It started with the rain.
It always did, somehow.
By the time I stepped out of the Ashford & Co. building, the city had turned to wet asphalt and blurred reflections. The kind of cinematic storm that made New York feel romantic to everyone but the women wearing heels.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.
RIDE CANCELLED. SURGE PRICING ACTIVE. $56.38.
I stared at it. Blinked. Laughed bitterly.
Of course.
Because why wouldn't the day that started with a decaf disaster and a verbal slap from my boss end with me drenched, broke, and walking the twenty blocks home?
I shoved the phone in my bag and started walking. The kind of fast, angry walk where you don't care if your mascara's running or if your bag's swinging hard enough to bruise your hip. I was cold. Wet. Worn down.
I didn't hear him at first.
"Amelia."
My name. His voice.
It slid over me like velvet and ice.
I turned, already annoyed.
Dante Ashford. Of course.
He stood next to a sleek black car that probably cost more than my college tuition, the driver-side door open, one hand braced on the roof. Rain flecked his charcoal coat, darkened the tips of his hair. He looked less like a CEO and more like a shadow from a dream I didn't want to admit to having.
"You're walking?"
"Brilliant observation," I said, voice sharp. "What gave it away? The wet hair? The murder in my eyes?"
He stared at me for a beat longer than necessary.
"Get in."
I laughed. "You're serious?"
"You're soaking, it's late, and I don't feel like reading about your body being found in a gutter."
"Aw, you do care."
"I care about not having to find a new assistant."
Ouch.
"You're charming as ever," I muttered.
He didn't flinch. "Get in the car, Amelia."
And maybe it was the way he said my name—low, controlled, threaded with something I couldn't place—but I got in.
I told myself it was just the rain. The cold. The exhaustion.
Not him.
---
The inside of his car smelled like leather and citrus. Clean, sharp, expensive. Everything he was.
He slid into the driver's seat beside her and pulled into traffic like he'd been born behind the wheel.
"Seatbelt," he said without looking.
Amelia clicked it in. "Don't worry, I'm not dying in your car. That would be tragic."
"That would be unprofessional."
"Wow. Even my hypothetical death is about the company for you."
He didn't speak. Neither did I.
The silence between us wasn't comfortable. It never was. It was full of everything we didn't say. Every retort I bit back. Every glance that lingered too long. Every time he looked at me like he was trying to figure out what I was underneath the sarcasm and schedule.
He drove like he did everything else—controlled, smooth, efficient. Like the rules didn't apply to him.
And maybe they didn't.
"You were good in the meeting," he said finally, voice even.
I turned to him slowly. "I'm sorry, did you just compliment me? I didn't know you were capable."
"You were good," he repeated, eyes never leaving the road. "Don't make me regret saying it."
My chest tightened, and I hated that it did. I hated that his words—rare and cold and probably calculated—still meant something to me. Still hit like a warm hand on a frozen shoulder.
"You were the one who told me not to speak," I said, softer this time.
"I wanted to see what you'd do."
"So I was a test."
"No," he said. Then added, "A gamble."
I stared at him. "Did I win?"
He glanced at me then, just once, and something in his eyes made my breath catch.
"I don't bet on things I don't expect to win."
---
He pulled up two blocks from my apartment, even though I hadn't told him where I lived. Of course he knew. He was that kind of man—prepared, obsessive, always five steps ahead.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, fingers on the door handle.
"Amelia."
My name again. He always said it like it meant something.
I looked at him.
He hesitated. For the first time since I'd met him, Dante Ashford looked like he wasn't sure what to say.
Then, just like that, the wall was back up.
"Don't be late tomorrow."