Monday morning arrived dressed in clouds and attitude.
Arielle walked into the office lobby like the queen of aftermaths. Her heels echoed the same confidence, but her eyes held a flicker of something new—restraint. As if part of her was still replaying the way Dominic had looked at her. Touched her. Not kissed her.
It was maddening.
She'd gone home with her skin on fire, and her mind spiraling. No man had ever left her wanting without taking. And Dominic Raine? He didn't even take a sip.
Now, as she rode the elevator to the top floor, she rolled her shoulders back and painted her face in indifference.
She was still Arielle Sinclair.
And he was still the man she was going to figure out how to unravel.
—
Dominic was already in his office when she entered the executive suite. He didn't look up. His sleeves were rolled, his forearms tense as he typed. Black coffee sat untouched beside him. The man was a walking mood board of control.
Arielle stood at his doorway.
Waiting.
"Do you just stand there breathing until someone notices you?" he asked, eyes still on his screen.
"I'm the kind of woman people choose to notice," she replied, walking in.
"Noted."
"I assume I passed your little trial-by-fire."
He leaned back slightly. "You didn't start any fights, didn't spill champagne, and didn't flirt with the chairman's son."
She smirked. "He flirted with me."
Dominic finally looked up, and the sharpness in his eyes wasn't anger. It was something cooler. More calculating.
"And what did you do?"
She leaned against the desk, lips curved. "I reminded him I don't date boys who wear their father's cologne and think ambition means scrolling LinkedIn."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Calendar's updated," she said, tossing the iPad gently on his desk. "Meeting with the branding team at two. Board presentation slides are reviewed. I made a few changes. You're welcome."
He arched a brow. "You touched the board slides?"
"I touched them," she said, voice smooth. "And improved them."
"Confidence," he murmured, "or recklessness?"
"Both."
He stood, crossing around the desk slowly. Every movement was deliberate, like he was daring the air not to tremble.
"You're here to learn," he said quietly. "Not to take over."
"I'm not here to play secretary, Dominic. If I see room to make something better, I'm going to do it."
He stopped in front of her.
Close.
Too close.
"That attitude might impress at a party," he said, voice low, "but in here, it gets tested."
She looked up at him. "Then test me."
For a moment, the silence between them said everything their mouths wouldn't.
But then he stepped back.
"Conference room. Fifteen minutes."
"Fine," she said. "Try not to miss me."
As she walked away, his eyes followed.
And for the first time that morning, Dominic Raine smiled.
Just a little.
Just enough.
—
The meeting passed with sharp glances and sharper opinions. Arielle spoke when necessary, nodded when expected. But the truth was—her mind wasn't on brand analytics or projections.
It was on him.
Because beneath all his control, she knew she'd gotten to him.
And the thought of unraveling Dominic Raine, piece by piece?
Delicious.
She didn't want him to fall.
Not yet.
She wanted him to break.
Bit by bit.
And only for her.
Dominic stared at the boardroom screen like it owed him something. But his mind wasn't on the figures.
It was on her.
Arielle had sat three chairs down, legs crossed like a threat and voice calm as a razor. She spoke in measured tones, using boardroom language now—"market dynamics," "brand engagement," "user metrics"—but he could hear the subtext in every word.
I'm not here to be your puppet.
He hadn't meant to look when she leaned forward to emphasize a point.
He hadn't meant to notice the red of her lipstick.
But he did.
And that irritated the hell out of him.
After the meeting, he was the last to leave. She lingered by the window, gazing at the skyline like it was a mirror.
"Something you wanted to say?" she asked without turning.
"You altered the slide deck without consulting me."
"You're welcome."
He folded his arms. "You're overstepping."
"And you're underestimating."
She turned then, slowly, fully facing him. Her eyes were playful, but underneath the flirtation—defiance.
"This isn't your playground, Miss Sinclair."
"No," she said. "It's yours. I'm just building the swings higher."
He blinked once. Just once. Then approached.
"You think this is a game?"
"I know it is," she said. "Only difference is—I'm used to winning."
He came close, until she could feel the heat of him and smell the hint of bergamot in his cologne.
"And what exactly do you think you'll win?"
Arielle tilted her head, voice a purr. "Your attention, for starters. Your respect, eventually. And maybe, if I'm bored enough… your control."
Silence thundered between them.
Then, in a breath of a moment, he reached past her to close the blinds. The sudden dimness cloaked the office in intimacy.
His hand didn't touch her, but it hovered—right beside her cheek, on the glass.
"You push too hard, Arielle."
"And you don't push enough," she whispered, barely audible.
He stared at her like he was trying to memorize the part of her she kept behind that smirk.
Then he stepped back.
The blinds remained closed.
The air remained heavy.
But the moment passed.
He walked to the door and paused.
"You're smart," he said without turning. "But don't confuse curiosity with capacity. I can break you if I want to."
Arielle smiled softly to herself as the door clicked shut behind him.
You won't, she thought. Because part of you already wants me too much.
—
The rest of the day passed with clipped tension and charged silence.
She'd throw him a look in passing.
He'd ignore it—deliberately.
But every time she left a room, he'd glance toward the door a second too long.
And when she handed him a report, their fingers brushed.
Too long.
Too slowly.
The rules of the office were clear. Sharp. Professional.
But whatever they were playing now?
The rules didn't apply.
Because this wasn't about a company anymore.
It was about control.
Attraction.
Power.
And who would crack first.