Absolutely! I've reformatted Chapter 3 for readability, added proper
I didn't sleep. How could I?
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face—the boy's pain layered beneath the man's cruelty. I saw the transfer orders burning a hole through my bag. I saw that stranger in the lobby watching me like prey.
By morning, my apartment felt too small, the walls pressing in with memories I'd spent years locking away.
I dressed carefully. Armor. Black slacks, crisp white blouse, hair pulled back severe and professional. No makeup beyond a swipe of concealer to hide the shadows under my eyes. I looked competent. Untouchable.
A lie, but one I needed.
The office building loomed taller than yesterday, as if it had grown overnight just to intimidate me. Security waved me through with new deference. Word traveled fast—Dominic Cross now owned everything, including us.
My old desk on the fifteenth floor was empty. Someone had already cleared it. A printed note waited in its place:
> Top floor. 8:00 a.m. sharp.
—D.C.
No please. No signature beyond initials.
I took the elevator alone, watching the numbers climb like a guillotine.
The top floor was a different world—dark wood, glass walls, hushed voices. His office dominated the entire corner, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city he'd conquered.
His assistant—an older woman with steel-gray hair and a stare that could freeze blood—looked up as I approached.
"Miss Vale. He's expecting you."
She didn't smile.
The door to his office was ajar. I pushed it open.
Dominic stood at the window, back to me, phone to his ear. Black suit today, no tie, top button undone. The scar on his jaw caught the morning light like a blade.
He didn't turn around.
"Fix it," he said into the phone, voice lethal calm. "Or I'll find someone who can."
He ended the call. Silence stretched.
Finally, he faced me. No warmth. No surprise. Just assessment, like I was a balance sheet he was deciding whether to keep or burn.
"You're late."
I glanced at my watch. 7:58 a.m.
"I'm two minutes early."
He lifted a brow. "In my world, early is on time. On time is late."
I swallowed the retort burning my tongue.
He moved to his desk, picked up a thick folder, and dropped it in front of the smaller desk positioned directly across from his. My new workstation. Close enough that he could see every breath I took.
"Your schedule," he said. "Memorize it. You'll manage my calendar, my calls, my correspondence. You'll travel when I travel. You'll be available when I need you."
Available. The word hung heavy between us.
"And if I refuse?"
He smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
"You won't."
He was right. I couldn't. Not without losing everything I'd built. Not without questions I couldn't answer.
He leaned back against his desk, arms crossed.
"First task," he said. "Coffee. Black. No sugar. You'll find the kitchen down the hall."
I stared at him. "You transferred me to the top floor to fetch coffee?"
His eyes darkened.
"I transferred you here because I want you where I can see you," he said quietly. "Every day. Every mistake. Every time you remember what you did."
My hands clenched at my sides.
"I didn't—"
"Coffee, Aria," he interrupted softly. "Now."
I turned and walked out before I said something that would cost me more than pride.
The kitchen was empty. I made his coffee with shaking hands, black and bitter, just like him.
When I returned, he was seated, scrolling through his tablet. He didn't look up as I set the cup down.
I went to my desk. Opened the folder.
His schedule was brutal—back-to-back meetings, international calls at odd hours, dinners marked only with initials and locations I recognized as belonging to men whispered about in boardrooms and back alleys alike.
Then my eyes caught on something else.
Tucked between two pages was a photograph. Old. Creased. Clearly carried for years.
My breath stopped.
It was us. Six years ago. Me, seventeen and terrified, sitting on the fire escape of that rundown apartment building. Dominic beside me, arm slung casually around my shoulders, his head tilted toward mine. We were laughing at something off-camera. His little sister, Maya, photobombed the corner, sticking out her tongue.
I remembered that night. I'd snapped the photo myself.
How did he—?
I looked up. He was watching me now, expression unreadable.
"You kept it," I whispered.
He didn't answer. Just held my gaze.
The photo trembled in my fingers.
That night, I'd promised him I'd help. That I knew someone who could get the money for his mother's treatment. A "family friend." A man who'd helped me before. Victor Harlan.
The name burned in my mind even now.
I'd gone to Victor that same week, desperate. Begged for the loan.
He'd smiled. Said yes.
Then he'd asked for something in return. Information. About Dominic's family. About the evidence they had against Harlan's company—the proof of embezzlement Dominic's father had gathered before he died.
I'd refused. So Harlan took the money I'd already given Dominic. Framed it like I'd stolen it. And when Dominic's mother died, when everything fell apart—
He'd threatened me.
Run, little girl. Or next time, it won't be his family that pays.
I'd run. And I'd never told Dominic the truth. Because if I had, Harlan would have killed him.
I looked at Dominic now, the photo shaking in my hand.
"You think I took that money," I said, voice breaking. "You think I betrayed you."
His jaw tightened.
"You were the only one who knew where it was hidden."
"I didn't take it." The words tumbled out, raw. "Someone else did. Someone who—"
I stopped. Couldn't say the name. Not yet.
His eyes narrowed.
"Someone who what, Aria?"
I swallowed.
"Someone who made sure you'd hate me," I whispered. "So I'd stay away. So you'd never come looking for the truth."
He stood slowly. Crossed the room until he loomed over me. His hand closed over mine, trapping the photo between us.
"Then tell me the truth," he said, voice low and deadly. "Right now."
Tears burned my eyes. I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
But even after six years, Victor Harlan was still one of the most powerful men in this city. And if I said his name, Dominic would go after him. And Harlan would bury him. Just like he'd buried everyone else who got in his way.
I pulled my hand free.
"I can't," I said.
His face went very still.
"Can't," he repeated softly. "Or won't?"
I didn't answer.
He stepped back. The mask slammed down—cold, controlled, cruel.
"Get out," he said.
I blinked.
"What?"
"Take the day off." His voice was ice. "Come back tomorrow ready to work. No stories. No excuses."
He turned away.
"Domic—"
"Out."
I left the photo on my desk. Walked out on legs that barely held me.
But as the door closed behind me, I heard him pick it up. Heard the softest, broken sound, like something inside him had just cracked wide open.
And I knew. The debt he wanted wasn't money. It was the truth I was still too terrified to give him.
Because the real villain wasn't me. It was the man who'd destroyed us both. And he was still out there. Watching.
End of chapter 3