The office was quiet after hours—too quiet.
The kind of silence that felt like it was holding its breath.
Arielle didn't knock when she entered. She didn't call out for Dominic either. The hallway lights were dimmed, the skyline outside glittered like a million unspoken promises, and his office door was slightly ajar.
He was somewhere in the building. That much she knew.
She stepped in.
Her heels clicked once… then stopped.
There, on the desk, was a sleek black folder—left open, carelessly or intentionally, she couldn't tell. But what caught her eye wasn't just the elegance of the leather. It was her name printed on the document inside in bold, unmistakable ink:
ARIANA SINCLAIR.
She blinked.
Then she read.
And what she read stole the breath from her lungs.
This agreement confirms the appointment of Mr. Dominic Raine as professional mentor and behavioral corrective authority over Ms. Ariana Sinclair. Duration: Two months minimum. Compensation: To be wired in monthly installments. Conditions of success: Professional development, emotional maturity, and increased corporate responsibility…
Arielle's hand trembled.
Her name. Her father's signature. And then… Dominic's.
He signed it.
He agreed to handle her.
Like she was a problem. A project.
And worse—he'd been paid.
How much of this was ever real?
The rules? The coldness? The discipline? The way he looked at me—was that all part of the damn job description?
Just then, she heard footsteps behind her.
Dominic appeared in the doorway, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled up, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Casual. Unaware.
Until he saw what was in her hand.
His jaw set. His steps slowed.
"Arielle," he said carefully. "Put that down."
She didn't move. "So it's true."
He stepped into the room, the air between them practically vibrating with danger. "You weren't supposed to see that."
"Oh, so it's true," she repeated, voice shaking. "You were assigned to fix me."
He exhaled slowly. "It started that way."
She laughed, hollow and bitter. "You really want points for honesty now?"
"Arielle—"
"No." She threw the folder onto the desk, its contents scattering. "All this time, I thought I was earning something. I thought you were just an arrogant jackass who wanted to control me. But you weren't just controlling me—you were contracted to."
She moved toward him, eyes blazing. "Did you even like me? Or was it all just part of the correctional program? A little behavior boot camp for the bratty rich girl?"
His jaw ticked. "Don't say that."
"Why? Because it's true? Because for once, I finally see the game—and you don't like that I figured it out?"
He looked at her then. Really looked at her. His voice was low, but it cracked at the edges.
"It started as a job, Arielle. But it didn't stay that way."
She stepped back.
That single sentence shattered something inside her.
"Too little, too late," she whispered.
And then she turned, heels echoing like gunfire as she walked away from him—for real this time.
No swagger. No taunts. No flirtation.
Just silence.
Dominic
The door slammed behind her.
And for a full minute, Dominic didn't move.
The folder she'd thrown sat open on his desk, its papers scattered like the aftermath of a storm. Her name, bold in print. Her father's signature, smug with power. His own—like a brand he now wanted to burn off.
He swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.
"You weren't supposed to see that."
He meant it literally—but also deeply. Because the truth she read in that folder wasn't just paperwork.
It was betrayal.
He had told himself for weeks that he was doing the right thing. That she was reckless. That she needed structure. That he was helping her.
But now he saw the lie.
He wasn't helping her grow.
He was caging a wildfire—and pretending that meant control.
And God, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped seeing her as a task.
He saw her mouth before he saw her attitude.
He saw her fire before he saw her flaws.
And now, all of it was ash.
He sank into the chair she had just vacated, staring at the chair across from him like she might return.
But she wouldn't.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Arielle
She didn't know how long she'd been walking.
Maybe minutes. Maybe an hour.
The city was loud around her—horns, chatter, laughter—and she hated how alive everything was while she was burning.
Her stilettos were off, dangling from her fingertips. Her feet hurt. Her heart hurt more.
God, how could I have been so stupid?
She wanted to scream. At her father. At Dominic. At herself.
He made her feel… seen. Not as a spoiled heiress. Not as a pawn. Just as her.
But it was all a script. A role he agreed to play.
What scared her most?
Part of her still wanted him.
Even now. Even after.
She found herself at a late-night café and slipped into a corner booth. Ordered coffee she wouldn't drink. Stared at the steam and tried not to cry.
But the tears came anyway.
Hot. Furious. Humiliating.
She wiped them with the back of her hand, cursing under her breath.
"You were supposed to be the one who didn't want anything from me," she whispered.
She didn't know what to do next.
But she knew one thing:
She wouldn't let them control her again.
Not her father.
Not Dominic.
Not anyone.
Tomorrow, she'd start making moves of her own .
The invitation had been sitting on her kitchen counter since last week.
Sinclair & Raine Annual Philanthropy Gala.
Black tie. Press-heavy. Hosted at the Raine Tower ballroom. Attendance mandatory.
It was her father's way of making a statement.
But this year, Arielle would be making hers.
She stepped out of the limo like a goddess resurrected in red.
Her dress clung to her body like vengeance—blood-red silk that shimmered with every step. Backless. Slit nearly to her hip. Her hair swept up in a loose, powerful knot. No smile. No softness.
Only a single message: Watch me rise.
Cameras exploded like fireworks.
"Miss Sinclair, is it true you've taken on a more serious role within the company?"
"Are you still working under Dominic Raine?"
She paused. Tilted her head. Her red lips curved in a knowing, venomous smile.
"I work for no man," she said, then turned away before the next question could land.
Inside, the ballroom glittered in soft golds and crystal whites. She swept through the crowd like she owned the air itself.
And then she saw him.
Dominic Raine.
In a charcoal black tux, clean-cut and cold as obsidian. He looked like sin wrapped in discipline. Like her undoing, and her unspoken wish.
His gaze locked with hers from across the ballroom.
People swirled between them—CEOs, socialites, power players. But nothing else existed for a moment. Just him. Just her. Just the weight of everything unsaid.
She lifted her chin and walked away.
But not out of sight.
She wanted him to see what he'd lost.
She wanted him to ache.
Dominic
He hadn't taken a drink all evening.
He needed his mind sharp. His face unreadable.
But the second Arielle stepped into the ballroom, he nearly forgot how to breathe.
She was fury and elegance stitched into silk. She was fire he couldn't put out, no matter how cold he pretended to be.
And the worst part?
He saw right through her act.
She was hurting.
And he had caused it.
"Sir?" his assistant said beside him. "The board members are waiting for you."
He didn't answer.
He was watching her disappear into the sea of guests, flanked by photographers and false friends.
Then the emcee's voice echoed over the ballroom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the co-hosts of tonight's gala: Mr. Dominic Raine and Miss Arielle Sinclair."
The crowd applauded.
She froze mid-step.
He stepped onto the stage first, straightening his jacket, ignoring the twist in his chest.
Then she followed.
Their eyes met again as they stood side by side.
Their hands brushed.
She didn't flinch .
But her voice, when she leaned in for the microphone, dripped with acid:
"Smile for the crowd, Dominic. Wouldn't want them to know their king's a liar."
He turned his head slowly toward her.
"Careful, Arielle," he said under his breath. "You start this war in public, and I'll finish it in private."
The camera flash caught them at that exact moment—her in crimson, him in black.
Together.
Explosive.
On the edge of something they couldn't name.