Amara's pov
The smell of blood was always the first thing she remembered.
Thick, metallic, suffocating. It coated her tongue, filled her lungs, seeped into the cracks of her skin like it wanted to stay there forever.
Her body had been crumpled against cold asphalt, legs twisted at an odd angle, warm liquid pooling beneath her ribs where the bullet had torn through. Sirens had wailed somewhere in the distance, fading in and out, but all she could hear truly hear was the sound of his footsteps.
Adrian's.
Sharp. Unhurried. Each one hammering into her chest harder than the gunshot wound.
"Adrian" Her voice had cracked, raw, desperate. Pain blurred the edges of her vision, but she'd clawed at the ground, dragging herself toward him. "Don't don't leave me."
He stopped. For one breathless, endless second, their eyes locked. His dark, stormy, unreadable. Hers pleading, wide, clinging to hope like it was oxygen.
And then he turned.
No explanation. No hesitation. Just the clean, cold betrayal of a man walking away while she lay bleeding in the wreckage of a feud that had never been hers.
Her scream followed him into the night.
It wasn't the bullet that killed her that day. It was him.
Amara jolted awake, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving as though she were still gasping for air on that blood soaked street. For a moment, the walls of her apartment seemed to close in, shadows stretching like specters of the past.
Her hand shot out, fumbling for the lamp on the nightstand. Warm light spilled across the room, chasing away the nightmare but not the memory. That never left.
On her desk, across from the bed, the contract waited. Neat, pristine, smug in its stack of cream-colored pages. Adrian's inked signature bled across the bottom in that sharp, arrogant scrawl she hated and still knew by heart.
Her pulse throbbed.
She'd sworn she'd never see him again. Sworn she'd carve her life so far away from his orbit that even his shadow couldn't touch her. But one call from him, one request wrapped in a demand, and here she was wide awake at two in the morning, staring at the devil's offer.
Amara swung her legs over the side of the bed, grounding herself in the feel of hardwood under her bare feet. She pulled the contract toward her, flipping through the pages she'd already memorized.
three weeks
She'd be tied to him for three weeks, bound by non disclosure agreements and performance clauses so airtight even breathing wrong might count as breach.
But then compensation. Control. Autonomy. A seat at the table she'd clawed at for years but had always been denied because she was a woman, because she was young, because she didn't have a name sharp enough to cut through old money and old power.
He was offering her that.
Or dangling it like bait before the wolf he knew was starving.
Her pen hovered over the signature line.
She thought of her parents. Of the empire she should've inherited, burned to ash by the very betrayals Adrian had once claimed he could protect her from. She thought of the way his eyes had looked that night empty, distant as he'd turned his back.
And then she thought of revenge.
The pen sliced across the page with a practiced hand.
Amara signed in bloodless ink, but it felt like crimson all the same.
The next morning, the city was cruelly bright, the kind of light that mocked sleepless nights and broken promises.
Amara walked through the glass doors of Blackwell Industries, her heels clicking like gunshots against the polished marble floor. Heads turned. Whispers trailed in her wake.
She'd dressed for war.
Black tailored pants that hugged her hips like a lover, a silk blouse in deep emerald that flattered her skin, and a fitted blazer sharp enough to cut anyone who got too close. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek twist, her makeup precise, lethal. A ruby line painted her mouth the color of danger.
If Adrian thought she would walk into his world small, apologetic, or hesitant, he was about to choke on disappointment.
The receptionist stuttered when Amara gave her name, fumbling with the guest pass. By the time she reached the private elevator, half the floor had already heard. The ghost had returned. The woman no one thought would ever stand beside Adrian Blackwell again.
The doors slid open on the top floor.
And there he was.
Adrian leaned casually against his desk, a study in impossible composure. Charcoal suit, white shirt, dark tie loosened just enough to whisper of sin. His jacket was unbuttoned, his body language deceptively relaxed, but his presence filled the room like smoke thick, consuming, impossible to escape.
Their eyes met.
The air crackled, charged, thick with years of unsaid words and unforgiven sins.
"Ms. Veyron." His voice was smooth, deep, untouched by surprise. Like she hadn't just clawed her way back into his world. Like he'd known she would come. "You're right on time."
"Don't flatter yourself," Amara said coolly, stepping into the office. "I'm here for the contract. Not you."
One corner of his mouth curved. Not a smile. A provocation. "If that were true, you wouldn't look at me like that."
Her blood heated. "Like what?"
"Like you want to kill me. Or kiss me." His gaze flicked, deliberate, to her mouth. "Maybe both."
She froze. For a fraction of a second, the world tilted, that old, treacherous spark flickering back to life. But then she remembered asphalt. Blood. His back as he walked away.
"Don't confuse hatred with desire," she snapped. "You don't have enough charm left to blur that line."
Adrian pushed off the desk, closing the distance between them with measured steps. He stopped just close enough that the edge of his cologne brushed against her senses—dark, woodsy, intoxicating.
"Careful, Amara." His voice dropped, intimate, dangerous. "You're under contract now. That makes you mine."
Her jaw clenched. "I don't belong to anyone."
"Then prove it." He extended a file, his eyes never leaving hers. "Crack the code my former partner left behind. Do it fast enough, and maybe I'll start believing you."
She snatched the file from him, refusing to flinch under the weight of his gaze.
But
as she opened it, her stomach twisted. The encryption was brutal. Clever. Designed to mock whoever tried to break it.
And only Adrian knew she could.