POV: Arianna (as Camila)
I expected arrogance. I expected icy glares and power games.
But Saint Camden?
Saint Camden is a collision.
From the moment our eyes locked in court, something in my chest did this inconvenient little flutter. Stupid. I blamed the courtroom air—too cold, too thick, too dramatic. But it wasn't the air.
It was him.
He moves through a room like he owns the oxygen. His voice? Low, commanding, and crisp, like it could dismiss a person and sentence them all in one breath.
Even Judge Callahan tilted her head like she couldn't decide whether to object or offer him a drink.
He's gorgeous in the most lethal way. Hair slicked back, jawline forensics sharp, tailored to intimidation. Built like a promise he has no intention of keeping.
And worse, he knows it.
I should've looked away.
But I didn't.
Couldn't.
"Focus, Arianna. You're not here to swoon. You're here to burn this place down one file at a time."
Now I sit at my desk on the twenty-third floor, wedged between a malfunctioning copier and two paralegals, Mindy and Carla, who spend more time planning outfits than prepping cases.
"This copier sounds like it's dying," Carla mutters, kicking the side.
"It's just dramatic," Mindy replies, twirling her pen. "Like Saint when he doesn't get espresso."
They laugh. I type. Quietly. Watching.
The scent of burnt toner and vanilla hand cream swirls in the air. Phones ring. Doors thud closed. Voices pitch low in legalese around corners.
While they gossip, I map the building.
Every hallway is a blueprint. Every overheard whisper is a breadcrumb. I watch who disappears behind Saint Camden's door and who comes out pale. I track files. Patterns. Power.
I make fast friends with the tech intern, Noah. Overcaffeinated, baby-faced, and in love with his own keyboard shortcuts.
"You really shouldn't bribe me with cappuccinos," he teases. "I'm dangerously easy."
"Perfect," I say, brushing his arm just enough to fluster him. "I only deal in dangerous."
Through Noah, I get access to the archives. Not all, but enough to see whose names keep showing up on Camden's radar.
I'm careful. Always careful.
Until he throws me into the deep end.
It starts with a file. Thick. Last minute. No prep. He drops it on my desk like he's dropping a dare.
"You've got two hours," he says, voice rough and precise. "Don't embarrass us."
I blink at the file. "No brief?"
Saint's brow lifts. "Camila. I asked for sharp. Not decorative."
The insult lands with surgical accuracy. My cheeks burn, but I smirk instead.
"I'll try to multitask," I say, flipping the folder open. "It's a woman's curse."
He pauses.
Watches me.
His gaze dips to the pen I'm chewing. Lingers on the line of my collarbone. He doesn't look away quickly. He assesses. Measures.
And I feel it. God, I feel it in the sudden silence between us, in the heat that curls low in my stomach.
Then he smirks. The bastard. And walks away.
The next day, he sends me to review a sealed brief.
No context. No instruction.
Later, his assistant buzzes me.
"Mr. Camden wants a word."
In his office, the blinds are tilted like half-lidded eyes. The air smells like cedar and tension. A single beam of sun slants across the floor like an accusation.
He doesn't look up.
"You missed section nine," he says.
"It was redacted."
He leans back in his chair. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up now. Veins visible. Tie loosened. That damn jawline.
His eyes meet mine.
"So you read everything but the part you couldn't read?"
I nod. "Correct."
A long pause. A slow blink.
"I'm still deciding if you're brilliant," he murmurs, "or reckless."
"Why not both?" I answer, tipping my chin.
Something flickers in his expression. Then—
"Get out."
I leave. But I don't walk away.
Not really.
By the end of the week, I know more about Saint Camden than most of his associates.
He writes in fountain pen. He drinks his coffee black and hates it when people knock twice. He can silence a room without speaking. And sometimes, just sometimes, he watches me through the glass wall of his office like I'm an equation he's trying to solve... or break.
I should be scared.
But I'm not.
I'm lit up.
My hands tremble when I file briefs. My pulse skitters every time his voice cuts across the floor. I've faced worse men. But none of them looked at me like they'd like to ruin me and expected me to enjoy it.
It's late now.
The floor is dark. Empty. Even Carla and Mindy gave up hours ago. The copier, mercifully, sleeps.
I glance up.
His light is still on.
A shadow moves behind the blinds. Maybe he's reading. Maybe he's thinking. Maybe he's watching.
I should go home.
I don't.
I whisper, just for myself:
"This place is going to ruin me... or make me famous."
And maybe, just maybe, it'll do both.