Arielle was still standing there, heart thudding in her chest like a warning bell, long after he'd turned away. Her fingers tightened around the schedule, the edges of the paper crumpling slightly in her grasp.
She hated him.
She hated how he spoke to her like she wasn't some rich man's spoiled little girl, how he didn't coddle or flirt or bend.
But even more than that… she hated how much it made her want to prove him wrong.
By the time she entered the boardroom, twenty minutes later, the energy in the room had already shifted.
The long obsidian table was surrounded by high-level execs—men in slick suits and women in tailored power dresses, all of them quieting the moment Dominic Raine stepped in. He exuded dominance in silence. The kind that didn't need to announce itself. The kind that demanded attention without effort.
Arielle followed a beat behind him, heels clicking against the polished floor. Every eye in the room shifted toward her—and then immediately back to him.
Not one person smiled at her.
No one offered a seat.
Dominic didn't either.
He moved to the head of the table, nodded once at his assistant, and began the meeting with sharp efficiency.
Arielle stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, completely ignored, until Dominic finally glanced at her from the corner of his eye and jerked his chin toward the far seat beside the whiteboard.
Not beside him. Not even close. But far enough that she'd know exactly where she stood in the hierarchy—nowhere.
Grinding her teeth, she walked over and sat down, crossing her legs and pretending not to care.
The meeting began in earnest. Talk of quarterly returns, acquisition plans, European markets—most of it went over her head. But she kept her eyes on him.
He didn't stumble once.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
He spoke in clean, crisp facts. Delivered bad news like it was strategy and made power moves with the flick of a finger. Even the most arrogant board members deferred to him like obedient soldiers.
He wasn't just running a company. He was commanding an empire.
And somehow, Arielle Sinclair had been dropped right into the middle of it—completely out of her depth.
Her phone buzzed on silent under the table. She glanced down—Lila. Probably sending her another pool party invite or a meme about mani-pedis.
Before she could respond, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"Miss Sinclair," Dominic said, without looking up from the spreadsheet on the screen, "what's the projected margin increase if we close the Tallinn deal next quarter?"
Silence.
Her spine went straight.
"What?"
Now he looked at her.
Everyone did.
The room fell so quiet, she could hear the hum of the AC vent above her.
"I assume," he said slowly, "that if you're going to attend my meetings and spend them texting, you must already know everything we're discussing."
The heat rushed up her neck, into her cheeks. "I—It was just a message—"
"And now you've interrupted," he added, tone still calm, still razor-sharp. "Do it again, and you'll be escorted out."
Someone gasped quietly. A man near the end of the table adjusted his tie. A woman shifted in her seat. The air was suffocating now.
Arielle clenched her jaw and said nothing.
Dominic moved on as if she'd disappeared. As if she were background noise—an inconvenience.
It was worse than yelling.
Worse than anger.
He didn't punish her with rage.
He punished her with indifference.
When the meeting finally ended, people stood, murmuring quick goodbyes and avoiding her entirely. She stayed seated, eyes burning, pride wounded.
Dominic remained at the head of the table, gathering his files. He didn't look at her.
So she stood and crossed the room herself.
"Was that really necessary?" she hissed, low enough so only he could hear.
He looked up, unbothered. "What part? The question, or the reminder that you're here to work?"
"I'm not one of your little soldiers," she snapped. "You don't get to humiliate me in front of a room full of people."
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Arielle… if you think that was humiliation, then you're not ready for what this place really demands. You want to survive here? Learn to take correction. Quietly."
Her eyes flashed. "You're enjoying this."
He studied her for a moment. Not with lust. Not even with annoyance.
But with something colder.
"No," he said simply. "Enjoyment would require interest. And right now, you haven't earned even that."
He brushed past her without another word, leaving her standing there—furious. Ashamed. Intrigued.
The line between discipline and desire had never felt so thin.
And Arielle Sinclair had never been more desperate to prove a man wrong.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of silence, side-eyes, and stifled whispers. Arielle went through the motions, made to sit in a corner of Dominic's glass office like a decoration that no one wanted but couldn't ignore. He didn't speak to her unless necessary. When he did, it was clipped, cold, instructional.
By 5:47 PM, her patience was no longer fraying—it was gone.
She stood from the sleek guest chair and crossed the room, not bothering to wait for permission.
Dominic didn't look up from the report in front of him. "It's not yet six."
"I'm aware," she snapped.
He kept reading.
Her voice dropped, sharp as the red on her lips. "If you're going to treat me like a child, you might as well say it to my face."
That got his attention.
His pen stilled. His fingers folded together on the desk as he finally lifted his gaze.
"You're not a child," he said. "You're a brat with too much money and not enough respect. Don't mistake the difference."
The word brat struck something in her chest—something hot and humiliating and alive.
She stepped around his desk.
His eyes didn't follow her immediately, but she saw the flicker of tension in his jaw. A warning.
"I'm not here to be scolded," she said, voice low. "And I'm not here to be ignored."
"You're here," he said, standing slowly, "because your father thinks you're salvageable."
She stiffened. "That's not your decision."
"No," he agreed, his voice dropping as he moved toward her. "But whether or not I waste my time trying to fix you is."
They were close again—too close.
Arielle tilted her chin up, defiant. "You don't get to 'fix' me. I'm not one of your little broken projects."
His hand moved. Not to touch her—but to brace against the desk behind her, boxing her in without laying a single finger.
His voice was low. Dangerous. "No. You're not broken. You're just wild."
Her breath caught.
"You walk in here like the world owes you something," he murmured, his eyes flicking to her mouth. "Like no one's ever told you no and made it mean something."
"Maybe I haven't met the right man," she said softly, testing him. Tempting him.
His laugh—quiet and dark—cut through the tension like a blade. "You think seduction is your strongest weapon. But it only works on men who want what you're selling."
"And you don't?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned in—his mouth just beside her ear now. Not touching. But so close she could feel the heat of him.
"I don't take what's not offered with humility," he whispered. "And right now? All I see is arrogance."
Arielle's knees nearly buckled.
He wasn't playing. He wasn't flirting.
He was stripping her—emotionally. Powerfully. Making her feel seen in a way that was terrifying.
And yet she couldn't stop.
She reached up, her fingertips brushing the fabric of his shirt at the collar, testing the line.
"You like control," she said, "but I wonder… what happens when someone pushes back?"
He took her wrist—not roughly, not gently either—and removed her hand from him.
Their eyes locked.
Dominic's voice was even. Controlled.
"You're not ready to find out."
And then—just like that—he stepped back, killing the moment with the same precision he used to close deals.
"Your ride's waiting downstairs," he said, already turning back to his work. "Try being on time tomorrow. That would be a start."
She didn't move for a full ten seconds. Her body was still buzzing.
Then she turned on her heel and left, heels clacking like sparks on marble.
But as she reached the elevator, she knew something had shifted.
He hadn't touched her.
Not really.
And yet she felt branded.
Marked.
Claimed by a man who hadn't even decided if she was worth the effort.
And God help her… she wanted him to.