The conference room was colder than Arielle expected. Sterile white walls, a massive glass table, and two men already seated: her father, tall and imposing with that same iron-cold gaze Arielle knew too well, and Dominic Raine, who looked like he belonged in the corner of a war room rather than a boardroom.
Arielle's heels clicked sharply against the floor as she entered, her usual confidence wavering just slightly.
Her father didn't waste time.
"Dominic called me this morning. Told me about last night."
Arielle held her breath.
"And I want to hear it from you."
She squared her shoulders. "I was honest. I didn't pretend to be someone I'm not."
Her father's eyes narrowed. "Honesty without respect is just arrogance. And arrogance doesn't build an empire."
Dominic nodded once, sharp and precise.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, voice calm but steel-edged, "you're a liability as you are."
Arielle's heart pounded.
"But that can change. If you're willing."
Her father leaned forward. "You'll lead the restructuring project for our European branch. Six months. No special privileges."
"And if I fail?" she asked, voice cool but defiant.
"You won't get a second chance."
Dominic's gaze locked with hers.
"This is your fire, Arielle. Time to decide if you're steel or smoke."
She swallowed hard.
This was no game.
And suddenly, the lion's den didn't feel so scary.
It felt like home.
Arielle's first morning at the European branch was a rude awakening.
The office was sleek but cold—no plush carpets, no designer flair. Just glass walls, stacks of reports, and a dozen tired faces who didn't care about her name or her father's money.
Dominic met her at the door, sharp suit, sharper glare.
"No exceptions," he said, voice clipped. "You start with the Q2 financials. I want a full breakdown by noon. And Arielle—leave the attitude at the door."
She bit back a retort and followed him inside.
The team was skeptical—whispers followed her every step.
She sat down at a cluttered desk and opened the files. Numbers blurred together, mistakes jumped out like red flags.
Dominic circled behind her, finger tapping on the screen.
"You missed the deferred payments. Here, the vendor contracts. You need to read these, not skim."
She swallowed her pride.
"Show me again."
Hours passed in tense silence. Dominic didn't offer praise, just sharp corrections.
At lunch, instead of the usual luxury, she sat in the cafeteria with the team, hearing grumbles and snide remarks.
One manager muttered, "Daddy's girl. Won't last."
Arielle's jaw tightened.
Later, Dominic found her alone in the conference room, head resting on her hands.
"You'll get better," he said, voice softer now. "But only if you stop pretending and start learning."
She looked up, eyes burning.
"Teach me then."
He smiled—a brief, almost genuine curve.
"Good."
And for the first time since she'd met him, Arielle wanted to prove him right.
The days blurred into one relentless grind. Arielle was drowning in spreadsheets, meetings, and unyielding deadlines. Dominic's eyes never left her mistakes, never missed an opportunity to push her harder.
But something was shifting. The team's sneers softened just a bit when she stayed late, asking questions, showing she meant business.
Still, inside, Arielle felt the first cracks in her armor. The fierce confidence she wore like a shield was starting to chip away — replaced by something unfamiliar: doubt.
One late evening, Dominic found her alone in the office lounge, staring blankly at her untouched coffee.
"You look like hell," he said, sliding next to her.
She snorted. "Feels like hell."
He shrugged. "Good. Growth isn't comfortable."
She met his gaze, her voice low. "What if I'm not cut out for this?"
He studied her, then said, "You think anyone born into this world was born ready? No one gets handed power without pain."
Her lips pressed tight.
"Pain is temporary," he said, "but what you do with it—that's permanent."
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
"We need to talk. Now. —M"
Her heart stuttered.
"M?" she whispered.
Dominic caught the look.
"Someone from your past?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she stared at the screen.
And for the first time, the carefully built walls around Arielle Sinclair showed their first real cracks.
The message burned in her palm like a secret too hot to hold.
"We need to talk. Now. —M"
Arielle's breath hitched. Memories flooded back — sharp, unexpected.
"M" wasn't just a letter. It was Mason.
Mason Hart—the one she tried to forget, the one she'd burned bridges with.
Dominic noticed her sudden silence.
"Everything okay?"
She forced a smile. "Just… someone from my past."
His gaze sharpened. "Past's a tricky place to visit when you're trying to build a future."
She knew he was right. But she also knew there was no running from Mason—not anymore.
That night, Arielle sat alone in her apartment, the city lights flickering like distant stars outside her window. Her fingers hovered over the screen, then typed back:
"Where?"
Minutes later, a reply:
"The bar on 5th. An hour. Don't be late."
She glanced at her reflection—sharp eyes, red lips, and a storm brewing beneath the surface.
Arielle Sinclair didn't do casual meetings.
She did showdowns.
And this one was going to set everything on fire.
The bar was dim, shadows pooling in every corner, the kind of place where secrets thrived and mistakes lived on in smoke and spilled whiskey.
Arielle stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the worn floor. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on him.
Mason Hart leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, that crooked smirk she hated—and missed—curling his lips. His dark eyes held that same reckless fire she remembered.
"You're late," he said, voice low, almost teasing.
She folded her arms, matching his smirk. "I'm here now. What's so urgent that you had to drag me out of my new life?"
He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them with lazy confidence.
"Urgent? Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to remind you what you're running from."
Her heart thumped, but she kept her cool.
"I'm not running."
"Are you sure? Because last I checked, you were running from me—and from yourself."
The air thickened.
They stood so close now she could feel the heat radiating from him.
"Mason," she whispered, "this isn't a game."
He tilted his head, eyes darkening.
"Who said it ever was?"
For a moment, the past and present collided in a charged silence.
And Arielle realized this wasn't just a meeting. It was a reckoning.