Rivals to Lovers Something's Changed: A Transformation Story chapter 5 by deleted_user

The dossier pages blur in your hands. You’ve gone over the material twice, three times—Miriam’s accent, her favorite wine, her role in Verena’s entourage. You should be drilling yourself on her speech cadence, her posture. Instead, you keep staring at Marcus.

He’s Camille, wrapped tight in emerald silk, the neckline plunging so deep it borders on indecent. Every movement jiggles her breasts, makes the hem flirt higher on her thighs. He leans toward the mirror, brushing at his lipstick, and the curves of his ass sway like a challenge.

“Eyes on your notes, sweetheart,” Marcus murmurs, catching your reflection in the glass. His voice is husky now, almost purring, and the way he says it makes your stomach clench. “It's uncivilized to see you gawking like a teenage intern.”

“I’m memorizing,” you snap back, though your throat is dry. “Some of us are taking this seriously.”

He laughs—a soft, low sound that vibrates in your chest. “Taking it too seriously. That body’s wound tight, I can see it in your shoulders. Miriam’s supposed to be cool, analytical, unflappable. You’re going to blow the act before you even walk in.”

You bristle. “And what about you? Camille isn’t supposed to be… whatever you’re doing. Tugging at your tits, wriggling around like you’re modeling lingerie.”

His smirk falters. He glances down at himself, one hand unconsciously cupping a breast. “This body’s… restless. Like it’s trying to climb out of its skin. You think I don’t feel how hot it gets every time you look at me?”

The air between you sparks.

You take a step closer, dossiers forgotten. He doesn’t back away. The scent of perfume clings to him, faint and heady. Your eyes flicker down to his cleavage, then back up to his flushed face.

“You always did love the sound of your own voice,” you murmur. “Guess it follows you no matter what body you’re in.”

“Better than looking like you’re about to cream your panties every time I bend over,” Marcus shoots back, but his voice has dropped, almost husky.

The tension tightens, sharp as wire. One more word, one more step, and you’ll either be shoving him against the wall or throwing a punch. Maybe both.

Then your tablet chimes. A message blazes across the screen: “Verena Dusk has arrived. Conference Room A.”

You both freeze, staring at the words.

Marcus exhales, shaky. He smooths the dress over his hips, pointedly ignoring the way his nipples poke against the silk. “Showtime,” he says, voice flat.

You clutch the dossier to steady your hands. Showtime indeed. And if the heat between you flares again before the night is over, it might just burn you both down.