Damien Cross had closed multi-million-dollar deals with a single phone call. He'd charmed CEOs, outwitted rivals, and built an empire from nothing.
But nothing—nothing—confused him more than Arielle Hayes.
She didn't wear designer heels or silk blouses. She didn't care about his penthouse, his driver, or the corner office everyone feared. And she sure as hell didn't shrink around him the way most people did.
She challenged him.
Mocked him.
Moved him.
It was a terrifying thing for a man who'd spent years mastering control.
This wasn't lust—he'd had that, discarded it.
This was something far more dangerous.
Something that lingered even after she walked away.
He watched her now, from the far side of the rooftop garden above Cross Enterprises. She didn't know he was there yet. She sat on a stone bench with a thermos in her hands and a sketchpad in her lap, the fading light of sunset casting golden hues across her curls.
She looked like she belonged in a painting.
Not in his world.
Not in a glass building full of steel and secrets.
And yet… here she was.
Damien stepped forward. She looked up and didn't seem surprised.
"I thought billionaires spent their evenings with champagne and opera," she teased.
"I make exceptions," he said. "For artists with attitude."
She smiled, but it was tinged with hesitation. "You shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not part of your world, Damien."
Her voice was soft, but firm. Like she was drawing a line she expected him to respect.
But Damien was done respecting lines.
He sat beside her, not too close, just enough to make his presence known. "That night in the office—when we kissed—I didn't sleep for hours."
Arielle looked down at her thermos. "Same."
"You've gotten under my skin," he continued, voice low. "And it's not because you're convenient. It's because you're real."
She turned to face him fully. "Damien, I'm the daughter of the woman who used to mop your lobby floors. I live in a studio apartment with creaky pipes and secondhand furniture. I buy groceries with a calculator in hand."
"I know."
"I don't belong in your world."
He paused. "Then maybe my world needs to change."
Arielle blinked, clearly stunned.
Damien leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Do you know why I work the way I do? Why I grind every hour, chase every deal?"
"Because you like power?" she guessed.
He chuckled, but it was humorless. "Because I grew up in a house with holes in the roof and a father who gambled away every chance we had. Because when I was sixteen, I worked two jobs to keep the lights on while my mother cleaned houses just like yours did."
Arielle's eyes widened.
"I wasn't born into wealth, Arielle," he said. "I fought for it. Bled for it. And when I finally had it, I told myself I'd never look back. That I'd never need anything... or anyone."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Until now."
He nodded.
She shook her head slowly. "This can't be simple."
"It won't be," he agreed. "I have investors who would clutch their pearls at the idea of me dating anyone without a LinkedIn profile. And you—" he smiled gently, "—you have a brilliant future of your own. You don't need me in the way most people think they should need someone like me."
She studied him for a long moment. "Then why do you want me?"
Damien's answer was immediate. "Because when I'm with you, I feel human. Not the man with the seven-figure net worth. Not the CEO. Just... Damien. And no one else sees me that way."
Her breath hitched.
"And when you're around," he added, voice deepening, "the gold doesn't matter. The suits, the view, the empire... none of it compares to seeing your hair messy from rushing in late, or watching your brow furrow when you sketch like the world disappears."
Arielle swallowed. "You're making it really hard to push you away."
"Good."
She exhaled a shaky laugh. "You terrify me."
"Likewise."
They sat in silence for a moment as the last bit of sunlight dipped behind the skyline.
Then Arielle asked, "Do you know how hard it is to believe someone like you could fall for someone like me?"
Damien turned toward her, eyes unwavering. "It's not hard when it's already happened."
Her throat tightened.
No grand gestures. No flash. Just truth.
And in his eyes, she saw the man—not the billionaire—but the boy who once had nothing, who understood struggle, who had known what it meant to live with less and still dream of more.
Maybe they weren't so different after all.
She leaned her head on his shoulder—tentatively at first, then fully resting into him.
Damien didn't move. He just let her be there, in that space between two very different lives, where gold and grit could quietly coexist.
The city buzzed around them, indifferent and loud.
But up there, on that rooftop, it didn't matter.
He was a billionaire.
She was the cleaner's daughter.
And somehow, they were falling—for real.