The following evening, the city glowed like a furnace beneath twilight—molten streaks of neon sliding across rain-slick streets. Adair Rivera's cab hissed to a stop outside The Aurelius, an impossibly exclusive rooftop restaurant perched above midtown. The maître d' greeted her by name—Dominic had made sure of it—and guided her into a private elevator lined in onyx and gold.
As the doors parted, she stepped into a temple of glass and candlelight. Low jazz curled through the air. The retractable ceiling was half-open, letting in a warm breeze that still smelled faintly of rain. And there he was.
Dominic Wolfe waited at a corner table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the top button of his charcoal shirt undone. He stood when he saw her, and in that instant, the room fell away—just the hush of their breathing and the steady rhythm of her heart.
"Neutral ground," he reminded her, pulling out her chair. "No power plays."
"Then put your phone away, Mr. Wolfe," she said, nodding at the device already lighting up with alerts.
A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. The phone vanished into his pocket.
They ordered seared scallops and a bottle of something French she couldn't pronounce. At first, the conversation stayed polite: how the storm had broken the heatwave, how the skyline looked like circuitry from up here. But then his eyes, sharp and curious, shifted to her with real interest.
"Why journalism?" he asked. "You could've written novels. Or speeches for someone important."
Adair traced the rim of her wineglass. "Because journalism pays just enough to live while forcing me to chase the truth. It keeps the world real." She hesitated. "I grew up watching a man lie for a living."
"Your father?"
She nodded. "Political fixer. He taught me how words shape reality—and how dangerous that power can be."
Dominic's jaw tightened. "I know something about dangerous fathers."
The candle between them flared slightly as a breeze stirred it. He didn't elaborate, and she didn't push. Instead, she asked about Wolfe Enterprises' newest initiative. He explained the funding model with practiced ease, but when she questioned the rumored tax loophole buried in the paperwork, he didn't bristle—he grinned.
"Careful," he said. "You're chasing a story you may not be able to publish."
"Try me."
The spark leapt between them. The waiter arrived just in time to clear the plates and interrupt the growing heat.
They moved on to the main course. Outside, the sky cracked open—lightning streaking across the clouds like angry veins. Dominic leaned forward, lowering his voice.
"You still think I'll burn you."
She met his gaze. "Maybe. But it's not the fire I'm afraid of. It's the consequences."
"Then we take precautions." He smiled slightly. "Fireproof gear."
She laughed despite herself. It surprised her how easy the laughter came now, how natural this moment felt, even in a world that had never stopped trying to pull them in opposite directions.
The waiter brought dessert—a chocolate soufflé that collapsed under its own richness. They shared it, spoons brushing, eyes lingering. Dominic's phone buzzed once, then again, more urgently. He ignored it. The third buzz came with a vibration so loud it nearly rattled the wineglass.
"Go on," she said. "Answer it. I'll allow one power play."
He stood and walked to the terrace, answering the call with curt, low words. Adair watched him through the glass, the wind tugging at his shirt, revealing the tension in his frame. His free hand gripped the balcony railing tight enough to pale the knuckles.
When he returned, his face was all steel.
"Problem?" she asked.
"An attempted data breach," he said. "Someone got close—too close."
"Competitor?"
"Former partner," he said after a beat. "Elijah."
Her brow lifted. "Your brother?"
"Half-brother. He thinks he deserves half the kingdom. Tonight he decided to steal it."
"What are you going to do?"
"What wolves do," he said. "Protect the pack. And the territory." He paused. "But not tonight."
He signaled for the check.
"I promised you peace, and I'll keep that promise. I won't drag you into my war."
She touched his hand briefly, just a brush of her fingers over his. "You can't fight every battle alone."
His eyes didn't leave hers. "Stay out of this one, Adair. Please."
The softness of that word—the please—undid something in her.
She nodded.
They rode down together in silence. The tension between them had shifted—not brittle, like before, but dense with meaning. At the lobby, he offered her his umbrella.
"Car's waiting. Let me take you home."
"Dinner was the deal," she said. But this time she didn't really want to leave.
So she let him.
Outside, the storm had returned, soft but steady. His driver opened the door. She slid in first; he followed, close enough for his thigh to brush against hers. Neither of them moved.
The city rolled past, lights melting into the fogged glass. At some point, his hand found hers. Tentative. Questioning.
She laced her fingers through his.
At her apartment building, he got out and walked her to the entrance. The umbrella trembled slightly in his grip.
"This isn't goodbye," he said.
"It rarely is with you."
A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Tomorrow I handle Elijah. And soon after that, you'll write something that makes me furious."
"We'll survive both."
She kissed him then, just once. A soft, deliberate kiss that lingered.
When she pulled back, his eyes were blazing.
"Be careful, Dominic," she whispered.
"With you," he murmured, "always."
She turned and disappeared through the glass doors.
Back in the car, Dominic's phone buzzed again. This time he answered.
"Lock the perimeter. And find Elijah… before he finds her."
Lightning tore the sky apart, illuminating his face—sharp angles, grim eyes, and something rare for Dominic Wolfe: fear.
Outside, the rain poured on. But above the storm, a new fire was gathering—one that neither of them could outrun.