The next morning came too soon.
Amara's eyes burned from lack of sleep, and her thoughts kept circling back to last night — the closeness, the brush of his hand, the sound of his voice just behind her ear. Every time she replayed it, her stomach tightened. It was just work, she told herself. He was helping. That was all.
But deep down she knew it wasn't.
When she entered Hale Corporation that morning, the usual hum of activity filled the air. Assistants rushed past with tablets, the elevator dinged constantly, and the smell of roasted coffee floated through the hallway. Still, something felt different. Or maybe it was just her.
She walked into the conference room where the team was setting up for the campaign review. Dominic was already there — crisp suit, unreadable face, eyes flicking through documents. Not a trace of the man who'd stood behind her in that quiet office last night.
He didn't even look up when she entered.
"Morning," she greeted, forcing her voice to stay calm.
"Good morning, Ms. Blake," he replied smoothly, tone all business. The way he said her name — cold, clipped — made her chest tighten. So that's how it was going to be. Pretend nothing happened. Fine.
The meeting started. She presented her designs, pointing out fabric choices, tones, and textures. Dominic listened silently, his expression unreadable, only interrupting once to ask a question about cost efficiency. She answered calmly, refusing to let him see how much his indifference got under her skin.
When the meeting ended, everyone left quickly, leaving only the two of them in the room. The tension returned instantly, thicker than before.
Amara started gathering her sketches, but his voice stopped her.
"About last night," he said, low and steady.
Her heartbeat jumped. "What about it?"
Dominic looked up, his gaze locking on hers. "It won't happen again."
She froze for a second, then forced a small, sarcastic smile. "Of course. Wouldn't want anyone to think the mighty Dominic Hale actually has human emotions."
He frowned slightly. "This isn't a game, Amara. We have a professional boundary for a reason."
"And yet you're the one who crossed it," she shot back before she could stop herself.
He blinked, surprised. "Excuse me?"
"You were the one who came to the studio. You were the one who stood behind me, whispering directions like—" She caught herself, biting her tongue. The air felt too heavy now, too charged.
Dominic's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his voice quieter. "You think I meant to? You think I wanted that moment?"
Amara met his gaze boldly. "Didn't you?"
His silence was an answer.
For a long second, neither moved. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Finally, Dominic took a small step back, drawing in a controlled breath. "You're talented, Amara. But don't mistake that for… anything else."
"Don't worry," she said coolly, packing her sketches. "I know my place."
She started to walk past him, but his hand shot out and caught her wrist. Not rough — just enough to stop her. Their eyes met again.
"You don't know what you're getting into," he said quietly, almost like a warning.
Amara looked at his hand on hers, then back at him. "Maybe you should let me find out."
He hesitated before letting her go. She walked out without another word, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
But once she was alone in the hallway, she stopped and leaned against the wall, her pulse racing. Every word, every look between them replayed in her head like a scene she couldn't escape.
She hated that he could get to her this easily.
And she hated even more that part of her wanted him to.
Inside the conference room, Dominic stayed where she'd left him, his hand still tingling from where he'd touched her wrist. For the first time in years, his control was slipping — and he didn't know how to stop it.