- Max-
"Three minutes to live, Ms. Sterling."
Max nodded at the stage manager, not bothering to correct the terminology. In TV production, everything was "live"—even the taped segments, even the carefully orchestrated press conferences like this one, which would be edited and packaged before hitting the networks.
She stood in the wings of the Sterling Tower media center, watching technicians make final lighting adjustments on the sleek white stage where two leather chairs waited side by side. Too close for comfort. Not close enough to arouse speculation.
Everything calculated. Everything controlled.
Just like the Sterling-Kaiser collaboration they were about to announce—a limited capsule collection combining Sterling's engineering precision with Kaiser's vision. Sustainable luxury with philanthropic elements. A perfect corporate narrative, expertly timed to deflect attention from the personal entanglements that had dominated industry gossip for weeks.
"Your collar is crooked," Lani whispered, appearing at her elbow with frightening stealth.
Max resisted the impulse to check. "It's fine."
"It's three millimeters off-center," Lani persisted. "And it's driving me insane."
Max sighed and allowed the adjustment, grateful for the momentary distraction from what awaited her on stage. From who awaited her.
"She's here," Lani murmured unnecessarily, gaze fixed somewhere beyond Max's shoulder.
Max didn't turn. Didn't need to. She felt Aurelia's arrival like a shift in atmospheric pressure—the subtle change in energy that seemed to follow her into every room, especially rooms containing Max.
Three days had passed since that night in Aurelia's penthouse. Three days of carefully worded emails, of meetings conducted through intermediaries, of professional distance maintained with military precision.
Three days of remembering Aurelia's skin under her hands, of replaying whispered confessions in darkness, of fighting the increasingly undeniable truth that whatever existed between them had evolved far beyond physical attraction or competitive tension.
The stage manager gestured urgently, and Max stepped forward, adjusting her expression to the perfect blend of professional warmth and CEO authority. The cameras would be parsing every micro-expression, every flicker of eye contact, every moment of body language between the two women the business press had already dubbed "Frost and Fire."
She wouldn't give them anything to dissect. Wouldn't reveal the chaos beneath her calm exterior. Wouldn't acknowledge the way her heart rate accelerated as Aurelia Kaiser appeared in her peripheral vision, moving toward the stage from the opposite wing.
Their timing was perfect—synchronized arrival, calculated distance, practiced smiles as they took their seats. The sound of camera shutters intensified, a mechanical storm capturing what the industry had been buzzing about for weeks: the public truce between luxury's most compelling rivals.
Max didn't look directly at Aurelia until they were both settled in their chairs, microphones clipped to lapels, posture arranged for the cameras. Then, with professional precision, she turned.
And nearly faltered.
Aurelia wore silk the color of moonlight—a blouse that caught the studio lights in liquid ripples, emphasizing the copper in her hair, the gold in her eyes, the subtle curve of her mouth as she smiled for the cameras. Not her usual bold statement pieces or power colors. Something softer, more deliberate.
More dangerous.
Because it reminded Max of how she'd looked in early morning light, wrapped in nothing but sheets, vulnerable in a way the public never saw.
"Ms. Sterling," the moderator began, mercifully pulling Max's attention away, "this collaboration caught the industry off guard. Can you comment on how you and Ms. Kaiser reached this... peaceful agreement?"
Max smiled—measured, controlled, hollowed out. "This is a strategic partnership," she said evenly. "Our shared interest in sustainable innovation made it a natural decision."
Aurelia leaned in slightly, voice like velvet dipped in mischief. "And it's always exciting when two powerful women can... align."
Flashbulbs exploded. The double entendre wasn't lost on anyone in the room, though Aurelia's delivery had been subtle enough to maintain plausible deniability. Max kept her expression neutral, despite the heat creeping up her neck.
"The collection will launch next quarter," Max continued smoothly, redirecting to safer territory. "Initial production will be limited, with proceeds supporting ocean plastic reclamation initiatives."
"A cause we both care deeply about," Aurelia added, her knee brushing against Max's under the table. Not accidental. Not professional. A deliberate reminder of intimacies they were pretending didn't exist.
Max didn't react. Didn't shift away. Didn't acknowledge the contact that sent electric awareness through her body despite her best efforts at compartmentalization.
The interview continued—questions about sustainability metrics, about design aesthetics, about market positioning. All answered with practiced expertise, with careful coordination, with the synchronized rhythm of two CEOs who had clearly rehearsed their narrative.
What no one could see—what the cameras couldn't capture—was the subtext beneath every exchange. The way Aurelia's finger traced small circles on the table edge when Max was speaking. The way Max's breathing changed subtly when Aurelia leaned forward. The current of awareness that hummed between them, separate from their words, from their professional personas, from the carefully crafted image they were presenting.
"One final question," the moderator said, glancing at his notes. "There's been speculation about the nature of your personal relationship. Would you care to address those rumors directly?"
The moment Max had been dreading. The question their PR teams had warned might come, despite agreements to keep the focus on the collaboration.
Before Max could formulate a suitably vague response, Aurelia laughed—warm, genuine, disarming.
"The fashion industry thrives on drama," she said, directing her answer to the cameras rather than the moderator. "Max and I have known each other since Wharton. We've competed. We've disagreed. We've respected each other's work. Now we're collaborating on something meaningful. That's the story."
The deflection was masterful—acknowledging the gossip without confirming or denying anything specific. Redirecting focus to their professional history. Using Max's first name casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"As Ms. Kaiser said," Max added, grateful for the opening, "we're focused on the collection and its potential impact. Everything else is noise."
The moderator nodded, satisfied with what would make a perfect sound bite for the business networks, and the cameras began to power down. The press conference had lasted exactly twenty-eight minutes—precisely as scheduled.
Max rose as soon as the red lights dimmed, extending her hand to Aurelia in a gesture that would photograph well for the print publications still snapping away. Professional. Composed. The perfect image of corporate cooperation.
Aurelia took it, her grip firm, thumb brushing almost imperceptibly across Max's pulse point. "Well played," she murmured, voice too low for the microphones to catch.
"Always," Max replied, matching her tone, ignoring the way her skin tingled where Aurelia's thumb had been.
They separated smoothly, each turning to their respective teams, maintaining the carefully choreographed distance that had defined the entire event. Max moved quickly toward the exit, fast enough that Lani had to half-jog to keep pace, tablet clutched to her chest.
"You were incredible," Lani chirped, falling into step beside her. "Very controlled. A little scary. So... classic you."
Max didn't slow down. "What's the car situation?"
"Already waiting. But um—" Lani glanced down at her screen, scrolling quickly. "Aurelia's people booked a debrief in your penthouse suite. For convenience. And branding. Apparently PR thinks the shared-location narrative adds romantic tension."
Max stopped abruptly.
Lani nearly collided with her back, recovering with the agility of someone accustomed to Max's sudden movements. "Should I cancel?" she asked, already reaching for her phone.
Max stared straight ahead, calculating implications, weighing risks against... what? Desire? Inevitability? The recognition that running hadn't worked before and wouldn't work now?
"No," she said finally, resuming her stride with renewed purpose. "The arrangement stands."
Because despite everything—despite the complications, despite the risks, despite knowing better—Max wasn't sure she wanted to cancel. Wasn't sure she could.
And that realization was more terrifying than any press scrutiny or board disapproval.
She was losing control. Had already lost it, perhaps.
And the worst part? Some small, hidden part of her was relieved to let it go.
—
Max's car weaved through the late afternoon Manhattan traffic, shadows stretching between skyscrapers as they made their way toward the Plaza Hotel. Her mind was already in the penthouse suite that awaited her. The "debrief" with Aurelia was supposedly about finalizing the capsule collection details and tomorrow's sustainability pitch. A perfectly logical reason for the CEOs of collaborating companies to meet privately.
A perfect pretense.
Max knew it. Aurelia knew it. Perhaps even their PR teams suspected it.
This carefully orchestrated peace between them existed only for the cameras. Behind closed doors was another story entirely—one written in touches that lingered too long, in glances that revealed too much, in moments of connection neither could explain away as merely professional anymore.
Her phone chimed with a message from her father, likely demanding updates on the collaboration metrics or board reaction. She silenced it without looking. Sterling dynasty concerns could wait.
As the car approached the historic hotel with its gleaming façade, Max found herself watching the minutes pass with uncharacteristic impatience. Not with the schedule. Not with the itinerary.
But with the distance still between them.
And that anticipation? That quiet, insistent pull?
That was the most dangerous development yet.
---
-Aurelia-
The Plaza Hotel penthouse suite was all shadows and glass.
Aurelia kicked off her heels the second the door closed, sighing as her bare feet met plush carpet. Her smile muscles ached from hours of camera-ready expressions. Her mind raced with anticipation.
Because Max was coming.
Not for cameras. Not for press. Just them. Alone. After three days of deliberate distance following that night at her apartment.
She moved to the bar cart, selected a bottle of white Burgundy—Max's preference—and poured a glass. Manhattan's evening lights provided the only illumination, casting patterns across the modern furnishings.
The Plaza had been Vivien's suggestion—"Neutral territory. Historic. Discreet." It was perfect for their "strategic debrief," far from both companies' headquarters, where neither had home court advantage. The press would spin it as calculated brand synergy rather than what it actually was: an excuse to be alone together.
The day's interviews had been refreshingly professional, centered on sustainability metrics rather than lingering glances. But the professional distance had been a performance. A mask growing heavier with each hour.
Aurelia had watched Max all day—her perfect posture, her precise answers—and recognized the signs of restraint beneath. The tension in her jaw. The pause before certain questions. The way she never quite met Aurelia's eyes directly, but always seemed aware of her every movement.
The suite door opened with a soft click, and Aurelia didn't turn immediately. Just sipped her wine, waiting.
"The American press release is being finalized," Max's voice came from the entryway, professional and measured. "Your team made some edits to the sustainability metrics paragraph."
"I know," Aurelia replied. "I asked them to emphasize the ocean plastic component. It polls well with Gen Z."
She heard Max's footsteps stopping at a carefully maintained distance.
"You planned the shared suite," Max said, voice cooler now, more direct.
"I suggested it," Aurelia corrected, finally turning to face her.
Max stood in the doorway, jacket removed, collar unbuttoned, looking less like a CEO and more like a woman at the edge of a decision. Still controlled. But fraying slightly at the edges.
"Manipulated it," Max countered, without real heat.
Aurelia smiled. "I knew you wouldn't say no."
The admission hung between them—acknowledging what neither had been willing to name. That whatever distance they'd tried to maintain had been temporary at best. That they were drawn back to each other with a persistence that defied boundaries.
Max crossed the remaining distance, took the wine glass from Aurelia's hand, and sipped from the exact spot where Aurelia's lipstick had left its mark.
"You're very good at pretending," Max said softly.
"So are you," Aurelia replied, not backing away, not closing the distance.
They stood in silence for a beat too long—long enough for the city lights to shift, long enough for pretense to evaporate.
Max's fingers found the hem of Aurelia's silk blouse. Not quite touching skin. Not quite maintaining distance.
"This is a bad idea," she murmured.
"I'm still here," Aurelia replied simply.
Then Max kissed her. Not hard. Not rough. Not with the desperate intensity of their previous encounters.
But slow. Deliberate. Like they had all night. Like this wasn't just surrender but a choice being consciously made.
Aurelia responded in kind, hands coming to rest on Max's waist, not pulling closer, not demanding more. Just accepting what was being offered.
The kiss deepened gradually, heat building like tide coming in—inevitable, powerful, but paced. Max's hands slid fully beneath Aurelia's blouse now, palms against the skin of her lower back, drawing her closer.
They moved together toward the bedroom, no stumbling, no desperation, no pretense that this was anything but exactly what they both wanted. Buttons undone with care rather than urgency. Clothing removed with attention rather than haste.
It was different this time. Quieter. More honest.
More dangerous for it.
Because without the excuse of impulse, without the shield of momentary weakness, what remained was choice. Deliberate, conscious choice to be here, together, despite every reason they had to maintain distance.
And when they finally lay tangled in sheets, Manhattan's lights painting patterns across bare skin, the silence between them held not confusion or regret, but a different kind of uncertainty.
The uncertainty of standing at a threshold neither had planned to approach, yet now found themselves crossing anyway.