bribery, and potentially witness tampering?”

“That’s exactly what we’re saying,” another replies.

Marcus doesn’t speak yet.

He’s listening.

Watching.

Someone else cuts in. “And on top of that, we’ve got multiple CI deaths—unexplained—overlapping jurisdictions, no proper reports filed, no escalation?”

“That’s not even the worst part,” another voice says.

There’s movement.

Papers shifting.

A file hits the counter.

“Detective Calder,” the voice continues. “Previous department flagged him internally. There was an incident, use of force, then a CI goes missing. No body, no charges, just… gone.”

My fingers tighten slightly on the armrest.

“And he just… transfers here?” someone else says. “Clean record? No flags?”

“That doesn’t happen unless someone lets it happen.”

There it is.

Silence falls for half a second.

Then—

Marcus finally speaks.

Low. Controlled.

“Or unless someone made sure it didn’t get flagged in the first place.”

The room shifts.

You can hear it.

Feel it.

“Meaning internal,” one of them says.

“Meaning compromised,” another adds.

Marcus exhales slowly.

“We’re not looking at isolated incidents,” he says. “We’re looking at a system.”

My jaw tightens.

A system.

Hargrove.

Calder.

Dead informants.

Missing reports.

All connected.

“All roads lead back to her,” someone says. “Hargrove signs off on permits, pushes contracts through, blocks competitors—and anyone who gets too close ends up buried or discredited.”

“And Calder cleans it up,” another adds.

“Or worse,” someone mutters.

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Sir,” a voice cuts in, “what about Ashcroft?'

The room stills again.

Marcus doesn’t answer immediately.

Of course he doesn’t.

“He’s involved,” the agent continues. “His name’s already tied to the media fallout, he’s connected to the victim, and now his house is part of an active investigation—”

“He’s not the problem,” Marcus cuts in.

Flat.

Certain.

My lips press into a thin line.

“He’s the reason we have anything to work with at all,” Marcus continues. “Without him, this stays buried.”

A beat.

“That doesn’t make him clean,” someone pushes back.

“No,” Marcus agrees. “It makes him useful.”

I huff out a quiet breath.

Fair.

Another voice chimes in. “What about the breach at his house? Security failure like that... someone on the inside had to be involved.”

“They were,” Marcus says.

No hesitation.

“We’ll handle it.”

Handle it.

I lean forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees, eyes locked on the screen.

They’re close.

Closer than they realize.

But not close enough.