The applause faded into the soft hum of jazz as Dominic and Arielle stepped off the stage. The moment they were out of the spotlight, she yanked her arm away from his—cold, precise, deliberate.
"Don't touch me," she hissed.
"You're here, aren't you?" he murmured back, voice low and lethal. "You didn't have to show up, but you did."
She turned on her heel. "Don't flatter yourself, Raine. I came for the headlines. And the wine."
The crowd swelled around them, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the glittering surface. Arielle walked straight to the open bar and ordered something sharp, ignoring the whispers of partygoers who couldn't stop staring.
Dominic stayed across the room, but he watched her.
Of course he watched her.
Even now, she moved like a dare. Like a challenge he was still stupid enough to want to accept.
Then the orchestra shifted.
A familiar melody floated over the ballroom.
The host's voice rang out again:
"Ladies and gentlemen, please join us for the traditional hosts' waltz."
Arielle's glass froze halfway to her lips.
She turned to find Dominic already walking toward her, a smirk dancing in the corner of his mouth.
"You've got to be kidding me," she muttered.
His hand extended. "Let's not disappoint the press."
She should have refused.
She wanted to refuse.
But her pride had its own agenda—and it would never be the first to flinch.
She took his hand.
The moment their palms met, something electric sparked. She hated how steady his grip was. How confidently he pulled her into place. How well they moved—like this was second nature, like their bodies were writing a story in three-quarter time.
His hand pressed lightly against her lower back, guiding her across the floor.
"Still pretending you don't care?" he asked softly.
"I don't have to pretend."
"But your pulse says otherwise."
She narrowed her eyes. "And yours?"
"I don't get distracted," he replied, spinning her under his arm, "by things I've already broken."
The words should've gutted her.
Instead, they fueled her.
She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"Maybe that's the problem, Dominic," she whispered. "You're so good at control… but so bad at knowing when you've already lost it."
For a second, he faltered.
Just a breath.
Just a crack.
But she saw it.
And it was enough.
The song slowed. The final notes trembled.
They ended in perfect form—close enough to kiss, far enough to burn.
The crowd clapped.
Cameras flashed.
Neither of them smiled.
The applause faded, and the next couple stepped onto the dance floor. But Arielle didn't stay to watch. She slipped through the gold-trimmed doors to the back hallway, her heels clicking furiously, each step echoing the pulse in her throat.
She needed air.
No—she needed distance.
The hallway was dim and quiet. Velvet ropes and private signs kept curious guests out. She leaned against the wall, chest rising and falling. Her fingers clenched the clutch in her hand.
Then she heard it—footsteps behind her.
She didn't need to turn around to know it was him.
Llll
Dominic.
Of course.
"You always follow women into dark corridors?" she said, voice cool, pretending she wasn't unraveling inside.
"Only when they look like they're running from something," he answered.
She turned to face him. "And what exactly do you think I'm running from?"
He took a step closer. "Me."
Her laugh was sharp. "Please. I run toward the fire. I just don't like being burned by it."
He didn't smile. His eyes scanned her face, searching for the girl he once knew—the storm he never meant to love. "Then stop playing with matches."
"I'm not the one who lit the fuse," she snapped.
He exhaled slowly. "You were never supposed to find out like that."
"But I did," she shot back. "You lied to me. You used me. And then you stood there in that office like I was some child having a tantrum."
Dominic didn't move. "You think I didn't feel anything?"
She laughed bitterly. "Oh, that's right. Dominic Raine doesn't feel. He just controls. Commands. And walks away before the damage starts to show."
He stepped in again, and this time, she let him get close.
Too close.
"I didn't walk away," he said quietly. "I stayed. I watched you fall apart. And I hated myself for every second of it."
Arielle's throat tightened. Her lip quivered for a moment before she bit it back.
"You think that makes it better?" she whispered.
"No," he admitted. "But I think you deserve to know that the man who broke you… didn't walk away untouched."
She blinked, once.
And then, just like that, her wall cracked.
"Then why, Dominic?" Her voice trembled now, barely audible. "Why didn't you stop yourself?"
He looked at her like the truth was acid.
"Because I didn't know how to want you without destroying you."
Silence fell.
Thick. Heavy.
Dangerous.
Their breaths mingled in the narrow space. Her back was against the wall now. His hand brushed against it—just beside her waist, not touching, but close enough to feel.
"You don't get to say that," she whispered. "Not after everything."
"I know," he murmured. "But I'm saying it anyway."
Their eyes locked.
Her breath hitched.
And for a single heartbeat, the anger between them softened—melted into something scarier.
Longing.
She almost leaned in.
Almost.l
But Arielle Sinclair didn't beg.
She didn't chase.
And she wouldn't let herself fall twice.
So instead, she turned her face away. "This conversation never happened."
Dominic nodded once. The pain in his eyes was quiet. Stoic. Real.
And then, without another word, he walked away.
But neither of them would forget that moment.
Because some fires don't go out.
They just smolder in silence, waiting for oxygen.
Dominic Raine didn't flinch in public.
Not when markets crashed. Not when competitors folded.
Not even when the girl he couldn't forget looked at him like he was the villain in a story he never meant to write.
But now, back in his private suite at the top floor of the gala hotel, his hands shook slightly as he poured a drink. Whiskey. Neat. No ice. No excuses.
He stared out the window.
The city glittered beneath him, golden and untouchable—much like the woman he'd just walked away from.
Arielle Sinclair.
The name alone stirred something sharp and hungry in him. She wasn't supposed to be here tonight. Wasn't supposed to look at him like that—furious, broken, beautiful.
And God help him, he wasn't supposed to care.
He took a long sip, trying to drown the memory of her voice.
"Why didn't you stop yourself?"
Because he never could. Not with her. Not even when it was the only logical choice.
He could conquer markets. Outmaneuver billion-dollar mergers. Crush opposition with a single, silent look. But he had no defense against her.
She was chaos wrapped in beauty. Rebellion in heels. A war he kept losing on purpose.
And she didn't even know how deep she'd gotten into him.
He sat on the edge of the velvet chaise, loosening his collar, the whiskey glass still in his hand. His thoughts spiraled.
She's not the same girl anymore.
No. Now she was more dangerous. She wasn't just angry—she was awakened. Strategic. Already figuring out how to fight back.
And that… thrilled him.
He remembered the way she stood on that dance floor—back straight, chin lifted, fury in her eyes. The defiance. The fire.
That wasn't a woman who would shatter quietly.
That was a woman who would rise—and burn the entire boardroom to the ground.
Dominic leaned back and closed his eyes.
He had made a mistake letting her into his life.
A beautiful, infuriating, irresistible mistake.
But maybe…
Just maybe…
He didn't want to fix it.