The city glowed beneath Elena's apartment window, a restless sprawl of neon and shadow. She had been staring at it for an hour, willing herself to focus on the bigger picture—the plan, the carefully laid traps, the promises she made to herself the night her father's body was lowered into the ground. Yet every time she blinked, she didn't see the skyline.
She saw Adrian.
The memory was sharp, intrusive, like a blade slipping between her ribs. The way his eyes had lingered on her the night before, dark as storm clouds, calculating yet… uncertain. Adrian Blackwood wasn't supposed to hesitate. He wasn't supposed to lean closer as if he was about to kiss her, only to pull back like a man fighting himself. He was meant to be the monster she'd dedicated years to destroying.
So why did she keep replaying the near-kiss as though it was some secret she wasn't ready to let go of?
"Elena," she whispered to herself, gripping the glass of wine too tightly. "He is the enemy. Don't you dare forget that."
But the truth was cruel: she had already forgotten—if only for a heartbeat.
The following evening, she arrived at the Blackwood Tower under the pretense of reviewing a philanthropic project Adrian's company was sponsoring. She had no intention of actually discussing charity. The real agenda was always the same: observe, learn, infiltrate.
Still, when she stepped into the executive lounge and found him waiting by the window, her pulse betrayed her.
He looked devastating in a tailored navy suit, the top button of his shirt undone as though he hadn't cared to finish the performance of perfection. A glass of scotch dangled from his fingers. He didn't turn when she entered.
"You're late," he said flatly, but there was no real irritation in his tone.
"You're impatient," she countered, dropping her purse on the table.
Finally, he turned. The gaze he pinned her with was enough to unravel her composure. "Maybe. Or maybe I don't like waiting for things I want."
The words hit her like a current. Dangerous. Suggestive. She forced a laugh, striding past him toward the bar. "You sound like a man used to getting everything handed to him."
"Not everything." His voice lowered, threading through the air between them. "Some things… resist."
Her hand trembled slightly as she poured herself water instead of wine. She needed clarity, not blurred edges. But his presence filled the room until it was difficult to breathe.
For an hour, they circled each other—his questions sharp, hers evasive. He asked about her past; she offered fragments that sounded real but revealed nothing. She teased him about his empire; he let her glimpse cracks in his armor, moments of startling honesty about the loneliness that came with being feared.
And then the silence stretched too long.
Elena felt it before she understood it—the way his body angled closer, the way his eyes dropped to her mouth as though drawn against his will. She should have stepped back, should have reminded herself why she was here. But her feet didn't move.
"Adrian…" she whispered, her voice breaking.
He closed the distance slowly, deliberately, like a predator savoring the moment. When his hand brushed her jaw, a shiver shot down her spine.
She hated herself for leaning in.
But she did.
Their lips met—not softly, not gently, but with the pent-up force of something forbidden. His mouth was warm, demanding, and for one reckless moment she let herself drown. Her hands gripped the lapels of his suit, pulling him closer as though she could erase years of rage with a single kiss.
It was fire and ruin. It was everything she had sworn she wouldn't feel.
And then she tore herself away, breathless, furious with herself.
"This is a mistake," she gasped, pressing her fingers to her lips as though she could wipe the moment away.
Adrian didn't look shaken. He looked… triumphant. As if he'd just proven something to himself.
"Why does it feel inevitable, then?" he asked softly.
That night, Elena paced her apartment until dawn, unable to settle the war inside her. She had kissed the man responsible for her family's destruction. She had let him touch her, had wanted it, had craved it in a way that made her skin burn with shame.
She reminded herself of the files she'd stolen, the shell companies tied to his name, the whispers of offshore accounts. She reminded herself of the hollow look in her mother's eyes after the bankruptcy hearings.
Adrian Blackwood deserved to fall.
So why did she remember the way he had touched her as if she wasn't an enemy, but something fragile he didn't want to break?
Days later, she met him again, this time in the chaos of his world unraveling. Adrian had been hit hard—sabotage in his financial empire, investments collapsing like dominos. The media smelled blood.
And yet when he saw her enter his office, his expression didn't harden. It softened.
"Elena." His voice carried exhaustion, but also something else. Relief.
"You look like hell," she said, forcing her mask back on.
He smirked faintly. "You should see the other guy."
The banter was flimsy, a shadow of their usual sharpness. He dropped into his chair, running a hand over his face. For a long moment, she considered her options: feed the fire of his ruin, or… help him.
Her heart and her plan screamed different answers.
"Elena," he said suddenly, his eyes locking onto hers. "Stay."
The single word cracked something inside her. He didn't ask. He didn't order. He needed.
And she was powerless against that need.
She crossed the room and sat opposite him, hiding the tremor in her hands. For the first time since her plan began, Elena realized she wasn't just fighting Adrian Blackwood's empire.
She was fighting herself.
The city outside roared on, but inside his office, the world narrowed to two people caught between revenge and something far more dangerous.
When Adrian reached across the desk and took her hand, she didn't pull away.
That was the moment Elena knew her war had just gotten infinitely more complicated.