Chapter Two
The alarm went off at six, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't groan. I lay there a moment, staring at the ceiling, remembering the way my girls had looked at me last night—like they'd seen straight through me. Stop playing small. Stop waiting to be chosen.
By the time I showered, I'd made a decision: today was not going to be ordinary.
I pulled the blouse from the back of my closet, the one I usually reserved for birthdays or girls' nights. Silk, cream-colored, cut just low enough to show the faintest line of cleavage if I leaned forward. Paired with my black pencil skirt and heels that clicked like punctuation, it was the kind of outfit that made me stand taller. I slicked on red lipstick, then paused at the mirror.
Was this too much? Too obvious?
My reflection stared back, daring me. I whispered, "Maybe it's time," and grabbed my bag.
The office was alive the moment I walked in. Phones ringing, heels striking tile, printers humming. Everyone had that half-frantic energy of chasing deadlines. I slipped through the current, head high, savoring the rare feeling of being the one with a secret.
"Morning, Amira," one of the junior associates called as he passed.
"Morning," I answered smoothly, adjusting the stack of files in my arms.
But my pulse kicked harder when I heard it—his voice. Julian Archer.
He was walking down the hallway, phone in one hand, suit jacket unbuttoned. Tall, commanding, like he owned not just this firm but the very air around it. Conversations paused as people glanced at him, but he didn't notice—or maybe he did and pretended not to. That was Julian: controlled, intentional, untouchable.
Until his eyes flicked to me. Just for a second. Hazel-blue-green, sharp enough to slice straight through me. Then he was back on his call, striding past as if I hadn't just forgotten how to breathe.
My girlfriends would have laughed at me right then. See? You have his attention. Do something with it.
So when his assistant appeared minutes later, struggling with a stack of briefs, I saw my opening.
"Let me take those," I said, sliding half the pile from her arms. "I'll bring them straight in."
She looked relieved. "Thanks, Amira. He's in a mood this morning."
Perfect. A moody Julian meant an unguarded Julian.
I smoothed my blouse, inhaled, and knocked on his glass office door.
"Come in." His voice was clipped, distracted.
I stepped inside, shutting the door gently behind me. His office smelled faintly of leather and cedar, with sunlight pouring across the sharp lines of his desk. Julian sat behind it, jacket off now, sleeves rolled to his forearms. God help me, even his forearms were distracting—tan, strong, veins faintly visible as he flipped through papers.
"I brought the files you requested," I said, setting them carefully on his desk.
"Good," he murmured without looking up. "Leave them there."
I should have. That was the safe move. But I lingered, smoothing the edge of the stack with my fingers, waiting for him to glance up. When he finally did, his gaze landed squarely on me.
For one suspended beat, the world hushed.
"Everything in order?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "Do you want me to review the briefs before the client meeting? Or… would you rather I sit in on it?"
I'd never asked that before. I always stayed in my lane, typed the notes, delivered the coffee. But this morning, boldness tasted better than fear.
One of his brows arched. He studied me, eyes flicking briefly—too briefly—down my blouse before meeting mine again. "You want to sit in?"
"I think it would be good experience." I let the words hang, layered with more meaning than I should've dared.
His lips curved, not quite a smile. "Careful, Amira. Wanting too much can be dangerous in this place."
There it was—that flicker, that spark. My skin prickled as though he'd touched me.
"I can handle dangerous," I said softly.
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in. Then the phone on his desk rang, breaking it apart. He reached for it, still watching me. "We'll discuss later."
Dismissed. But not ignored.
I left his office with my heart galloping, heels clicking louder than usual on the tile. I could still feel his gaze on my back, still hear that warning in his voice. Careful, Amira.
But underneath it, I swore I heard something else too. Interest.
By the time I sat at my desk, I was shaking—not from nerves, but from the thrill of finally daring. Last night's words echoed in me like a mantra: Stop playing small.
Julian Archer had noticed. And that was all the proof I needed.
Tomorrow, I decided, I wouldn't just wait for his glance. I'd give him no choice but to keep looking.
I woke before my alarm. That never happened.
The sky outside was still dark, the city just starting to hum awake, but my body was restless, humming with energy of its own. Yesterday had changed something. Julian's voice still echoed in my head—Careful, Amira. Wanting too much can be dangerous.
Dangerous or not, I wanted more.
I took extra care getting ready. My friends would've called it plotting, but I told myself it was strategy. A dark green blouse, satin-soft, that hugged me without screaming for attention. A black skirt with a slit that hit just high enough when I walked. Gold hoops that caught the light when I turned my head. Lipstick one shade deeper than yesterday.
When I glanced in the mirror, I saw a woman who looked like she belonged at his side, not just at his desk. That thought made me smile.
The firm was its usual chaos when I arrived—phones ringing, interns darting around, that constant undercurrent of ambition buzzing through the halls. But I walked in like I owned the place. Shoulders back, heels clicking sharp.
Julian was already there, of course. Through the glass of his office, I could see him bent over the desk, suit jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled again. Always so precise, so controlled. Until his eyes lifted and found me.
He looked only a second too long before going back to his work. But I caught it. That pause. That flicker.
Good.
I carried a stack of folders into his office without waiting for permission. "These came in this morning. I thought you'd want them right away."
He glanced up, then at the clock. "It's barely eight, Amira."
"I like being early," I said, setting the folders down, deliberately leaning just enough that he'd notice.
His eyes flicked there, then away, jaw tightening. "That makes one of us."
I smiled, turning to leave, but not before brushing my fingertips against his desk a little longer than necessary.
The day went on, but I found excuses to be near him. Sitting closer in the conference room, handing him notes with a brush of fingers, letting my perfume linger when I leaned in to explain a scheduling change.
Every time, he noticed. He didn't say it, but it was there in the way his eyes darted away too fast, in the clipped way he cleared his throat, in the tension that thickened the air whenever I walked into his office.
By late afternoon, I decided to push further.
He was preparing for tomorrow's client presentation, papers spread across his desk, his tie loosened. The office was thinning out; I could hear people saying goodnight in the hallway. I knocked lightly and stepped in.
"Do you want me to stay late and help with the presentation prep?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
He looked up, brows drawn. "You don't have to. It's nothing I can't handle."
"I know." I smiled. "But it might go faster with two. Besides, I don't mind staying."
His eyes held mine longer than they should've, weighing something. For a moment, I thought he'd refuse. Then he exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. "Fine. If you're offering."
I tried not to let my triumph show as I stepped inside and closed the door.
By six, the office was silent. Just the hum of the air conditioning and the shuffle of papers between us. The city outside glowed gold, then pink, then violet as the sun sank behind the skyline.
Julian worked in silence, sharp and focused, but I could feel him—every movement, every glance. I leaned closer than I had to, brushed his hand when passing a sheet, let my leg brush the edge of his desk as I stood beside him.
At one point, I felt his gaze on me. I looked up, and there it was—raw, unguarded, hunger buried under restraint.
My breath caught.
He stood abruptly, moving around to my side of the desk. "You're holding that chart wrong," he said, reaching to adjust the page in my hands.
But his fingers grazed mine—slow, deliberate.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. Heat surged up my arm, my pulse pounding in my throat.
He didn't move right away. His hand lingered, his body close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him. His eyes burned into mine.
"Amira…" His voice was low, rougher than I'd ever heard it.
"Yes?" My whisper betrayed me.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up. For one wild second, I thought he was going to close the space between us.
Then he stepped back, clearing his throat sharply. "That's enough for tonight. Go home."
The words cut, but his voice wasn't steady—it was strained, frayed at the edges.
I gathered my things with shaking hands, forcing myself to move slowly. I didn't want him to see my triumph. But inside, I was blazing.
Because he hadn't pushed me away. Not really. He'd stopped himself. Which meant he'd wanted to.
And tomorrow, I promised myself, I'd push harder.
The whispers started before I even made it to my desk.
I knew it the second I stepped out of the elevator—too many glances, too many hushed voices that stopped just a second too late. It was like the whole floor was buzzing, and I was the current running through it.
Someone must've seen me leave Julian's office late last night. Or maybe it was just the way we'd looked at each other in the hallway, the tension too sharp to miss. Either way, the secret I thought I'd been keeping was already leaking into the air.
"Did you hear?" a voice whispered behind me as I passed the copy room.
"She was in there with him for hours."
"She's just a secretary," another voice snapped, low and bitter. "She won't last."
"Please," someone else said, half-awed, half-gleeful. "If she's caught his eye, that's a bigger promotion than anyone here will ever get."
I kept walking, heels clicking louder than their gossip. On the outside, I was calm, collected, untouchable. But inside? A wicked thrill curled through me. Let them talk. Let them wonder. For once, I was the center of attention.
At my desk, I shuffled papers I didn't need to shuffle, pretending not to notice the side-eye from a senior associate across the room. She was one of those women who lived for control—perfect hair, perfect suits, perfect disdain. She hated me now, I could tell. The idea that I, the girl who fetched coffee and scheduled meetings, might be closer to Julian Archer than she'd ever get? It burned her alive.
Good.
By afternoon, I was restless. Every time I caught a murmur behind me, every time someone smirked as I passed, the heat inside me only built higher. I wasn't just chasing Julian anymore. I was defending my claim—staking it in front of all of them.
So when his assistant asked me to drop a report off in his office, I didn't hesitate. I stood, smoothed my skirt, and walked the hall like I owned it.
I knocked lightly.
"Come in," came that familiar clipped voice.
The moment I stepped inside, the energy shifted. His office was quiet, the city glowing behind him in the late-day light. Julian looked up from his desk, his jaw set, his tie loosened. His eyes flicked to me—sharp, unreadable—and then to the door as it clicked shut behind me.
He didn't speak right away. Just leaned back in his chair, studying me.
Finally: "Do you know what people are saying?"
"Yes." My voice didn't waver.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Amira… this isn't a game. This—whatever this is—" He gestured between us. "It's dangerous. For both of us."
I stepped closer, placing the report on his desk with deliberate slowness. "You said that yesterday too."
His eyes locked on mine. Tension crackled between us, thicker than the silence.
"This isn't you," he said, quieter now. "You're ambitious. Smart. Don't throw it away for—"
"For wanting you?" I cut in, heat rising in my chest. "Because I do. And I think you want me too."
His jaw tightened. He didn't answer, but his eyes gave him away.
I leaned closer, palms flat on his desk. "Everyone's already talking, Julian. We can either pretend, or we can stop pretending."
For a heartbeat, I thought he'd snap, tell me to get out. Instead, he pushed back from the desk, standing slowly, like he needed the extra inches to steady himself. He was taller, broader, towering over me now—but I didn't step back.
"Careful," he murmured again, softer this time, like it was more to himself than to me.
I turned, walking toward the door, my pulse racing. He thought that was the end. He thought I'd walk away.
But the second my hand touched the handle, I froze. Something in me snapped—the part that had always waited, always played safe, always hid behind ambition instead of desire.
Not today.
I spun back around, my heels clicking against the floor, crossing the space before I could overthink it. Julian started to say my name, confusion flashing across his face, but I didn't let him finish.
I reached up, grabbed his jaw with both hands, and kissed him.
His lips were firm at first, shocked, but I pressed harder, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him down to me. He tasted of coffee and something darker, something entirely him, and when he exhaled against my mouth, the sound was rough, almost a growl.
Then his hands were on my waist, strong, steady, holding me in place as though he couldn't decide whether to push me back or pull me closer.
I kissed him harder, tilting my head, opening to him, daring him to stop pretending he didn't want this. My fingers tangled in his hair, my body flush against his.
For a breathless, blazing moment, he kissed me back.
And then—he pulled away, breaking the kiss with a sharp inhale, his hands still gripping my waist like he couldn't quite let go. His eyes burned into mine, wild and conflicted.
"Amira…" His voice was hoarse, dangerous. "You don't know what you've just started."
I smiled, breathless, lipstick smudged. "Yes, I do."
And then I walked out, leaving him there—stunned, wanting, and finally knowing I wasn't afraid to cross the line.