Mason's dark eyes held hers, no longer playful but intense—like he was trying to read every secret she'd buried.
"You left," he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. "No warning, no calls, no messages. Just… gone. Like I didn't mean anything."
Arielle's throat tightened. The weight of those words hit harder than she expected. She'd run not just from him, but from the memory of what they once were—and the damage they'd caused each other.
"I had to," she whispered. "It wasn't just about you. It was everything else—my family, my life, the mess I was drowning in. I couldn't stay."
Mason's jaw tensed, fists clenching at his sides. "You think I didn't want to understand? I waited. Every day I wondered if you'd come back or if you hated me enough to disappear for good."
She took a step closer, her voice firm despite the ache in her chest. "I wasn't running from you. I was running from us—because we were a wildfire. Beautiful but dangerous. And I wasn't ready to get burned."
He laughed, low and bitter. "A wildfire, huh? More like a hurricane. You left chaos everywhere."
"And you didn't exactly keep the peace either," she shot back, the old fight flaring up between them.
Mason's eyes softened for a split second, but then hardened again. "Maybe. But I never stopped caring."
Her breath caught. The raw honesty in his voice was something she hadn't heard in years.
"I'm tired of running," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I want to fix what I broke. If you'll let me."
He studied her—searching, maybe doubting, but also hopeful.
"Prove it," Mason said, stepping forward until there was barely any space between them. "No games, no lies. Just the truth."
Arielle's pulse raced. She could feel the heat of him, smell the faint scent of whiskey and something uniquely Mason.
Without thinking, she reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling.
He caught her hand gently, holding it longer than expected.
"Welcome back, Arielle," he murmured, voice thick with something she couldn't name—regret, desire, a mixture of both.
She looked into his eyes, feeling all the walls she'd built around her heart start to crumble.
For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to hope.
The executive floor was silent, the type of silence that hummed with pressure. Pressure to perform. Pressure to impress. Pressure to never, ever be late.
Dominic Raine lived in that silence like a shark in still waters.
He moved through his morning like a man born for command—shirt tailored, jacket sharp, steps measured and clean. He didn't need to bark orders to make people jump. His presence did the talking.
He didn't like unpredictability. He didn't like inefficiency. He didn't like people who didn't show up.
And this morning, Arielle Sinclair had done precisely that.
Her desk—usually a mess of designer handbags, lipstick tubes, and an air of disdain—was empty.
Her chair sat like a challenge: vacant.
He glanced at the time.
10:03.
Unacceptable.
He pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Camila."
His assistant's voice responded promptly, like always. "Yes, Mr. Raine?"
"Where is Miss Sinclair?"
A beat of hesitation.
"She hasn't arrived yet. No call. No email."
His jaw flexed. Silence hung in the air like a held breath.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a fraction of a second before pushing himself up. His office was as meticulously curated as his image—minimalist, expensive, and cold. There were no personal photos. No signs of sentiment.
He strode to the window, looking out at the city skyline. A metaphor, he often thought. Ruthless, glittering, indifferent. Just like him.
Except today, something gnawed beneath his surface.
Arielle.
He'd tolerated her arrogance. Her lateness. Her flamboyance. All of it because he'd believed, underneath the red bottoms and bratty one-liners, there was something untapped. Something intelligent. Unshaped. Wild, yes—but moldable.
But lately?
Something had shifted.
She was quieter. Not in the obedient sense—but in the distracted, distant one. Her fire dimmed. Her edge dulled. Her eyes wandered out the windows during meetings. She responded late, half-listened when he spoke.
She wasn't slipping out of professionalism.
She was slipping out of his grip.
And Dominic Raine did not tolerate slippage.
His phone buzzed on the desk. A message from a private contact he used for… information. Clean, reliable information.
A photo downloaded.
Dominic stared at it.
There she was—Arielle—seated in a velvet booth at a dark bar, her legs crossed, leaning slightly forward. Across from her was a man. Tall. Dark hair. Confident posture. The kind of man who held her hand like he had before. Not like it was new.
Dominic didn't need to ask who he was.
Mason Hart. The name filtered through his mind like a thorn through silk. He remembered it from the background check. A past that Arielle had never mentioned—but that clearly had claws.
His grip on the phone tightened.
Arielle had missed her morning because she was out—reconnecting with someone who didn't belong in her future. Someone she should've left buried in her past.
The kind of man who weakened women.
Dominic didn't get emotional. He didn't do jealousy.
This wasn't that.
This was control.
And she was slipping.
He walked back to his desk and sat, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Cold calculation returned to his eyes, replacing whatever flicker of irritation had lived there.
If Arielle Sinclair thought she could balance between two worlds—her past chaos and his ordered kingdom—she was gravely mistaken.
He would make her choose.
Or he'd choose for her.
The doors to the executive floor hissed open with a soft mechanical sigh.
Arielle Sinclair walked in like she owned the place—which, technically, her father kind of did—but the moment her stilettos hit the polished marble, she felt it.
A shift.
An alertness.
Everyone looked up, then quickly looked away again. No smirks. No side-eyes. Just a stiff sort of silence. The kind you heard in funeral homes and firing squads.
She adjusted her sunglasses as if that could shield her from whatever invisible tension was charging the air.
"Good morning," she offered breezily to no one in particular.
No one responded.
That was her first red flag.
She approached her desk. The iPad lay on it, glowing to life as she picked it up—already loaded with appointments and notes she hadn't scheduled.
Odd.
She glanced up at Dominic's door. Closed.
Her gut twisted, but she brushed it off. Mason's smile still lingered in her memory. The way he held her hand. The way his eyes had searched her face like he was still trying to find the girl she used to be.
It had been… complicated.
But good.
She hadn't planned to stay out that late. And she definitely hadn't planned on oversleeping.
But she was Arielle Sinclair.
And Arielle Sinclair didn't explain herself to anyone.
Except…
The office door clicked.
Dominic Raine stepped out.
The sight of him was like being hit with a cold current.
Tailored gray suit. Cuffs precisely buttoned. No tie, but somehow that made him more intimidating. His hair was styled, but not slicked. Polished but not try-hard. Every inch of him looked like it had been carved with purpose.
His eyes found hers.
And she knew.
He knew.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, voice like ice melting in whiskey. Calm. Controlled. Lethal.
She straightened, flashing a smile like armor. "Dominic."
"Step into my office."
She did, heels suddenly too loud in the silent space.
Once the door closed behind her, he didn't offer her a seat.
He didn't move around the desk.
He stood still.
"I noticed you missed our 9 AM calendar review," he said coolly. "And the logistics meeting with the Thai investors. You were also absent for the mid-morning sync."
She crossed her arms. "I had a personal emergency."
He tilted his head. "Ah. I see. And this emergency was… poolside? With alcohol? Or did it move to a bar around midnight with a man named Mason Hart?"
Her stomach dropped.
Her eyes flared. "You had me followed?"
"I had you checked. There's a difference. You're not just some heiress wandering in and out of this building anymore. You're part of my machine now. And I need to know which parts are loose."
"You don't get to spy on me like that—"
"I do," he interrupted, voice low and cutting, "when your mistakes start making me look sloppy."
Silence buzzed between them.
She hated the way his words pierced.
Worse, she hated that a part of her agreed with him.
He stepped closer. Not quite invading her space, but close enough to make her feel cornered. She lifted her chin.
"You think I'm going to be scared into submission?" she asked, voice quieter now, but not weak. "That I'll roll over and beg for your approval?"
"No," he said, eyes fixed on her like lasers. "I think you're smarter than that. Or at least, you were. Before you decided to play games with men who have no power anymore."
Her lip curled. "You don't know anything about me."
"Not yet," he said. "But I will. Because here's the thing, Arielle—if I'm going to have to fix you, I'll need to understand every part of what broke you."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken emotion.
And then, just as abruptly, he turned and walked back to his desk.
"Now sit down," he said without looking at her. "We're restructuring your role. Effective immediately."
She blinked. "What?"
"You'll shadow me—exclusively. No more floating between departments. No more arriving when you feel like it. You are to be with me from the moment I walk in, until I leave."
She stared at him. "That's not a job. That's a leash."
He finally looked at her again—and this time, his smile was almost imperceptible.
"Exactly."