The office was quiet, too quiet for Amara's liking. Everyone had gone home hours ago, but she was still there — surrounded by sketches, half-done dresses, and the soft hum of the city outside. The dim light from the lamp cast long shadows over her desk, and the silence pressed on her ears.
Her fingers were sore, her mind foggy, but she couldn't stop. Tomorrow's presentation with the board was everything, and she refused to let anyone — especially Dominic Hale — find a flaw in her designs.
She had just leaned back, stretching her neck, when the elevator chimed.
Her heart skipped. Nobody should be coming up this late.
Footsteps followed — slow, firm, unmistakable.
When Dominic's tall frame appeared in the doorway, Amara froze halfway to standing.
"Still here?" His voice was calm, too calm, as his eyes scanned the messy table. "Or are you trying to prove something?"
She swallowed. "Just trying to make sure your perfect campaign doesn't fall apart."
His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. He stepped inside, his presence filling the room. "Careful, Blake. That tone might get you fired one day."
"Then maybe I'll finally get some sleep," she said under her breath.
Dominic moved closer, stopping beside the mannequin she'd been adjusting. He reached out, running his hand along the fabric — slow, thoughtful. "You changed the cut."
"Yes," she replied cautiously. "The original design didn't complement the model's figure. It needed structure, not softness."
He looked at her, eyes sharp. "And you decided that without consulting me?"
She crossed her arms. "You hired me for my ideas, not to repeat yours."
For a long second, neither spoke. The tension between them thickened — quiet, heavy, charged. Dominic's gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips, then back again, as if fighting a thought he wasn't supposed to have.
"Come here," he said quietly, gesturing to the mannequin.
Amara hesitated but moved closer. He stepped behind her, too close, his breath brushing her shoulder. His hand reached around her to adjust the fabric, and his fingers brushed hers — warm, steady, deliberate.
Her breath caught.
"See?" he murmured near her ear. "If you lift this part here, the drape aligns perfectly with the waistline."
She nodded, but her voice wouldn't come out. The heat from his body, the faint scent of his cologne, the sound of his voice — everything tangled her thoughts.
"You're good," he said finally, stepping back. "Better than I expected."
Amara turned to face him, her pulse still racing. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
"It's an observation," he replied, eyes unreadable. "You surprise me."
She smirked faintly. "You don't seem like a man who enjoys surprises."
"I don't," he said, watching her carefully. "But somehow, you keep showing up in places I don't expect you to be."
Her chest tightened. There was something unspoken between them — a pull neither of them wanted to name.
She grabbed her sketchpad just to have something to do. "Well, get used to it. I'm not going anywhere."
He took a step toward the door, then paused. "You should go home, Amara."
"So should you," she replied.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I don't remember the last time I did."
Their eyes met again — too long this time. She looked away first, pretending to rearrange fabrics, but she could still feel his gaze on her.
When she looked up again, he was already at the door.
"Lock up when you leave," he said quietly. "And, Blake…"
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
He hesitated — just for a second. "Don't burn yourself out. I need you sharp."
The door closed behind him, leaving her staring after him, her pulse still uneven. She pressed her hands to her face and exhaled, half-laughing, half-shaken.
"What are you doing to me, Dominic Hale?" she whispered to the empty room.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance — a warning, or maybe a promise of what was still coming between them.