The week blurred into one long tug-of-war. Amelia poured herself into work, determined to smother every lingering thought of Adrian beneath tasks, reports, and endless coffee. But he was everywhere. His company's logo stared at her from files, his name echoed in meetings, and sometimes—just sometimes—she caught herself looking for him when she walked through the glass corridors of Blackwood Enterprises.
She hated herself for it.
Claire's warning lived in her mind like a siren. Don't let him pull you under. But temptation was a tricky thing. It didn't knock politely at the door—it seeped in through the cracks, whispering at odd hours, curling around her heart until resistance felt less like strength and more like denial.
By Wednesday, she was frayed. The project required her presence at Blackwood headquarters again, this time without her boss. She told herself she could handle it. She would march in, present the updates, and march out with her dignity intact.
The conference room was empty when she arrived. Good. She arranged her notes, steadied her breathing, and repeated her silent mantra. Professional. Detached. Untouchable.
The door opened.
Her pulse betrayed her instantly. Adrian stepped inside, alone, his suit tailored to perfection, his dark hair slightly tousled as though he'd run a hand through it impatiently. His eyes found hers, and the corner of his mouth curved in that maddening way that always made her knees weak.
"Miss Cole," he greeted smoothly, his voice lower than the hum of the air conditioner.
"Mr. Blackwood," she returned, forcing her tone into something cool, businesslike.
He chuckled softly, as if he knew exactly how hard she was trying. He sat across from her but leaned back in his chair, studying her like she was far more interesting than any presentation she could give.
"Tell me," he said, "do you always look so determined when you walk into a room, or is that expression reserved only for me?"
Amelia kept her gaze on her notes. "This is a business meeting. I'd prefer if we kept it that way."
"Of course," Adrian replied, but the amusement in his voice betrayed him.
She began the presentation, her voice steady at first, outlining projections and proposed strategies with practiced precision. But he didn't make it easy. He listened, yes, but his eyes lingered on her too long, his fingers tapped slowly against the table as though he was biding his time. Every so often, when she glanced up, she found him watching her with an intensity that made her throat go dry.
Halfway through, she stumbled over a word. Then another. Adrian didn't comment—he simply leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, eyes glittering with quiet satisfaction.
When she finished, he clapped once. "Impressive. Truly. But tell me, Amelia... do you always speak as though you're afraid someone might hear what you really want to say?"
Her breath caught. "Excuse me?"
"You're precise. Polished. Controlled," he said, rising from his chair. "But there's more beneath the surface, isn't there?"
He moved closer, slow and deliberate. Amelia forced herself not to shrink back, though her body screamed at her to run.
"This isn't appropriate," she whispered.
"Neither was the kiss... yet here we are."
His words settled between them like smoke. He was close now, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something dark and clean that made her dizzy.
"Stop playing games with me," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.
Adrian's lips curved. "You think this is a game?" His hand brushed against hers on the table, the contact fleeting but electric. "No, Amelia. This is inevitable."
The room was silent except for her heartbeat, pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She pulled her hand back, clutching her notes like a shield.
"I should go," she said, rising to her feet.
But he blocked her path, not aggressively, just standing there with quiet authority. His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. "You're scared... but not of me. You're scared of yourself."
Amelia's breath hitched.
"I don't mix business with pleasure," she said, desperate to salvage control.
Adrian's smile deepened. "Then let's find another excuse."
She brushed past him, gathering her things with trembling hands. Her escape was graceless, but she didn't care. She had to get out. She had to breathe.
...
That night, Amelia replayed the encounter over and over. The way he looked at her, the way his voice dropped when he said her name. He was right. She was scared—not of him, but of what she might become if she let herself surrender.
Her phone buzzed. A text.
Unknown Number: You forgot something.
Her heart lurched. A picture followed: her pen, sitting neatly on the conference table. Then another message.
Unknown Number: I could return it. Dinner. Tomorrow.
Amelia's fingers hovered over the screen. She should delete the messages. Block the number. Pretend this never happened. But her body betrayed her, thrumming with a rush of anticipation she couldn't explain.
She typed one word before she could stop herself.
Amelia: No.
The reply came instantly.
Unknown Number: That's not a real answer.
She threw her phone aside, burying her face in her pillow. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Why couldn't she leave him alone?
...
The following day, Amelia sat across from Claire at lunch, poking half-heartedly at her salad. Claire was animated, recounting a date with someone new, but paused mid-sentence when she noticed Amelia's distraction.
"What's wrong?" Claire asked.
"Nothing," Amelia lied.
Claire narrowed her eyes. "Millie... don't tell me you're still thinking about him."
Amelia stayed silent. That was enough of an answer.
Claire groaned. "Oh my God. He's texting you, isn't he? You didn't block him?"
"I told him no," Amelia defended weakly.
"And?"
"He... didn't take it as an answer."
Claire dropped her fork. "That's what he does! He pushes until you give in. Millie, you can't entertain this. He's like quicksand—the more you struggle, the deeper you sink."
Amelia forced a smile she didn't feel. "I'll be fine."
Claire leaned in, eyes sharp with worry. "Promise me you won't meet him."
Amelia opened her mouth... but the promise wouldn't come.
...
By Friday, she was exhausted. Her resolve crumbled with every step she took through the city streets. When she reached her apartment building, she froze.
A sleek black car waited at the curb.
And leaning against it, Adrian Blackwood.
He looked out of place in the quiet neighborhood, but he didn't seem to care. When his eyes met hers, that familiar heat sparked in her veins.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, approaching cautiously.
"Probably not," he admitted. "But I wanted to see you."
"Why?"
"Because you intrigue me."
She laughed bitterly. "I'm not one of your projects, Adrian."
"No... you're not. That's what makes this different."
His honesty disarmed her, leaving her floundering. She wanted to scream, to demand he leave her life, but instead she whispered, "What do you want from me?"
Adrian stepped closer, his gaze steady. "The truth? I don't know yet. But I know I want to find out... with you."
Amelia's chest tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to walk away, to protect herself. But another voice whispered, softer, more dangerous: What if he's telling the truth?
Before she could answer, his driver opened the car door. Adrian gestured. "Come. Just dinner. Nothing more."
Amelia hesitated on the edge of temptation, her heart pounding like a drum.
Claire's warning echoed again. Don't let him pull you under.
But when Adrian held out his hand, steady and sure, Amelia found herself reaching back.
...
The restaurant was quiet, tucked into a side street she'd never noticed before. The lighting was low, the atmosphere intimate without being ostentatious. Adrian guided her to a private table, every movement effortless, practiced.
Conversation flowed easier than she expected. He asked about her work, her childhood, her favorite books. He listened—truly listened—his gaze never wavering. It was disarming. Dangerous.
At one point, he leaned forward, voice softer. "You fascinate me, Amelia. You pretend to be ordinary, but there's fire beneath that composure. I can feel it."
Her breath caught. "You don't know me."
"Not yet," he said. "But I will."
The words lingered long after dinner ended, long after he walked her back to her apartment building and wished her goodnight with nothing more than a lingering look.
Amelia closed her door and leaned against it, her heart racing.
She should have felt safe. Instead, she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff... and Adrian Blackwood was the drop.
And part of her wanted to jump.