The morning after the gala, headlines blared.
Heiress Sinclair Stuns Gala in Fire-Red Couture… But What Happened Behind the Velvet Ropes?
Dominic Raine Seen Leaving Solo—Sinclair Not Far Behind. Trouble in Power Paradise?
Arielle sat in the backseat of a sleek black car, legs crossed, sunglasses hiding the storm in her eyes. The city blurred outside, but her focus was laser-sharp.
She wasn't going to sulk.
She was going to win.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her best friend:
Sasha:
"That look you gave Raine last night? Girl. The internet is already calling it the 'Sinclair Glare.' Iconic."
She smirked.
Let them talk.
Let them wonder.
But while everyone was gossiping, she had moved to step two.
She opened her iPad and reviewed the agenda for this morning's boardroom pitch. Not Dominic's. Hers.
He thought shadowing him meant she'd sit quietly at the sidelines?
Watch her.
This was her debut—an impromptu initiative she crafted overnight, presenting a luxury branding expansion concept that would outshine anything Dominic's cold, calculated team had pitched in weeks.
When she entered the building, the energy shifted.
Red stilettos. A fitted ivory suit. Not a single hair out of place. But it wasn't just her looks that turned heads today—it was her purpose.
She didn't go to Dominic's office.
She went straight to the conference room.
By the time Dominic arrived, half the senior executives were already seated, flipping through the printed decks she'd handed out.
He walked in, paused when he saw her at the head of the table, and raised a brow.
Arielle didn't flinch. She smiled sweetly and gestured to the seat beside her.
"Morning, Mr. Raine," she said. "Hope you don't mind. I thought I'd kick things off today."
He didn't sit. He didn't speak.
He just studied her for a beat too long—enough to make the others in the room shift uncomfortably.
Then he slowly moved to his seat.
"Go ahead," he said coolly.
Arielle turned to the room, voice smooth as silk. "Let's talk about how we take Sinclair Lux to the next level. I'm proposing a high-impact, globally minded brand relaunch—starting with a bold new vision. One that dares to say… we're not just luxury. We are power."
Slides flipped. Data clicked. Mockups dazzled.
She didn't stammer once. She didn't hesitate. She was brilliant, biting, and absolutely in control.
When she finished, the room was silent—until one executive finally breathed, "That was… phenomenal."
Another nodded. "Fresh. Relevant. Aggressive. I like it."
Dominic's jaw tightened slightly, but his face gave nothing away.
When everyone left the room, she stayed behind.
So did he.
He closed the door.
"Trying to impress me?" he asked, leaning back.
"No," she replied. "I'm trying to replace you."
His eyes flared. Just slightly.
And in that silence, thick with tension, their unspoken war escalated.
She turned to leave but glanced over her shoulder.
"I told you, Dominic. I don't need to play your game." Her voice dropped, silky and dangerous. "I brought my own."
Then she walked out.
And for the first time in a long time…
Dominic Raine smiled.
Not because he was winning.
But because the fire he feared in her…
Was finally burning at full force.
By noon, Arielle hated him.
Not because he barked orders. Not because he worked her nonstop.
But because Dominic Raine was good at it.
No lunch break. No time to reapply lipstick. He dragged her through back-to-back meetings with board members, analysts, even a high-stakes pitch to an international investor who barely spoke English but hung on Dominic's every low, commanding word.
And through it all, he didn't glance at her once.
Not when she adjusted her blouse in the elevator.
Not when she leaned in to whisper her notes during the presentation.
Not even when she stood so close behind him at the investor's dinner meeting that she could smell the faint musk of his cologne—dark cedar and something sharper.
He was stone.
And it infuriated her.
So she tested him.
When they stepped into a waiting car headed to their last event—a cocktail networking night—she slid into the seat beside him instead of opposite him. Crossed her legs slowly. Let her bare thigh graze his suit pants.
Still, he said nothing. Only typed a curt message on his phone.
Arielle tilted her head. "You know, this whole cold-CEO-ice-prince act? It's cute. But it's not fooling me."
His eyes flicked up.
"And what do you think you see, Miss Sinclair?"
She smirked. "A man pretending not to notice what's two inches away from wrecking his control."
Silence.
Then—barely audible—he exhaled through his nose.
"I've trained under fire," he murmured, voice low and dry. "You think your perfume and crossed legs are going to undo me?"
"I don't think." Her voice dropped to a whisper, eyes glinting. "I know."
The car stopped.
Before she could blink, his hand closed around her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to catch her breath.
His lips were near her ear now. His voice, velvet and dangerous.
"You want to play, Sinclair?" he breathed. "Then understand something."
His grip loosened. His next words were a knife cloaked in silk.
"I don't lose. I decide when the game ends."
And just like that, he let go and stepped out of the car.
Leaving her stunned.
Heart pounding.
And legs trembling beneath all her attitude.
He held the door open, looking back at her with unreadable eyes.
"Coming?" he asked, voice cool again.
She straightened her skirt. Swallowed. Then flashed a smile.
"Always," she said.
And stepped into the fire again.
The cocktail event was supposed to be routine. Show face. Make contacts. Shake hands. Leave.
But as they stepped into the sleek, private elevator of the hotel's executive wing, Arielle had one thought.
Too small. Too close. Too quiet.
Dominic pressed the button for the top floor, where the VIP lounge awaited.
They barely had time to blink before the elevator jolted. Then—stopped.
Silence.
Then the soft hum of backup lighting flickering to life.
"Don't tell me," Arielle murmured, tapping her heel impatiently. "We're stuck."
Dominic tried the emergency panel. Nothing. His jaw tensed.
"We're stuck."
She leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. "Is this fate?" she teased. "Trapping us in a luxury box just so you can admit you're wildly attracted to me?"
He didn't even turn around. "I think you've confused reality with one of your little drama fantasies."
She chuckled. "Tell me something, Mr. Raine. Do you ever get flustered?"
"Only when people waste my time."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
Now he turned.
The soft red glow of the backup lights danced across his features—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, eyes darker than usual in the dim.
He stepped forward.
Arielle's breath caught.
"No," he said softly. "You're doing something else entirely."
Her back hit the glass behind her.
The space between them was barely a breath now.
"You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me?" he asked, voice low, every word thick with restraint. "You want me to crack. To lose my edge."
She swallowed. "And?"
He leaned closer, lips just a whisper from hers. "And maybe I'd let myself… if you weren't such a spoiled little brat."
Her pulse raced.
"But I am a brat," she whispered.
He chuckled darkly, eyes locked on hers. "Exactly."
He raised a hand—and for a moment, she thought he might touch her.
But instead, he reached over her shoulder and pressed the emergency call button again. Still nothing.
The light shifted, and so did his expression.
More controlled. Cooler. But the fire still flickered underneath.
"If I touch you," he murmured, straightening, "I don't stop. And I don't play."
Arielle stared at him, breathless. "Then maybe I want to be taken seriously."
Their eyes locked for one more searing second.
Then the lights returned.
The elevator jolted—and resumed its ascent.
He stepped back.
The air between them snapped like static.
When the doors opened, he was first out—composed, unreadable.
Arielle followed, heels clicking.
But her knees were weak.
And her mind?
Racing with thoughts she'd never admit out loud.