Zara stood by her office window, arms folded across her chest, her gaze on the city below—but her mind was still in the boardroom.
Of all the possible clients to walk through her company's doors, it had to be him.
Dylan Reid.
His name sat in her mouth like something sour and expensive. She'd tasted it before. She didn't want to again.
What pierced her wasn't the surprise on his face—though that had been satisfying—but the way he'd looked at her. Like a man who'd seen a ghost wearing silk and power. Not guilt. Not even hate.
Just disbelief.
He hadn't known.
He had walked into her company without knowing it was hers. Typical Dylan—so self-absorbed he hadn't bothered to research who signed the cheques. She'd wanted to laugh. But instead, she'd kept her face unreadable, the way she always did now.
Her phone buzzed on the desk. A news ping: DYLAN REID AND MODEL-FIANCÉE CELESTE ROUX TO LAUNCH JOINT TECH BRAND.
Zara let the screen go dark.
So he'd moved on. Of course he had.
And yet—her mind tugged on a single thread she hadn't expected to care about.
He has a fiancée now.
Her throat tightened slightly, not with jealousy, but with memory.
Even in the worst moments—those bitter nights, the silent dinners, the storming doors and sharp insults—he had never once strayed. Not once.
It was the only thing she could say with certainty about him: He wasn't a cheater.
He'd hated her, yes. He'd thrown venom with his words. But he had never betrayed her body, only her spirit.
And somehow, that stung more.
Because if he'd cheated, she could have hated him cleanly.
Instead, she hated him with questions.
---
Outside her office, her assistant hovered, debating whether or not to knock.
Inside, Zara smoothed her blazer, eyes hardening like glass.
Whatever he was here for—this project, this pitch—it wouldn't be business as usual. She would see what game he was playing. She would learn every angle. And if he thought he could walk into her life again and leave untouched...
He'd forgotten who she was.
She wasn't the woman crying in bed anymore.
She was the one sitting at the top of the tower.
And she was just getting started.
--
The elevator doors slid shut with a mechanical sigh, but Dylan's thoughts were still trapped inside that conference room.
Zara.
Zara Hartley.
He ran a hand through his hair, the polished calm he wore earlier now cracking. Of all the companies RISE Global could've landed a deal with—of all the possible clients in the city—it had to be hers?
And she hadn't flinched.
She'd looked at him like he was a line item on her budget report. Like he didn't even graze her memory. It should've relieved him.
Instead, it burned.
He stepped out of the elevator and into the parking lot, barely acknowledging his assistant's chatter beside him. The air was sharp with the kind of cold that made you feel like you deserved it.
As he slipped into the driver's seat, his phone buzzed on cue.
Celeste 💍
Babe! How'd the Hartley pitch go? Do I pop the champagne or wait for round two? 😘
He stared at the message for a long moment before typing a careful reply.
Still in progress. Complicated stakeholders. Will fill you in later.
He tossed the phone aside and gripped the steering wheel.
Celeste.
Perfect teeth. Perfect smile. The kind of woman who looked like a Vogue cover and spoke like a PR statement. She was everything his world admired.
But not once, in three years with her, had he ever felt the friction that made a heartbeat stumble.
Zara had never smiled for the camera. She never softened her edges to fit his comfort. She had challenged him, exhausted him, overwhelmed him—but even now, the memory of her was alive in a way Celeste never quite was.
He shook the thought off like a mosquito bite.
He hadn't come back for drama.
He'd come for survival.
RISE Global was hemorrhaging.
The merger looked good in the press, but behind the scenes, the tech wasn't ready. Their last three investors had pulled out. He needed Hartley Studios to sign this deal—not just for the tech rollout, but for the optics. Zara's brand was solid gold.
He hadn't even known she was the CEO. No one in the press connected her to the rise of Hartley Studios.
He thought she'd vanished after she walked out on him—disappeared like smoke. And now, here she was, not a shadow but a fortress.
And she had all the power.
Dylan exhaled slowly, tapping the steering wheel.
He hadn't cheated on Zara.
He hadn't wanted her. But he hadn't lied with his body.
And yet… there was something about seeing her again, seeing what she'd become without him, that stirred an old, unwelcome feeling:
He hadn't broken her.
And maybe—just maybe—that's what bothered him most.
---
The restaurant was gold-lit, filled with quiet jazz and the kind of people who knew the difference between caviar brands. Dylan sat across from Celeste, his untouched wine glass sweating slightly under the soft light.
She looked flawless, as always. Her white dress was tailored to perfection, her diamond engagement ring catching every glint of light. But her beauty had a sharpness tonight—like a portrait with no warmth.
"So," she said, slicing into her grilled salmon, "tell me what's going on."
He didn't look up. "I told you—it's just a slow client."
"You've had that 'slow client' face since this morning. And you lied about who the client was."
Dylan blinked. "What?"
"I checked the schedule. Your meeting today was at Hartley Studios, wasn't it?"
He clenched his jaw. "Yes."
Celeste leaned forward, voice low and sweet—but cold. "You should've told me it was your ex-wife's company."
He looked up, finally. "It wasn't relevant."
"Oh, come on." She gave a tight smile. "It's not every day you walk into a pitch and find the woman who disappeared from your life without a word now owns the building you're trying to impress."
Dylan said nothing. He reached for the wine but didn't drink.
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "You still have feelings for her?"
His gaze lifted, slow and steady. "No."
"Then why do you look like she ripped the air out of your lungs?"
The silence stretched like piano wire.
He hated this. Not the question—but the fact that he didn't have an answer.
---
---
CHAPTER THREE: Walk In Power
The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Hartley Studios, casting golden veins across the marble floors. Zara Hartley stood on the rooftop terrace, a vision in black—her structured coat cinched at the waist, gold-accented heels standing defiant against the wind.
A drone camera hovered silently beside her, capturing wide shots for the upcoming campaign. Her creative team bustled behind the glass, adjusting lighting rigs, mumbling about brand angles and skyline symmetry.
Zara didn't flinch. The camera loved her. Not because she posed—but because she didn't need to.
She simply stood.
Eyes ahead. Spine straight. Arms loose. Like royalty who didn't need a crown to be recognized.
"You're killing the frame, Zara," her creative director whispered through the mic. "Hold still, just like that… yes."
A breeze caught her hair—soft waves lifted, danced, then fell perfectly back into place.
She turned her head slightly, just enough for a profile shot.
"She looks like a woman who owns the city," someone whispered from the crew.
She did.
Zara stepped down from the ledge platform, heels clicking against concrete. The shoot ended with nods of satisfaction and a few stunned claps from the interns.
"Use Frame 12 for the print feature," she instructed. "Send the rest to marketing. Today."
"Yes, Miss Hartley."
She strode through the hallway like it belonged to her—because it did. Staff cleared space for her naturally, no one dared interrupt. Her presence didn't need announcement. It arrived, shifted the air, and passed with velvet authority.
As she walked past the showroom, a courier holding a bouquet tried to intercept her. "Uh, delivery for—"
Zara raised one hand.
"No flowers in the main building," she said without breaking stride. "Send it to the PR wing."
The man nodded quickly, stumbling back as if she'd slapped him with a silk glove.
Inside her office, she shed the coat, revealing a sculpted white blouse tucked into high-waisted navy pants—modern, clean, lethal. Her hair was perfect. Her lips were painted the color of daring.
She took her seat and opened the laptop. Two investor pitches. One talent review. A board meeting at two.
And the name Dylan Reid blinking in her calendar like a dare.
He had no idea what kind of war he'd walked into.
Her assistant entered a moment later. "Mr. Reid is in the lobby. He came alone. Should I send him away?"
Zara clicked her pen once, then looked up.
"No. Let him wait ten minutes."
"But—"
She smiled without warmth.
"Let him wonder what I'm doing that's more important than him."
Then she returned to her screen, not sparing another thought.
After all, if Dylan was coming back into her world, he would come on her terms.
And this time, he wouldn't just regret losing her.
He'd regret ever thinking she was forgettable.
---
Dylan had never been kept waiting before.
Not like this.
Not in a lobby.
Not without a glass of water or some PR-smiling assistant offering excuses on behalf of the "very busy executive." No one even looked him in the eye. Hartley Studios operated like a luxury train—precise, cold, and elegantly fast. And right now, Dylan felt like someone who'd shown up without a ticket.
The receptionist offered a polite smile as she answered phones and typed at lightning speed. She hadn't looked up once since telling him, "Miss Hartley will be with you shortly."
That was ten minutes ago.
Ten.
Agonizing. Emasculating. Strategic.
Because this wasn't about time.
It was about power.
He sat perfectly still in one of the sleek leather chairs, legs crossed, phone in hand. But he wasn't checking emails. He was re-reading Zara's profile.
Zara A. Hartley
CEO, Hartley Studios
Founded: 3 years ago.
Valuation: 350 million.
Slogan: Create the brand. Own the story.
He scoffed under his breath. Own the story. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Even now, she was rewriting their dynamic—casting herself as the director while he played the desperate guest star.
And yet…
She earned it.
He still remembered the girl she used to be—sharp-tongued, impulsive, full of chaotic dreams and late-night sketches on scrap paper. He'd thought she was naïve. Loud. Unpolished.
Turns out, she was just becoming.
The elevator dinged.
Heads turned.
He didn't have to look to know it was her.
The sound of her heels—clean, confident, final—rang through the open space. Zara walked in wearing navy slacks, a snow-white blouse, and the kind of expression that didn't invite small talk. Not beautiful in the way that begged for praise—but magnetic in a way that commanded attention.
She didn't greet him.
She didn't even slow down.
She walked past him toward the executive corridor and said, over her shoulder, "You're late."
Dylan blinked. What?
He stood up, following her like a rookie intern chasing his boss.
"I've been here—"
"Waiting," she said, unlocking her office door with a single swipe. "Exactly where I wanted you."
She entered. He hesitated.
Then followed.
The office was sleek and cold. No family photos. No sentimental clutter. Just clean lines, tall windows, and the quiet scent of control.
Dylan entered, noticeably different than the man who walked in days ago. This time, no entourage. No presentation slides. Just him.
"Zara," he said quietly.
Zara sat, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "You came alone."
"I needed to speak to you. Just you."
She leaned back, arms folded, expression unreadable. "You said everything you needed to the first time. Why are you here, Dylan?"
He hesitated.
Then: "Because RISE needs this deal. And I know I don't deserve to ask anything of you. But I'm asking anyway."
Zara's expression didn't change. But her eyes sharpened like glass under pressure.
"Why should I trust anything you say now?"
"You shouldn't," he admitted. "But I'm not the same man I was. And I'm willing to prove it."
That made her pause.
She stood slowly and walked to the window, her back to him.
"I don't make deals with ghosts," she said. "But I do enjoy watching them squirm."
She turned back, walking toward him like a queen approaching a subject.
"Here's the condition," she said. "I'll consider your proposal—on one term."
Dylan straightened. "Name it."
"You'll work with me directly on this project. No assistants. No buffers. Just you. If you want to earn this contract, you'll earn my trust. Step by step."
He blinked. "You want me to report to you?"
Her smile was slow and dangerous.
"I want to watch you. Closely. Let's see if the man who couldn't stand to touch me can stand to work beside me."
A silence pulsed between them.
He swallowed hard. "And if I refuse?"
Zara turned, walking back to her desk.
"Then you'll watch your little empire burn from the outside."