Arielle didn't speak to Damien for the next two days.
Not because she was busy. Not because she had nothing to say.
But because she was confused—and worse, curious.
The storm had passed, but something had changed in that locked office. The air between them had shifted. She'd seen glimpses of the man behind the title—vulnerable, sharp, and unexpectedly human.
And she hated that she couldn't stop thinking about him.
Now, as she stood outside the boardroom clutching a roll of presentation sketches, her heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons.
Inside, Damien Cross was already seated at the head of the table, surrounded by a circle of polished executives, investors, and department heads. He looked every bit the cold, untouchable CEO again—jaw set, voice cool, eyes razor-sharp.
Arielle hated that version of him.
And hated even more how easily it pulled her in.
She walked in, chin lifted high, and laid the presentation materials on the table. "These are the revised gala concepts, as you requested. They incorporate the new venue dimensions and integrate the charity's updated mission statement."
No warmth. No eye contact. Pure business.
Damien looked up at her slowly. His gaze was unreadable, but she saw the flicker of recognition—the silent we shared something—before it disappeared under layers of corporate armor.
"Thank you, Miss Hayes," he said, voice clipped.
That was it. Nothing more.
Arielle turned to leave, jaw clenched.
Before she reached the door, however, she heard one of the older investors scoff behind her. "Did I hear that right? The cleaner's daughter is designing the campaign?"
Arielle froze.
The room went silent.
She turned back slowly, the weight of a dozen sharp stares digging into her spine.
Damien stood up. "Is that a problem, Mr. Langford?"
The man gave a stiff laugh. "Well, it's just... unusual, isn't it? No offense meant, of course. But surely there are more experienced hands available."
Arielle said nothing. She didn't flinch. Didn't break.
But inside, the old shame bubbled up like poison. It had followed her for years—whispers in school halls, judgmental glances from people who thought scrubbing floors meant you were less.
Damien's voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"I personally approved Miss Hayes' involvement. Her work is original and unfiltered, which is exactly what this event needs." He paused. "Unless someone here would like to show me better."
Silence.
Arielle's breath caught. For a moment, it felt like he'd thrown her a lifeline.
And she didn't know whether to thank him or slap him for it later.
After the meeting ended, she didn't wait. She stormed toward the elevator, furious and flushed. She barely registered the footsteps behind her until Damien called her name.
She spun around. "Don't do that again."
His brow furrowed. "Defend you?"
"Humiliate me. In front of those people."
"I stood up for you."
"You stood over me," she shot back. "Like I needed saving. Like I was your charity project."
Damien's jaw tightened. "That's not what I—"
"I've dealt with people like that all my life. You think I'm not used to the stares? The snide comments? I don't need you to validate me in a room full of suits."
His gaze sharpened. "Why do you twist every decent thing I try to do?"
"Because nothing you do is just decent," she said. "There's always an angle with you."
"And what angle would I gain by defending you?"
"I don't know!" she shouted. "Maybe you enjoy playing the part of the cold-hearted CEO with the occasional crack in his armor. Maybe you like seeing how far you can push me before I break. Or maybe—just maybe—you don't know how to deal with someone who doesn't want anything from you."
Damien stepped forward, tension radiating off him like heat. "You think I don't know what it's like to be judged? To have people assume I only got here because of my name?"
"You don't have a name to drag through the dirt," she snapped. "You made yours from scratch. Mine came covered in bleach and mop water!"
They were too close now—chest to chest, breath to breath.
Enemies. Opposites. Colliding like fire and ice.
And yet neither of them moved away.
Damien's voice dropped. "You drive me insane."
"Good," she whispered. "Maybe now you know how I feel."
His gaze dropped to her lips.
And everything broke.
He kissed her like it was the only way to stop the argument. Like if he didn't, the words would destroy them both. His hands cupped her jaw, warm and sure, while her fingers curled into the lapel of his suit, pulling him closer.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle.
It was weeks of tension, friction, and unspoken want—all igniting in one reckless, breathless moment.
And then, just as suddenly, they pulled apart.
Arielle stared at him, lips tingling, heart hammering like a warning bell.
"What the hell was that?" she breathed.
"I don't know," Damien said, just as stunned. "But I'm not sorry."
She stepped back, shaking her head. "This is a mistake."
"Probably," he said, eyes locked on hers. "But it doesn't feel like one."
"It should," she muttered, voice trembling. "You're you. I'm... not."
Damien took a step forward. "You're brilliant. You're bold. You challenge me in ways no one ever has."
"And you're the most infuriating man I've ever met," she said.
A pause.
Then she added, "But when you kissed me... I didn't hate it."
Damien's smirk returned—this time, not smug, but real. "That's the most praise I've gotten from you all month."
Arielle rolled her eyes, but her lips curled slightly. "Don't get used to it."
He nodded. "Wouldn't dream of it."
They stood there in the hallway, hearts racing, enemies... no longer sure where the line was.
Maybe it had already vanished.
Maybe they had already crossed it.
Whatever this was—it had started with fire, but it wasn't burning them anymore.
It was lighting the path ahead.