Amara hadn't expected another personal message from Dominic after the tense week they'd just had.
But early Monday morning, a simple email arrived in her inbox:
Ms. Blake, meet me in my office at seven this evening. We'll begin the private project.
— D.H.
No greeting, no explanation. Just the kind of command that made her want to throw her phone—and also made her heart jump.
By the time the office was empty and the last elevator pinged its way down, she was still there, nervously adjusting a sketch pinned on the wall. The quiet after hours made every sound louder—the hum of the AC, the rustle of fabric samples, the soft click of her pencil against the desk.
At exactly seven, the door opened. Dominic walked in, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly ruffled from the long day. He looked different in the low light, less CEO and more man.
"You stayed," he said simply.
"I figured I should, since my boss asked me to," she replied, eyes on the design board instead of him.
He set a file on the table, then studied the pieces she'd laid out. "This will be our gala line. No one else knows about it. It'll be our edge against Arcadia Fashion."
"Just the two of us?"
His gaze met hers. "Do you see anyone else here?"
That familiar prickle of tension started up again—the one she hated and secretly waited for.
They worked in silence for nearly an hour, side by side, moving between sketches and fabric samples. The only sounds were the rustle of paper and the faint jazz playing from her laptop. Once in a while, their hands brushed when they reached for the same pencil. Each time, neither spoke about it.
At one point Dominic leaned over to mark a pattern. Amara felt his shoulder nearly touch hers. His cologne—subtle, clean—made her pulse skip. She tried to focus on her notes but kept feeling his presence, steady and close.
"Your proportions here are off," he said finally, drawing a neat line.
She crossed her arms. "They're not off. They're stylized. It's called artistic expression."
He looked up, a faint smirk on his lips. "In business, expression still answers to numbers."
"And in design, numbers answer to creativity."
Their eyes locked. For a moment, neither backed down.
Dominic set the pencil down slowly. "You like arguing with me."
She gave a small shrug. "Someone has to remind you you're not always right."
He laughed quietly—a real laugh this time—and shook his head. "You're impossible."
"You hired me."
"I might be regretting that."
"Liar."
The word slipped out before she could stop it. His brows lifted slightly, amused. "Careful, Ms. Blake."
She tried to look away but couldn't. The tension between them felt alive now, pulsing in the quiet room.
Dominic exhaled and turned back to the table. "Let's finish this pattern."
They worked again, but the rhythm had changed. When Amara bent over to pin a fabric, he moved behind her to steady the mannequin. His hand brushed her arm—light, accidental—but neither moved. The silence stretched until it felt like a question neither dared answer.
Finally she straightened and faced him. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Acting like you're unaffected."
He studied her face for a long second, then said softly, "Maybe I'm not pretending."
Her heartbeat thudded. "Then prove it. Look me in the eye and tell me there's nothing here."
Dominic hesitated. The air between them seemed to shrink. His jaw tightened, but when he finally spoke, his voice was low. "You shouldn't push me, Amara."
She stepped closer anyway. "Maybe you need to be pushed."
It was enough to break the control he'd been holding onto all evening.
He reached out—slowly, as if giving her a chance to step back—but she didn't. His hand cupped her face, thumb grazing her cheek. For a heartbeat they just stood there, breathing the same air, both aware this was the moment they couldn't undo.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't soft or hesitant. It was all the tension, the frustration, the weeks of pretending poured into one moment. She felt his control slip as he drew her closer, and she matched it with the same fierce need she'd been hiding.
When they finally pulled apart, the room felt different—quieter, heavier.
Dominic was the first to speak. "That shouldn't have happened."
Amara's lips curved faintly. "You keep saying that every time something happens."
He ran a hand through his hair, clearly fighting himself. "You work for me. This complicates everything."
"Maybe it makes things honest," she said softly. "We've been pretending for weeks."
He looked at her, the hardness in his eyes cracking a little. "You have no idea what I could lose if this goes wrong."
"Then don't let it go wrong."
For a long moment, he said nothing. The storm inside him was obvious—duty versus desire, logic versus the one person who made him forget both.
Finally he took a step back, forcing distance between them. "We finish this project. Nothing changes in the office."
Her chest tightened, but she nodded. "Fine. Whatever you say, Mr. Hale."
The way she said his name made his eyes darken again, but he didn't move.
Amara turned back to the table, gathering her sketches with shaking hands. The kiss still lingered like heat on her skin. She knew this wasn't over—not by a long shot—but she also knew he'd need time to accept what they'd both just crossed into.
As she headed for the door, he called after her. "Amara."
She paused.
Dominic's voice was quieter now, rougher. "You were right about one thing. I am affected."
Her heart skipped. She looked at him once more—his tie loosened, his eyes unreadable, a man who'd finally lost a piece of his perfect control—and smiled faintly.
"I know," she said, and walked out.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Dominic stood alone in the dim light, staring at the space she'd just left. His reflection in the glass looked like a stranger—someone who'd just broken his own rule.
He touched his lips once, as if trying to convince himself it had really happened. Then, with a deep breath, he went back to the table and stared at her sketches.
The designs looked different now. Alive.
And for the first time since his father's death, he wondered if letting go of control didn't mean losing everything—maybe it was how you found what mattered.