rain in The Chicago didn't fall; it vibrated against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Blackwood Tower. At twenty-four, Julianne "Jules" Vance had learned that power had a specific sound—the low hum of a climate-controlled office, the muffled click of designer heels on marble, and the silence that followed whenever Alistair Blackwood entered a room.
Jules stood in the reception area, clutching a leather-bound folder that contained three months of her life's work. She was a junior architect, and today was the day she was supposed to present her designs for the new "Veridian Wing" to the man who owned half the skyline.
"Mr. Blackwood will see you now," the assistant said, her voice devoid of emotion.
The double doors swung open. The office was vast, minimalist, and cold. Alistair Blackwood sat behind a desk of obsidian-black glass. He didn't look up as she entered. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it had been molded to his frame, his dark hair swept back with surgical precision.
"You're four minutes early, Miss Vance," he said. His voice was a rich, dark baritone that seemed to resonate in the small of her back. "I appreciate punctuality, but I despise eagerness. It suggests a lack of leverage."
Jules took a breath, trying to steady the sudden erratic rhythm of her heart. "I call it preparedness, Mr. Blackwood. I assume you didn't build this empire by waiting for the clock to strike the hour."
Finally, he looked up. His eyes were the color of a winter sea—grey, turbulent, and impossibly sharp. He leaned back, crossing his arms. The movement was slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory.
"Preparedness," he repeated, tasting the word. "Sit. Show me why I shouldn't hire an established firm to fix the mess my previous architects left behind."
Jules walked toward the desk, every fiber of her being screaming at her to maintain her composure. As she spread the blueprints across the glass, her hand brushed against his. It was only a fraction of a second, but it felt like a static shock that traveled straight to her lungs.
Alistair didn't flinch. He didn't move his hand. He simply watched her, his gaze tracking the flush that crept up her neck.
"The Veridian Wing shouldn't just be a building," Jules began, her voice gaining strength as she focused on the work. "It's a statement. We use cantilevered glass to create the illusion of weightlessness. It's about control, Mr. Blackwood. The architecture exerts control over the landscape."
Alistair stood up and walked around the desk. He stood much closer than was professionally necessary. She could smell him—sandalwood, expensive espresso, and something metallic, like the air before a storm.
"Control," he murmured, leaning over the table. He pointed to a specific line in her drawing. "You've designed this balcony to be entirely exposed. No railing, just a reinforced lip. It's dangerous."
"It's exhilarating," she countered, looking up at him. "People don't come to a Blackwood property to feel safe. They come to feel like they're on top of the world. And being on top of the world requires a bit of a risk."
Alistair turned his head, his face inches from hers. The professional mask he wore didn't slip, but something shifted behind his eyes—a flicker of dark curiosity.
"And do you like risks, Miss Vance? Or do you just like drawing them for other people?"
The air in the room felt suddenly thick, pressurized. Jules realized then that this wasn't just a meeting about architecture. Alistair Blackwood was a man who took apart people the way he took apart businesses—searching for the weak point, the hidden desire, the place where they would break.
"I think," Jules whispered, her pulse thudding in her ears, "that the right risk is worth the fall."
Alistair's lips curved into the ghost of a smile—a cold, beautiful expression that made her knees weak. "We'll see. Leave the files. I have a gala tonight at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Be there at eight. We'll discuss the contract then."
"I wasn't invited," she noted.
"You are now," he said, turning back to the window, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "And Julianne? Wear something that suggests you understand the concept of... exposure."