SOFIA
The city skyline is alive with dawn as I pull myself from bed. The light slants harsh through the blinds, painting golden stripes across my floor, illuminating the chaos of yesterday's thoughts. My chest is tight, stomach knotted, the kind of tension that makes the world feel too sharp, too fast. Today, I face him—Adrian Vale—again.
I lie there a moment longer, heart hammering, tracing patterns on the ceiling, willing the courage to appear composed. But the truth is, I can't. I can't even convince myself that walking into his office won't set my pulse racing.
I pull myself up, dress in my only professional outfit that can hold up in his presence: tailored black blazer, crisp white blouse, pencil skirt just below the knee. Simple, functional, nothing flashy. No accessories to distract. No jewelry to catch his attention.
I glance at the mirror. My reflection shows a woman trying desperately to appear unaffected, but the flare of nerves betrays me. He will see it. He always sees.
---
Vale Enterprises rises like a glass monolith above the city streets, cold and untouchable. Security checks my ID and escorts me to the elevator. Every ascending floor hums beneath my heels, counting down to the encounter I cannot predict and yet cannot avoid.
The doors open, and there he is, waiting like a predator who doesn't need to move to dominate the room. Adrian Vale. Every inch composed, deliberate, exuding control, the faint scent of cedarwood and something sharp lingering around him.
"Ms. Richards," he says, voice low, precise. "On time."
"Yes," I reply, neutral. I refuse to let him see my pulse betray me.
He gestures toward the chair opposite his desk. "Sit."
The office is vast, every surface gleaming, every corner measured. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city sprawling below—a living labyrinth of motion, indifferent to anyone small enough to feel swallowed by it. I sit, aware that even the chair feels like part of the arena.
"Your family business," he begins, his voice cutting through the silence. "It's in trouble. You're aware, I assume?"
"I am," I reply, folding my hands in my lap. "We're trying."
"You?" He tilts his head. "Or your parents?"
"We all are," I say, firm.
He leans back slightly, fingers steepled. His gaze assesses me like a chessboard. "You're proud. Clever. Fierce. I like that."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "I don't work for compliments."
"Yet you came here," he counters smoothly.
I bite back a retort. Yes, I came. Because I have no other choice. Because my family is drowning. And… because I'm curious.
---
He presents his offer with precision. Resources, contacts, leverage, stability. In return, rules: one year, boundaries, nothing personal, nothing emotional. He measures every word, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
"Boundaries," he emphasizes, eyes locking on mine. "One year. You act as my partner in public. Nothing more. Nothing emotional. Do you understand?"
I swallow the lump in my throat. "I understand," I whisper. Pride and desperation fight within me. Pride says I shouldn't need his help. Desperation whispers that I don't have a choice.
His lips tilt, almost a smirk. "Good. I'd hate for this arrangement to fail before it begins."
There's a flicker—subtle, almost imperceptible—in his gaze that I can't decipher. Approval? Intrigue? A challenge issued silently, waiting for me to rise to it?
I stand to leave, but he tilts his head. "Remember, Ms. Richards. Appearances matter. Control matters. Every detail counts."
I nod. I will remember.
---
The following evening, he requests my presence at a gala—the first public event as his partner. My heels click on marble floors, my chest tightening with every step. The room sparkles in golds and silvers, chandeliers scattering light across women in gowns and men in tailored suits. Waiters glide through the crowd, trays of champagne hovering, conversations buzzing like bees in a hive.
He stands near the entrance, a dark island in a sea of glitter. The crowd instinctively parts, giving him space as if drawn by his presence alone.
His eyes find mine across the room. Unlike last time, this gaze doesn't glide past. It lingers, sharp and deliberate. Assessment. Calculation. Possession.
"Shall we?" he asks, voice low, intimate. His proximity makes my pulse spike.
"Shall we what?" I manage, tilting my head.
"Appear. Together."
Together. The word tastes strange on my tongue.
---
We move through the crowd side by side, projecting perfection. The cameras flash constantly. I feel the heat of the public eye on me, and yet, Adrian's presence beside me is anchoring. He is a storm I am inexplicably drawn to, even as I fear being swept away.
"Don't smile too much," he murmurs near my ear. "It'll ruin the effect."
I bite back a laugh. "And you?"
"Maintain control," he says, voice smooth. Every glance he casts, every subtle movement, seems designed to test me, to see how I react under scrutiny.
The tension between us hums beneath the surface. I am aware of his gaze on me constantly, cataloging every micro-expression. I hate and thrill at it all at once.
By the time the gala winds down, I feel stretched thin—tired, exhilarated, and undeniably aware of him in a way that terrifies me.
---
Outside, he insists on driving me home. The car is quiet, the city lights blurring past like streaks of gold and white. I glance at him, and he doesn't meet my eyes, though I feel his attention like a weight beside me.
"You handled yourself well," he says finally, voice low. "Better than I expected."
"Better than you expected?" I echo, brow raised.
"Yes. Most people crumble under attention. You… don't."
I stare at my hands. Words feel inadequate. A flicker of pride warms me, and I feel foolish admitting it, even to myself.
He watches me from the corner of his eyes, silent but present. I sense a calculation behind that gaze. Every word, every glance is deliberate. And I feel… seen, truly seen, in a way that makes my chest ache.
---
Over the next few days, subtle shifts become noticeable. Adrian appears unexpectedly in my office building, attends events I didn't expect him to, leaves cryptic messages with his assistant. I feel his orbit tightening, a pull I cannot resist.
And though I resist the allure, my mind wanders to him more often than I care to admit. He is a storm I cannot ignore, a man I should fear, and yet… I am drawn to him, compelled by the smallest glimpses of the person beneath the armor.
I am painfully aware that one year of this arrangement—one year of rules, contracts, and careful appearances—might change everything.
And somewhere deep down, I fear that I am already too far gone.
Adrian Vale does not scare me entirely. Not the way he should.
He intrigues me.
And that… terrifies me more than any looming financial collapse.