ARIA
Every day with Nathan Hale felt like standing on a line drawn in sand and pretending the wind didn't exist.
I'd promised myself this project would be simple: deliver results, prove my worth, move on.
But "simple" wasn't possible around him.
He wasn't the polished billionaire the tabloids painted. He was contradicting a man who ruled boardrooms but hated titles, who spoke little yet carried a gravity that made you listen. He walked into a room and it shifted like he bent its rhythm without meaning to.
And somehow, without my permission, I'd started to notice everything.
The low rasp in his voice when he was tired.
The way he loosened his tie when thinking.
The faint scar on his wrist that he kept covered by a watch.
I told myself it was harmless curiosity. But curiosity was a quiet thief.
Two weeks into the project, the campaign room looked like war zone papers scattered, concept boards stacked against the wall, the faint hum of late-night exhaustion clinging to the air. Everyone else had gone home hours ago.
Everyone except him.
"Ms. Collins."
His voice drifted from the doorway smooth, low, threaded with amusement. I looked up from my laptop and nearly smiled.
"You always find me after midnight," I said.
"Maybe that's when you finally slow down enough to talk."
"I don't slow down."
"I've noticed."
He stepped into the office, sleeves rolled, tie gone. He looked more human like this less heir, more man.
"You should be home," I said.
"So should you."
"I have deadlines."
He leaned on the edge of my desk. "You think I don't?"
The proximity made the air thicken. I could smell the faint hint of his cologne clean, warm, a scent that didn't belong in fluorescent light.
I tried to look at my screen. "Did you need something?"
He hesitated. "Dinner."
I blinked. "Dinner?"
"You skipped lunch."
"I'm working."
"So am I."
"You're not supposed to bribe your employees with food, Mr. Hale."
"It's not a bribe." His mouth twitched. "It's a survival tactic. You'll be more useful to me if you eat."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." His gaze softened. "Come on. The rooftop café's still open."
"I have things "
"Consider it mandatory team-building."
I sighed, closing my laptop. "You don't take no well, do you?"
"Not when I'm right."
He said it lightly, but there was warmth in his tone that made it impossible to stay annoyed.
The rooftop café was nearly empty, the city stretching below us a thousand lights pulsing against a velvet sky. The air was cooler up here, carrying the smell of rain and coffee.
Nathan ordered without asking what I wanted. When he came back, he slid a mug toward me. "You like caramel in your coffee."
My eyes widened. "How "
"You order the same thing every morning downstairs."
"You notice everything, don't you?"
"Only what's worth noticing."
I looked away, but warmth crept up my neck anyway.
For a while, we sat in silence, sipping coffee and pretending not to stare at each other.
He broke it first. "You're doing well."
"I'd hope so. You'd be the first to tell me if I weren't."
"I would," he agreed. "But I'd do it privately."
That caught me off guard. "Why?"
"Because respect matters more than performance."
That shouldn't have meant anything. But it did because no one in this industry talked like that.
He leaned back, watching the skyline. "My mother doesn't understand that. To her, image is everything: the perfect smile, the perfect headline."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." His voice softened. "She built this empire with precision and fear. I'm supposed to inherit both."
I glanced at him. There it was again that tiny crack in the armor. "Do you ever think about walking away?"
He gave a small laugh. "Every day."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because this company isn't just my mother's legacy," he said quietly. "It's my father's dream. Before he died, he asked me to take care of it. To make it better than he did."
There was no arrogance in his tone, just quiet pain.
I hadn't expected that answer. I hadn't expected to feel anything, either, but something in my chest ached for him. The kind of ache that felt personal.
I wanted to reach across the table, to tell him he didn't have to carry all of it alone. But that would be crossing a line neither of us could afford.
"Maybe," I said softly, "you should let someone help."
He looked at me then, really looked and the air between us changed.
"Maybe," he murmured, "I already have."
My breath caught.
He didn't look away, and for a heartbeat, it felt like the world tilted two people on opposite sides of a rule, leaning dangerously close to breaking it.
"Nathan …"
"Yeah?"
"Boundaries," I whispered.
He smiled faintly, eyes still locked on mine. "Right. Boundaries."
But neither of us moved away.
The elevator ride down was silent. We stood a foot apart, pretending that space was enough. His reflection in the glass was calm; mine looked like a stranger, a woman who'd started feeling something she swore she wouldn't.
When the doors opened, he said quietly, "Get some sleep, Aria."
"You too."
He nodded but didn't walk away right away. His hand brushed mine barely, accidentally and that small, stupid touch burned hotter than any kiss could have.
"Goodnight," he said.
The elevator doors closed between us.
And I knew I was already in trouble.
NATHAN
Sleep was a rumor.
I'd spent half the night replaying that rooftop conversation the way her eyes softened when she spoke, the way she'd asked if I ever thought about leaving. No one had ever asked me that. Not once.
She saw me. Not the headlines, not the heirs.
I poured myself a drink in the dark, city lights bleeding through the windows of my penthouse. Every instinct I'd been raised with screamed to keep my distance.
Don't mix emotion with business.
Don't show weakness.
Don't care.
But Aria Collins had become the exception to every rule.
I'd noticed the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when she was deep in thought. The way she carried herself shoulders straight, voice firm, as if defiance was the only armor she owned.
She reminded me of who I used to be before the weight of Hale Tech, before my mother's rules turned me into a carefully managed product.
I wanted to know more. What scared her. What drove her. What made her eyes flicker like that when I said her name.
But I didn't want her. Not here. Not now.
Because I knew what would happen if I did.
Vivian would smell it first, the vulnerability, the shift in my focus. She'd find Aria's weakness, weaponize it, and destroy her.
I'd seen my mother ruin people for less.
And yet … when I'd told Aria to go home earlier, and she'd said, I'll leave when you do, something inside me had cracked.
Because she didn't just challenge me; she understood me.
And I was terrified of what that kind of understanding could cost.
I downed the rest of the drink and set the glass aside, trying to ignore the echo of her soft, unguarded, dangerous.
Control was the one thing I'd always trusted.
But around her … it was slipping, one heartbeat at a time.