The sun spilled through the tall windows, drenching the hotel suite in soft gold. Camilla stirred slowly, the silk sheets cool against her bare skin, the quiet thrum of city traffic below barely reaching her ears. Her cheek rested against something warm and solid—Dominic's chest.
For a moment, everything was still. Perfect.
A stolen morning suspended between passion and reality.
She opened her eyes and turned slightly, half-expecting him to be gone.
But there he was.
Still in bed. Awake. Watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair off her cheek, fingertips trailing down her jaw.
She blinked up at him, a lazy smile forming. "Do you always stare at people while they sleep?"
"Only the ones I want to wake up next to," he replied, so matter-of-fact that her heart gave an involuntary flutter.
She shifted onto her back, staring at the ceiling now. "Last night was… a lot."
"A good kind of 'a lot,' I hope."
Camilla gave a soft chuckle, then turned to face him again. "Definitely good. But dangerous."
Dominic frowned slightly. "Why?"
"You're my boss. I'm your secretary. We have reputations. Contracts. PR teams. Do I need to keep going?"
Dominic slid closer, his hand settling on her waist under the sheet. "Let them talk. Let them speculate. I'm not ashamed of this."
"You should be," she teased. "Your taste is questionable."
He laughed, pulling her toward him. "And yours is flawless, clearly."
They lay there, wrapped in warmth and banter, but beneath it all was tension. Not regret—but awareness. A shift. A truth that had nowhere else to hide now.
"What happens now?" she asked softly, tracing circles on his chest.
He inhaled deeply, his hand moving up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Now? We figure it out. Together."
By 9:00 AM, they were both in the office.
Different clothes. Stoic expressions. The same glances that burned with memory.
Camilla sat at her desk, her fingers poised above the keyboard, pretending to type something important. But her thoughts kept drifting—to the curve of Dominic's smile in bed, the weight of his hands, the way he'd whispered her name like a confession.
She tried to shake it. Focus. Be the professional she'd always been.
But her heart had other plans.
A knock broke the fragile calm.
Lucia, head of PR, strode in. Sleek, efficient, her red heels clicking on the floor like gunshots.
"We have a problem," she said without preamble, holding out her tablet. "A photo."
Camilla's stomach dropped.
Dominic emerged from his office, sensing the tension.
Lucia handed him the tablet.
The screen displayed a grainy but unmistakable photo—Dominic and Camilla walking into the hotel together the night before. Arm in arm. Smiling.
A headline hovered just above the image: CEO and His Curvy Secretary? Romance Rumors Spark at Gala Hotel.
Dominic's jaw tightened. "Where did this come from?"
"Gossip blog," Lucia said. "They haven't confirmed identities yet, but it's only a matter of time. Camilla's face is half-turned, but yours? Clear as day."
Camilla stood slowly, anxiety crawling under her skin. "Do we deny it?"
"No," Dominic said firmly. "We handle it."
Lucia raised an eyebrow. "Dismiss it?"
"Get ahead of it," he said. "Control the story before they do."
Lucia nodded, impressed. "Understood."
As she left, Dominic turned to Camilla, his gaze steady.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," she admitted. "Are you?"
"No. But I'm still sure about you."
Her chest tightened at the words. "You really don't care what people will say?"
"I care," he said honestly. "But I care more about not pretending."
Camilla paced slightly, arms crossed. "This could ruin everything. I've worked too hard to be seen as anything other than capable, smart… not some woman who slept her way up."
Dominic walked over and gently took her hand. "I know exactly who you are. And anyone who sees you as less than powerful—less than brilliant—is blind."
She looked at him, her defenses lowering inch by inch. "So what now?"
He didn't hesitate. "Now we stop hiding."
The next few hours were a blur.
Lucia coordinated a soft PR release. A vague statement about the CEO's private life being "his own," with no direct denial and no confirmation. But it was enough to buy them time and change the narrative—turn it from gossip to curiosity.
Camilla's inbox exploded.
Half the office was whispering.
She kept her head high.
But that afternoon, Dominic asked her to join him on the top floor—his private conference room.
When she arrived, the lights were dim. The skyline glimmered outside the windows. And on the table, a single white rose and a note.
She picked it up.
"If we're going to walk into chaos, we do it on our own terms. Dinner tonight? Just us. No press. No pretense." – D.
She smiled in spite of herself.
He was impossible.
But maybe… so was she.
That evening, Camilla didn't wear red.
She wore a sleek, midnight blue dress. Elegant. Confident. She walked into the quiet rooftop restaurant like a queen—head high, smile soft.
Dominic stood when she arrived, eyes sweeping over her.
"Beautiful doesn't even begin to cover it," he said.
She sat down across from him. "You're lucky I'm still speaking to you."
He smirked. "You're speaking. And stunning. I'll take the win."
Over wine and soft music, they talked—about more than work, more than desire.
They talked about childhood dreams. Fears. Why they guarded their hearts like vaults.
Dominic told her about his father's legacy and the pressure to be twice as ruthless just to stay ahead.
Camilla told him about her mother's strength, her own ambitions, and why she never wanted to rely on a man for anything.
"But here we are," she said, lifting her glass.
"Here we are," he echoed.
He leaned closer. "And I don't want to lose this. You. Us."
She held his gaze. "Then don't."
That night, there were no secrets between them.
Only possibilities.
And a quiet understanding that this—whatever it was—was worth the risk.
Even if the world tried to tear them apart.