London gleamed beneath a curtain of rain, all silver light and whispered secrets.
At the top of Brooks Tower, the city looked small—streets like veins, headlights like restless stars.
Lily Chen stared at the reflection in the elevator doors as they closed behind her. She smoothed her coat, adjusted the strap of her sketch bag, and inhaled until her heartbeat settled into something almost calm. Almost.
This was her chance.
One design contract with Lucas Brooks—the man who owned half of London's skyline—and her studio could finally step out of survival mode.
When the elevator chimed open, the world changed temperature.
The penthouse wasn't just beautiful; it was imposing. Floor-to-ceiling glass, marble cool as frost, art that looked too expensive to breathe near. The air smelled faintly of cedar and ambition.
And then she saw him.
Lucas Brooks stood near the window, phone in hand, posture effortless but alert. He was taller than she'd imagined from the tabloids, dressed in a black suit that probably cost more than her rent for a year. His reflection shimmered in the glass beside London's skyline.
He didn't look up when he spoke. "You're late."
His voice wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It carried the calm authority of someone who expected the world to listen.
"Three minutes," she said, stepping closer. "There was traffic."
He turned then, and the full weight of his gaze hit her. Storm-grey eyes, unreadable. For one disorienting second, Lily forgot every line she'd rehearsed.
"Three minutes," he repeated. "That's longer than most people keep me waiting."
She straightened her shoulders. "Then I hope I'm worth the wait."
A pause—then something flickered across his face, almost amusement. "We'll see."
He gestured toward the expanse of the living room. "This is the space. Show me what you see."
Lily crossed the marble floor, forcing herself to ignore the click of her heels echoing in the cavernous quiet. She opened her sketch pad, the one with the corner bent from weeks of nerves, and began to speak—about texture, light, contrast, the balance between masculine edges and human warmth.
Lucas listened. Not politely, but intently, as if weighing every word.
When she finished, he moved closer. "You think this place needs warmth?"
"Yes." She met his eyes. "All power and no comfort makes a man restless."
His mouth curved. "You assume I'm restless."
"I assume you're human."
A low chuckle escaped him, rare and genuine. "Interesting assumption."
He took another step forward until she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the dark silk of his tie. He stopped close enough for her to catch the scent of him—clean, sharp, with a trace of something darker underneath.
"Tell me," he said softly, "what does a man like me need to make him… comfortable?"
Her pulse skipped. He was testing her, and they both knew it.
She didn't look away. "A reason to stay still."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The air seemed to thrum. Then he blinked first, turning toward the window.
"You're confident," he said. "That's rare."
"I can't afford not to be."
When he looked back, there was something new in his eyes—not approval, not yet, but curiosity. "Show me more."
⸻
Hours passed like minutes. Sketches spread across his glass desk, and the city darkened beyond the windows. Every so often Lucas would ask a question that had nothing to do with design:
"Why did you start your own firm?"
"What's the worst mistake you've made?"
"What do you really want from this project?"
The questions peeled layers she didn't intend to reveal. She answered anyway, drawn in by the quiet intensity behind them.
At one point, she reached for her tablet, and his hand brushed hers by accident—or maybe not. The contact was brief, almost nothing, yet her breath stuttered.
He noticed.
"Are you nervous, Miss Chen?"
"Should I be?"
"That depends on how you handle pressure."
His gaze lingered a fraction too long. She looked away, pretending to study the lighting plan.
⸻
When the clock on the wall struck nine, she realized they'd been talking for nearly four hours. Her stomach ached from hunger, her throat dry, but she didn't want to leave. The energy in the room had shifted—less professional, more something neither of them named.
Lucas closed the portfolio and leaned back against the desk. "You're thorough. Most people rush to impress me."
"I don't rush," she said. "It leads to mistakes."
"Good." He studied her again, slower this time. "You'll start tomorrow. I expect discretion."
"Of course."
"About everything." His tone deepened. "I don't enjoy being a topic of gossip."
She smiled faintly. "Neither do I."
He nodded, satisfied. Then, unexpectedly, "Do you have dinner plans?"
Her head lifted. "Are you asking me to dinner?"
"I'm asking if you're hungry."
"Same question," she said carefully.
His grin was small but unmistakable. "You're quick."
"And you're used to people saying yes."
"Should I take that as a no?"
She hesitated. This was the line—the one every instinct told her not to cross. But his gaze held hers, steady and unreadable, and the air between them pulsed with something unspoken.
"I should go," she said finally.
He straightened, the brief softness gone. "As you wish."
She packed her things, forcing herself not to glance back. Yet as she reached the elevator, she heard him say quietly,
"Lily."
She froze.
"Next time," Lucas said, "don't be late."
The elevator doors slid shut between them, sealing the moment like a promise.
⸻
In the taxi ride home, London blurred past in streaks of light. Lily's phone buzzed—a new email.
From: Lucas Brooks.
Subject: Midnight adjustments.
I changed my mind. Come back tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp. Bring every design you have. We'll work until it's perfect.
No "please." No "thank you." Just command.
She should have been annoyed. Instead, she smiled, heart hammering.
⸻
Later that night
Lucas stood before the window, glass in hand, the city glittering like a game he'd already won. But something about the evening had unsettled him.
He'd met hundreds of designers—competent, eager, forgettable. Lily Chen was none of those things. She looked at him as if she saw the cracks in his armor and wasn't afraid of them.
He should have kept the meeting short, but he'd wanted to know what made her tick, what fire burned behind those calm eyes. And when she pushed back—when she challenged him—he'd felt something he hadn't in years: a flicker of uncertainty.
Lucas didn't like uncertainty.
He sipped his scotch, watching his reflection in the glass. "Careful, Miss Chen," he murmured to the night. "You don't know what you've started."
Outside, thunder rolled over the city.