C2 Ice in His Eyes

The boardroom air felt suddenly too thin.

Skylar stood frozen just inside the door, tablet clutched against her chest like a shield. Every pair of eyes flicked toward her for a second, then back to their laptops, but one gaze stayed pinned on her—burning, unblinking.

Logan Blackwood.

He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table like a king on a throne, one elbow resting on the arm of his leather chair, fingers still gripping that expensive pen so tightly she could see the tension in his knuckles from across the room. The overhead lights caught the sharp angles of his face—the hard line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble, the dark hair that fell just enough over his forehead to look effortless.

But those green eyes… God, those eyes were exactly the same. Piercing. Intense. Only now they weren’t warm like they used to be when he’d sneak her extra cookies or promise to beat up anyone who made her cry.

Now they were cold. Furious.

Skylar’s pulse hammered in her ears. She forced her legs to move, walking to the nearest empty chair on the opposite end of the table—far away from him. Her heels clicked too loudly on the polished floor. She sat, opened her tablet, and pretended to focus on the screen while her mind raced.

How was this possible?

Logan Blackwood. CEO of Apex Global. The boy next door who used to ride bikes with her until sunset, who held her hand the night her parents screamed so loud the neighbors called the cops. The boy who pinky-swore he’d always find her.

He never did.

And now here he was—stinky rich, more handsome than any man had a right to be, and staring at her like she was something he wanted to get rid of.

Across the table, someone cleared their throat.

“Right, let’s get started,” said a senior VP named Mark, standing up with a remote in hand. “We’ve got forty-eight hours to turn this campaign around before the board votes. Skylar Jones from marketing just transferred in today—Carla says she’s got fresh eyes. Skylar, you’ll be assisting on creative direction.”

A few heads turned toward her with polite smiles. Skylar nodded, forcing her voice steady. “Happy to help.”

She felt Logan’s stare like a physical touch—hot and heavy down the length of the table. She refused to look up. Not yet.

Mark clicked to the first slide. Numbers. Graphs. A failing product launch. Everyone leaned in, murmuring ideas. Skylar jotted notes, her pen moving fast. She could do this. She was good at this. Work had always been her escape.

But every time she glanced up, those green eyes were still on her.

Not curious. Not surprised anymore.

Angry.

She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs under the table. The air conditioning was cranked high; goosebumps rose on her arms. Or maybe that was just him.

Halfway through the meeting, Mark turned to the head of the table. “Mr. Blackwood, your thoughts on the rebrand direction?”

The room went quiet.

Logan leaned forward slowly, setting the pen down with a soft click that somehow echoed. His voice was deep, controlled, with a rough edge that sent an unwanted shiver down Skylar’s spine.

“Current direction is weak,” he said, eyes sweeping the room—lingering on her for a beat too long. “Safe. Boring. We don’t play safe at Apex. Tear it apart. Start over.”

His gaze finally moved on, and Skylar could breathe again.

But only for a moment.

When the meeting wrapped, people filed out quickly, grabbing folders and murmuring about deadlines. Skylar stood, ready to escape, but Mark stopped her.

“Skylar, Mr. Blackwood wants the core creative team on this full-time. You’re on it. Daily briefings up here starting tomorrow.”

Her stomach dropped.

Daily. With him.

She nodded tightly. “Understood.”

As the room emptied, she gathered her things slowly, hoping to be last out. But when she turned toward the door, a shadow blocked her path.

Logan stood there—close. Too close. Towering over her at six-three, the scent of his cologne wrapping around her: cedar, smoke, something dark and expensive.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked down at her, jaw clenched, green eyes stormy.

Skylar lifted her chin, meeting his stare even though her heart was pounding. “Excuse me.”

His lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a predator baring teeth.

“Twelve years,” he said, voice low and dangerous, meant only for her. “You disappear without a word. No note. No call. Nothing. And now you just walk into my company like it’s nothing?”

Skylar’s throat tightened. Anger flared hot and fast. “Your company? You think I knew? I got transferred here for a job, Logan. Not for you.”

He stepped closer, crowding her space. She could feel the heat coming off him.

“You think that matters?” he murmured. “You left me, Skylar. Vanished. And I—”

He cut himself off, jaw flexing.

She swallowed hard. “And you never looked.”

Something dark flashed in his eyes. Pain? Rage? Both.

Before he could answer, the door opened again. Victoria Slade swept in—tall, ice-blonde, legs for days in a tight red dress, heels clicking like gunshots. The supermodel. His on-and-off lover. Everyone in the city knew her face from billboards and magazines.

“Logan, darling,” Victoria purred, gliding straight to him and sliding a possessive hand up his chest. Her perfume was strong—sweet and cloying. She glanced at Skylar with a cool, dismissive smile. “Interrupting?”

Logan didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Skylar.

“Not at all,” he said quietly.

But his stare said something entirely different.

Skylar stepped around them both, pulse racing, and walked out without looking back.

But she felt his gaze on her the entire way down the hall.