(Kael's Point of View)
I don't come into the office at six in the morning for anyone.
I make exceptions for billion-dollar contracts and global crises—not interns with cheap perfume and soft brown eyes that haunt a man through a sleepless night.
But that morning, I was in my office at 5:58.
The city was still dark outside the windows. The tower was silent. And I was already on my second coffee, staring at the door, waiting to see if she had the nerve to show.
She arrived at exactly 6:00.
No more. No less.
That impressed me more than I liked.
Her hair was tied up this time, her clothes still modest, but something was different. She wasn't trembling. She wasn't meek.
She looked like someone preparing to go to war.
Good. I didn't need someone who'd crumble under pressure. I needed someone who could stand in my fire and not melt.
She knocked lightly.
"Come in," I called.
She entered, clutching a notebook this time. "Mr. Damorian."
I watched her eyes as they took in the room again. My desk. The leather chairs. The skyline behind me.
Then she looked at me.
And didn't look away.
I didn't smile. I didn't move.
"I wasn't sure you'd come back," I said.
She stepped forward, voice steady. "I said I would."
"I've had senior executives walk out after one conversation with me."
"I'm not them."
I stood slowly, closing the distance between us, the soft click of my shoes echoing in the silence.
"You still think you want this internship?" I asked, lowering my voice.
"Yes."
"Even knowing I'll test you?"
"Yes."
I stepped closer.
"Even knowing I'll break you?"
Her breath faltered—but only for a heartbeat.
"Yes."
Something inside me stirred. Dangerous. Primitive. The same thing I'd buried under tailored suits and signed contracts for years.
I moved past her, walked to the espresso machine near the window, and poured two cups. One black. One with a touch of cream.
When I handed hers over, our fingers brushed. Hers were cold. Mine weren't.
She looked up at me, startled.
"You remembered how I take it?" she asked.
"I remember everything."
She sat down without being told. Bold again. This time, I let her.
"Today you'll be shadowing me. Meetings. Calls. The usual chaos. You'll take notes, and if you're smart, you'll learn."
She nodded.
"But before that," I added, "you're going to answer a question honestly."
She blinked. "Okay."
"Why did you really come here?"
She hesitated. Then set her cup down.
"I wanted to be close to power," she said. "I wanted to understand it. Be a part of it. Maybe… steal a little of it for myself."
"And now?"
"Now?" she said softly. "I think I want to understand you."
I froze.
She hadn't meant it as a challenge. But it landed like one.
You don't get to understand me, Aria.
You survive me. You endure me.
No one gets close enough to do more.
But I said nothing.
Because part of me wanted her to try.
---
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, numbers, negotiations—and her.
She was quiet. Sharp. Observant. Every time I spoke, she leaned in slightly, as if decoding the way I moved, the way I commanded a room.
At one point during a strategy session, my hand brushed her lower back as I leaned to whisper a correction in her notes. She tensed—barely—but didn't move away.
I liked that too much.
That night, after everyone had gone, I found her still at her desk outside my office, typing up the minutes from the day.
She didn't notice me watching her. The way she chewed her lip while she typed. The way her blouse slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing skin no man had touched yet.
I should've walked away.
Instead, I stepped forward and said her name.
She looked up—startled, breathless.
"Yes, Mr. Damorian?"
I didn't answer. I only stared.
And she knew.
She knew something had shifted between us.
"You should go home," I said finally.
But neither of us moved.
The silence between us was heavy with everything unsaid.
Eventually, she stood. "Goodnight."
And as she walked past me, the scent of her—vanilla and something innocent—lingered far too long.
When the door closed behind her, I sat down, loosened my tie, and stared at my hands.
Because I'd just crossed a line in my mind.
And I wasn't sure I ever wanted to go back.