The "Terms of Our Surrender" had been officially signed, notarised, and promptly ignored within forty-eight hours.
The penthouse at The Ascent had become a tactical war zone. Aria had claimed the mahogany dining table as her command centre, her laptop glowing with the blue light of a thousand spreadsheets. Julian had taken the sprawling marble kitchen island, surrounded by thick law books and enough caffeine to stop a horse's heart.
It was 2:00 AM. The only sound was the frantic clack-clack-clack of Aria's mechanical keyboard, a sound Julian found progressively more violent with every passing minute.
"Aria", Julian groaned, not looking up from The Law of Torts. "If you hit the 'Enter' key one more time like you're trying to execute it, I am going to throw that laptop off the balcony."
"I am finalising the marketing strategy for the Sterling Media gala, Julian. Some of us have empires to run, not just cases to read."
"You're nineteen. You're running a PowerPoint, not an empire."
Aria spun her chair around, her eyes narrowed. "And you're currently wearing a hoodie with a mustard stain on it. Where's the 'Crown Prince of Banking' now?"
Julian looked down at his grey sweatshirt. He looked... human. His hair was a mess, standing up in peaks where he'd run his fingers through it in frustration. For a second, Aria's heart did a strange, traitorous little skip. It was much harder to hate him when he didn't look like he'd just stepped out of a GQ shoot.
"It's not mustard," Julian muttered, reaching into a hidden drawer under the marble island. "It's honey mustard. There's a difference."
He pulled out a giant, family-sized bag of organic gummy bears.
Aria stared. "You... you eat those?"
"They're brain food," Julian said defensively, popping a green one into his mouth. "The glucose helps with the torts."
"You told the Campus Daily last month that you only snack on raw almonds and cold-pressed kale juice."
"And you told them you spend your free time volunteering at the equine therapy centre, but I've seen your Netflix history, Aria. You've watched The Great British Bake Off for three hours straight every night this week."
Aria turned beet red. "It's... It's research. Into consumer culinary trends."
"Right. And I'm the Pope." Julian hopped off his stool and walked over to her "command centre". He didn't stop until he was standing right over her. He smelt like peppermint and late-night desperation.
He held out the bag. "Green or red? Choose wisely. It defines your character."
Aria looked at the bag, then at him. Slowly, she reached in and took a red one. "Red. Obviously. It's the colour of victory."
"It's the colour of a strawberry, you nerd." Julian leant against the table, his shoulder brushing hers. The atmosphere shifted. The sharp, jagged edges of their rivalry seemed to soften under the warm glow of the pendant lights.
"Julian?"
"Hmm?"
"My father called today," she whispered, her voice losing its corporate armour. "He said if the gala isn't perfect, he's moving the wedding up to June. Before finals."
Julian's hand paused in the bag. He looked out at the city lights, his jaw tightening. "My father said the same. He wants a 'Summer of Stability' for the stocks."
"We're just chess pieces to them, aren't we?"
Julian turned to her. He reached out, and for a second, Aria thought he was going to touch her cheek. Instead, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were surprisingly gentle.
"Maybe," Julian said softly. "But even a pawn can take down a king if it reaches the other side of the board."
Aria looked up at him, her breath hitching. In the quiet of the 2:00 AM penthouse, the "match made in heaven" didn't feel like a lie. It felt like a possibility.
Then, Julian smirked. "By the way, you have a red gummy bear stuck to your front tooth. It's very 'valedictorian' of you."
Aria gasped, reaching for her mouth. "I hate you! I actually, physically hate you!"
"Score: Vane - 2, Sterling - 0," Julian laughed, retreating to his island. "Back to work, 'honey'. Those spreadsheets won't execute themselves."
Aria turned back to her computer, a tiny, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She hated him. She really did.
But she didn't move her chair away.