Arielle arrived at the office at 8:28 AM.
Not on time
Early.
She didn't knock when she entered his office. She didn't need to. His assistant, clearly warned about the hurricane in heels, didn't even try to stop her. Just muttered a faint "Good morning, Miss Sinclair," before disappearing back into her own little corner of quiet hell.
Dominic was at his desk, typing something with the kind of focus that made Arielle want to throw something just to break it.
He didn't look up.
She didn't wait for him to.
"You said to be on time," she said lightly, walking in like she owned the place. "So I decided to be early. Let's call it… personal growth."
Still typing.
Not even a twitch of recognition.
She moved closer, her perfume blooming between them—vanilla, spice, a touch of trouble. "You're welcome."
Finally, he looked up.
Briefly.
"Don't confuse punctuality with competence," he said flatly. "One is expected. The other is earned."
She blinked. "Did you rehearse that? In the mirror?"
"No," he said, still cool, "I say it when people need to hear it."
Her hands curled around the back of the chair across from him. She leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming.
"You've got this whole Dom Daddy complex, you know."
He blinked once. Slowly.
"That supposed to scare me off?"
"Supposed to amuse you, actually." She gave him a sugary smile, then tilted her head. "But judging by how tight your jaw is, I think I got under your skin."
He stood up, slow and deliberate.
Dominic Raine was not a man who got rattled. He was a man who rattled others. But right now, she could tell—just by the subtle darkening of his eyes—that she was edging into dangerous territory.
Exactly where she liked to be.
"I'm not your project," she said, stepping closer. "And I'm not scared of you."
"You should be."
The words were quiet. Not a threat. A fact.
But she only raised her chin, lips curving. "Then teach me a lesson, Raine. Make me respect you."
His eyes flicked down—just once—then back to hers. The air snapped between them like a storm waiting to crack open the sky.
"You think you're playing a game," he said, stepping around the desk with the calm of a predator. "You're not."
"I think you want to control me," she murmured, voice breathy now.
"I think you want someone to finally tell you no and mean it."
He was close now—so close she had to tilt her head again. Their breath mingled.
He reached out and gently—too gently—grasped her chin between his fingers.
"Be careful, Arielle," he said, voice low and lethal. "Because if I do teach you a lesson… it won't be one you forget."
Her breath caught.
And then he let go.
Stepped back.
Turned around like nothing had just cracked between them.
"I have a lunch meeting at Maison Noir. You'll join me. Take notes. Don't speak unless addressed. And wear something less… attention-seeking."
She swallowed. "Why? You can't focus when I look this good?"
He didn't even glance over his shoulder.
"No. I just prefer when the room looks at me."
And with that, he was gone—coat over one arm, phone pressed to his ear, a storm in a suit.
Arielle stood frozen, stunned… furious… and impossibly, achingly alive.
She wasn't just out of her depth.
She was in the deep end.
And Dominic Raine?
He was the kind of man who taught lessons underwater.
Maison Noir was the kind of restaurant that didn't just serve meals—it served status.
Everything gleamed. The champagne flutes sparkled. The host barely looked at the guests unless they arrived with a last name that opened doors. Arielle had been here plenty of times.
But never like this.
Never with him.
She wore something Dominic would've called "appropriate," though it still hugged her body in all the places that reminded the world who she was. A slim black dress, high neck, no visible cleavage—but slit just enough at the thigh to keep men guessing. Her heels clicked like a queen's sceptre as she walked in behind him.
The maître d' saw Dominic and straightened instantly. "Mr. Raine. Your table is ready."
Arielle smirked. "They didn't even ask for your name."
"They know who I am," he said simply, not turning.
"And you love that."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. His silence said: Yes. And so do you.
The table was already set—private, corner booth, semi-secluded but not hidden. Power moved in shadows and spotlights, and Dominic Raine knew how to straddle both.
He sat first. She followed.
A silent waiter appeared. Water. Menus. Wine list. Arielle went to speak, but—
"She won't be drinking," Dominic said without even glancing at her. "Still water is fine."
Her mouth dropped open a fraction. "Excuse me?"
"You're working," he said coolly. "Not brunching."
She laughed. "Are you serious right now?"
Dominic finally turned his gaze on her. "Is that your idea of professionalism? Getting tipsy before noon while shadowing your superior?"
She leaned in, whispering across the table, voice sharp as a blade. "I'm not your secretary, Dominic. And I don't like being handled like some high-maintenance child."
He leaned in just as slow, matching her temperature perfectly.
"No," he said, voice low and calm. "You're not a secretary. Secretaries show up on time. Take notes. Learn. You're here because your father begged me to do what he never could—discipline you."
The word hung there. Too thick. Too personal.
She blinked, swallowing the rush of something she refused to name. "So what? You're going to spank me in front of the lobster bisque?"
He didn't flinch. "No. That's what brats like you want. Shock value. Attention. But real discipline is quieter. Sharper. Something that sinks in deeper than a public scene."
Then he leaned back and signaled the waiter.
"Order the grilled salmon," he said, eyes never leaving hers. "You'll eat clean while you work under me."
Her fingers clenched around the cloth napkin in her lap.
This wasn't flirting.
This was control. Calculated. Complete.
And yet… she didn't get up. Didn't storm out.
Because something in her was starved for it.
For being seen. For being held to a standard. For a man who wouldn't fall at her feet just because she batted her lashes.
She ordered the salmon. Ate every damn bite.
Took notes in his precise, color-coded style while he discussed mergers and acquisitions like a man orchestrating wars.
And when lunch ended, he stood, fixed his cuffs, and said:
"Not bad today."
It wasn't praise.
It was oxygen.
She followed him out, her heels quieter this time.
Something was changing.
She still hated him.
She still wanted to kiss him.
And maybe, just maybe…
She was beginning to understand the difference between power and presence—and why his had the ability to pull her apart without even laying a hand.