Prudence pov
The morning sun is a lie. It streams into my penthouse, painting everything in a deceptively warm, golden light. It doesn't know that last night, I excised a tumor from my life. It doesn't care about the scent of bergamot and betrayal that I had scrubbed from the air by a team of professionals at seven AM sharp. The air now smells of nothing. Of sterile, controlled nothing. Exactly how I prefer it.
I stand before the full-length mirror, and I am not a woman getting dressed. I am a general donning and delicate bomb.The one every me needs to teach them a lesson, they would never forget and make them realize we are all equal in the sight of GOD.
The dove-gray pantsuit is my battle plate. Severely tailored, impossibly expensive, its lines are designed to deflect, to intimidate, to communicate a single, unassailable truth: I am not here for your approval. The pearl studs in my ears are not feminine adornment; they are smooth, cool ammunition. The brutalist watch on my wrist is a timer counting down to the moment I meet my opponent.
My phone buzzes. Anya.
"Courier arrived. NDA signed and returned. Steele's team is already in the building. They're early."
A predictable, alpha-male power move. A smile, thin and bloodless, touches my lips. My fingers fly across the screen.
"Have them wait in the executive lounge. Offer coffee. Ensure the 'Aura' line samples are prominently displayed. I will be there at 9:05."
Let Justin Steele wait. Let him sit in my temple, surrounded by the artifacts of my empire. Let him understand who holds the power here.
At 9:04 a.m., I step out of my private elevator and into the heart of Provida. This is my territory. The hum of the air conditioning is the sound of my own pulse. The subtle, layered fragrances which are neroli, vetiver, white musk. These are the scents of my dominion. This is the kingdom I built with my own two hands, from the ashes of a girl in a second-hand lavender dress.
Anya falls into step beside me, a human extension of my own will. "They're all in the Olympus Room. Mr. Steele brought his CFO, his head of legal, and his head of marketing. It's a full contingent."
"As expected," I reply, my heels striking the floor like a metronome of certainty. "The projections?"
"On your tablet. The highlighted sections are our vulnerabilities. Their 'Titan' brand's customer loyalty is insane."
"Loyalty is a variable," I say, the words cool and smooth. "It can be manipulated."
We reach the double doors of the Olympus Room. I place my hand on the cool brass handle. For one single, suspended second, I am just Prudence Smith, breathing in, breathing out. I visualize a vault door closing in my mind, sealing away the ghost of Damien, the memory of Liam, the faint, traitorous flutter of... something. Nerves? Anticipation? It doesn't matter. It is locked away.
I push the door open.
The room goes silent. The air shifts, charged with a new, foreign energy. My board members are a familiar landscape. On the other side of the vast table is the invasion force.
And he is at the head of it.
Justin Steele.
My research was a black-and-white sketch of a man who demands to be seen in violent, living color. He is not handsome in the polished, forgettable way of the Damien's of the world. His appeal is a physical blow. The broad shoulders that strain his suit jacket, the dark hair that looks like he's been in a fight with the wind, the strong, almost arrogant lines of his jaw and nose. And his mouth... it holds a smirk that suggests he finds the entire world, and me in it, deeply amusing.
Then his eyes find mine.
They are the color of a winter storm, a clear, piercing gray. They don't scan or assess. They land. And they stay. I feel them like a physical touch, a laser scalpel trying to dissect the layers of my armor, seeking the soft, pulsing core of me. My carefully constructed composure wavers for a single, terrifying heartbeat. This is not the gaze of a man I can manage.
Dangerous. The word screams in my mind.
"Mr. Steele," I say, and my voice is a miracle of cool control. I extend my hand. "Prudence Smith. Welcome to Provida."
He rises, and his height is an imposition. His hand envelops mine. It's warm, firm, and... calloused. The sensation is a jolt to my system. Actual, physical callouses. This man builds things with his hands, breaks things, does things. He is not just a suit. The contact is a spark, a live wire of awareness that travels up my arm and settles somewhere deep in my chest, a glowing ember of something I refuse to name.
"Ms. Smith," his voice is a low baritone that vibrates right through me. "A pleasure. Your reputation is formidable." His eyes hold mine, and the challenge in them is as clear as if he'd spoken it aloud. I know who you are. And I am not afraid of you.
"As is yours," I counter, retrieving my hand. The ghost of his touch is a brand. "Shall we begin?"
The meeting is a masterclass in corporate warfare. Slides flash, numbers dance, voices rise and fall in a practiced rhythm of proposal and counter-proposal. My team is brilliant. His team is ruthless. But the real battle is the silent one happening across the polished wood of the table.
He watches me. Not my presentation, not my team, but me. I feel his gaze like a physical weight, tracing the line of my throat, noting the precise gesture of my hand, catching the minute tightening of my jaw when his CFO gets aggressive. He is studying the cracks in my facade, and he's doing it with the intensity of a man who has all the time in the world.
It's intimate. It's infuriating. It's... exhilarating.
I force myself to study him back. He listens with a terrifying intelligence, his questions few, but each one a surgical strike. He is ruthless, but not petty. He is my equal. The realization is a seismic shift in the foundation of my world. I have not faced an equal in a very, very long time.
During a lull, he leans toward me, his voice dropping to a low murmur meant only for my ears.
"The 'Aura' line in the lounge," he says. "The bergamot and sandalwood base note. It's compelling. Almost... meditative."
I go perfectly still. He didn't just smell the samples. He deconstructed them. He understood the intention behind them.
"It's designed for clarity," I reply, refusing to look at him, focusing on a point on the far wall. "To cut through the noise."
"Does it work?" The question is lightly teasing, a personal probe disguised as small talk.
I turn my head. His stormy eyes are too close, filled with a genuine curiosity that feels more dangerous than any flirtation. "It depends on the volume of the noise, Mr. Steele."
A slow, real smile transforms his face. It's not the practiced smirk; it's warmer, and it does something treacherous to my breathing. "Justin, please. I have a feeling we're going to be seeing a lot of each other."
Before I can arm myself with a retort, the lawyers interrupt. The moment breaks, but the echo of it hums in the air between us for the rest of the meeting.
As everything wraps up, he comes to my side of the table. The air around him feels different, charged.
"A formidable operation, Ms. Smith," he says, the professional tone back, but his eyes haven't gotten the memo.
"Thank you, Justin," I say, and his name feels like a key turning in a lock I thought was rusted shut.
"I was wondering," he begins, and I brace myself. Here it comes. The dinner invite. The drinks. The predictable move in the tired game. My refusal is already formed, poised on my lips.
"My head of marketing, Clara, was raving about your flagship store on Fifth Avenue," he continues, gesturing to his severe, elegant colleague. "She's insisting on a tour. Would it be possible for your head of retail to give her a walk-through later this week? I believe the in-store experience is a crucial part of the Provida magic we need to understand."
The request is so utterly, disorientingly professional that it leaves me mentally reeling. He isn't asking for me. He's leveraging my resources. The relief is immediately followed by a strange, sharp pang of... disappointment? No. Absolutely not.
"Of... of course," I manage, my recovery a half-second too slow for my liking. "Anya will arrange it."
"Excellent." A crisp nod. "Then we'll be in touch. Ms. Smith." He offers his hand again.
This time, I am ready. My grip is firm, my hand steady. The jolt is still there, but I contain it. "Safe travels, Mr. Steele."
His fingers hold mine for a moment too long. His gray eyes seem to look right through the armor, the CEO, the ice sculpture. They see the vault, and I have the chilling, thrilling certainty that he is not just looking at it. He's already estimating the tensile strength of the steel.
Then he is gone, leading his team out, and the room feels cavernous and empty without his disruptive presence.
I stand there, staring at the closed door. The meeting was a tactical success. I conceded nothing. I gained ground.
So why do I feel like I've just lost the first, most important skirmish?
Anya appears. "Well? What's the verdict?"
I turn away from the door, his name a silent echo in my mind. Justin.
"He's dangerous," I say, the words tasting like a confession.
Anya frowns. "Dangerous how? To the merger?"
I look down at my hand, where the memory of his calloused grip still lingers on my skin.
"No," I whisper, the truth escaping before I can cage it. "He's dangerous to me."