By Friday evening, Aria was running on adrenaline and caffeine. Cross Enterprises devoured its employees like a hungry beast, and she was already learning that working for Damien meant living on the edge of exhaustion.
She should have been annoyed. Furious, even. Yet she couldn't stop the thrill that came with it — the rush of keeping up with him, of earning his approval in fleeting glances and clipped words.
She was packing her bag when her phone buzzed. A message.
Dinner. Eight o'clock. The Whitmore. Don't be late. — D
Aria blinked. For a second, she thought she was hallucinating. The Whitmore was one of the most exclusive restaurants in Manhattan — impossible to book without months of notice.
Her fingers hovered over her phone, ready to type a response. This isn't appropriate. I can't. Thank you, but no.
Instead, she typed: Yes.
The Whitmore's lobby glittered with chandeliers and marble, the air thick with the scent of champagne and wealth. Aria smoothed her navy dress — simple but elegant, the best she could afford — and tried not to feel out of place.
Damien was waiting at the bar, and the sight of him stole her breath. Black suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. Effortless, commanding, devastating. Heads turned as he stood to greet her, but his eyes only found hers.
"You're on time," he said, offering his hand.
"Of course," she replied, slipping her fingers into his. The contact sent a shiver up her arm.
He led her to a private corner table, where a bottle of wine was already waiting. When the sommelier poured, Damien waved away the menu. "The chef knows what I like. I trust you don't mind."
Aria arched a brow. "Do you always make the decisions for everyone?"
His lips curved faintly. "Only when I know they'll be right."
Her pulse quickened, but she leaned back, unwilling to let him unsettle her so easily. "And if they're not?"
"Then I'll fix it." His gaze lingered on her, steady, unflinching. "I always fix it."
The intensity of it made her throat dry. She reached for her glass, grateful for the distraction of cool wine.
Dinner arrived — plates of seared scallops, filet mignon, roasted vegetables, each dish a work of art. Aria tried to focus on the food, but every word Damien spoke drew her deeper into his orbit.
He wasn't just a CEO. He was a strategist, a visionary. He spoke of markets, acquisitions, risks that would make ordinary men sweat, but with the ease of someone who bent the world to his will.
And yet, when he asked her questions, he listened. Not the polite half-attention of a man waiting for his turn to speak, but with a sharpness that made her feel like every word mattered.
"You studied business administration," he said, cutting into his steak. "Why not finance? Or law?"
"Because I like people more than numbers," she answered. "And I thought… maybe I could build something that mattered. Something that helped."
His brows lifted. "You think people matter more than power."
"I think people are power," she corrected softly.
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Damien's mouth curved — not the polished smirk she'd seen at the office, but something warmer, more human. "You're dangerous, Miss Bennett."
The words made her stomach tighten. "Dangerous? I'm just answering a question."
"You're answering honestly," he said. "And honesty is a weapon in this city."
Her chest felt tight, and she forced herself to take another sip of wine. She should have been terrified, but instead she was impressed.