Of course he does.

Emily didn’t touch the pen.

The performance plan sat on the desk in front of her, pristine, untouched. So did the manila folder with the red tab—the one Martin had casually flipped open, revealing fake numbers and falsified timestamps, all painted to look like her mistake. Or worse, her scheme.

Her lips were pressed into a flat line.

Martin leaned back in his chair, too comfortable, hands behind his head, elbows flared wide. He was enjoying himself. That much was obvious. The casual air. The fake kindness. The unspoken “you owe me” behind every look.

But when his eyes drifted lower, they weren’t subtle.

They hadn’t been since she walked in wearing Eric’s T-shirt. Oversized. Soft. Loose. No bra.

She could feel how her nipples pressed against the cotton now that her body had cooled. Not obvious unless you looked. But Martin was looking.

His gaze lingered a moment too long before he spoke again—this time quieter, slower.

“I think you understand the situation now,” he said. “This can all stay internal. No one needs to look too closely. You sign the plan, keep showing up, we keep this friendly.”

She stared at him. Her face didn’t move.

“And, just between us,” he added, voice lowering as he leaned forward across the desk, “you want me to believe we’re really on the same team?”

He smiled.

“Then show me those mommy milkers.”

The words hit the air like a slap.

Crude. Deliberate. Casual—like he wasn’t asking for anything more than a signature.

Emily didn’t move. But something inside her snapped taut.

Martin’s eyes sparkled. “I mean, you’re walking around in that shirt like it’s casual Friday. Don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

His smile widened. He gestured toward her chest, then the paper on the desk.

“You give me what I want,” he said, “and I give you what you want.”