The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
Arielle stood frozen in the Cross Enterprises lobby, staring at the clipboard the receptionist had just handed her.
"Are you sure this isn't a mistake?" she asked, gripping the edges like it might bite her.
The receptionist gave her a sympathetic smile. "Mr. Cross was very specific. You're to assist him personally with the upcoming charity gala prep. It's on the top floor."
"Personally?" Arielle repeated, her voice rising half an octave. "As in... be in the same room with him? For hours?"
The receptionist gave a small shrug. "Looks like it."
It had to be a joke. Or a punishment. Maybe he was still irritated that she hadn't melted into a puddle after their last awkward moment in his office.
But then again, Damien Cross didn't seem like the type to play petty games.
No, this was something else. Something intentional.
Reluctantly, she took the elevator up, stomach churning the whole way. The doors opened with a soft chime, and there he was—standing at his desk, sleeves rolled up, no tie, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scanned a spreadsheet.
Of course he looked like a damn Calvin Klein ad even when knee-deep in numbers.
Damien looked up. "You're late."
"I didn't ask for this," she snapped. "And by the way, giving people no choice is not a charming trait."
He smirked. "Charming wasn't the goal."
She groaned inwardly and stepped into the office, careful to keep her distance. "Why me? Why not your assistant? Or your army of interns?"
"Because my assistant lacks creativity and my interns are terrified of me."
"And I'm not?"
"You're less scared than they are." He motioned toward the table near the windows, where files and brochures were scattered. "Sit. We're finalizing the concept for the gala's visual campaign. I need someone who thinks beyond spreadsheets."
Arielle hesitated. "You need an artist."
"I need you," he said, locking eyes with her. "For this."
Her pulse jumped for a second. Just a second.
She exhaled sharply and walked to the table. "Fine. But don't start monologuing about honesty and rare personalities again. I'm here for work. That's it."
"Understood."
They worked in silence at first. Well, she worked. He observed, occasionally throwing in a detail or opinion. Arielle started sketching ideas for the gala's theme—something that blended elegance with raw humanity, just as the charity's mission did.
She forgot, for a moment, who she was in the room with. Her pencil glided across the page, rough outlines blooming into soft form. Light. Shadow. Movement.
"You draw like someone who's lost something," Damien said quietly.
Arielle paused, her fingers stilling. "Everyone's lost something."
He nodded, folding his arms. "True. But not everyone turns it into art."
Arielle didn't respond. She didn't want to admit that he was right.
The moment stretched, weighty with things unsaid. Then—
Boom.
The thunderous sound made her jump.
Rain slammed against the tall windows a second later, turning the skyline into a blur of grey. A voice buzzed over the office intercom.
"Apologies, Mr. Cross. The storm has caused some elevator malfunctions and power flickers. Emergency crews are en route, but the system is locked down for now. Please remain where you are until we advise otherwise."
Arielle turned to him slowly. "Wait—are we stuck?"
Damien glanced toward the office doors, which had just clicked shut with a mechanical lock. "Seems so."
Her eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding me. We're locked in?"
He looked disturbingly calm. "Not the first time. Building safety protocol. It'll pass."
She gaped. "And you're just okay with being trapped in a glass tower during a thunderstorm?"
He shrugged. "Would you prefer the stairwell?"
She let out an exasperated breath. "I'd prefer not to be trapped in a room with you."
Something flickered in his eyes—amusement or challenge, she couldn't tell.
"And yet," he said smoothly, "here we are."
Arielle stalked over to the couch near the wall and sank down, crossing her arms. "This is a nightmare."
Damien walked over and loosened the top buttons of his shirt. "If it helps, I won't talk unless you ask me to."
She eyed him warily. "Don't tempt me."
Minutes ticked by. The storm outside grew worse. Lightning lit the sky, casting wild shadows across the room. Arielle pulled her knees to her chest, silently cursing the universe.
"Why art?" Damien asked suddenly.
She glanced at him. He was now sitting opposite her, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. Casual. Too casual.
"What?"
"You said everyone's lost something. What made you choose art to process it?"
She frowned. "That's a weird question."
"It's a genuine one."
She sighed, curling a strand of hair around her finger. "My mom used to draw. Before she took cleaning jobs to support us. I guess... I picked it up to keep her close. When she was too tired or too far away."
Damien was quiet. "You love her a lot."
"She's the strongest person I know."
More silence. Then he asked, "What about your father?"
Arielle looked away. "Don't have one."
She expected him to dig. Push. Pry.
But he didn't.
Just nodded and said, "Understood."
It was such a small gesture, but it disarmed her more than anything else could have.
"Your turn," she said suddenly, folding her arms. "Why do you work twenty-hour days and scare interns for fun?"
Damien let out a dry laugh. "Because I built this company from the ground up. And when you have nothing else—no parents, no siblings, no real friends—you pour everything into something that won't leave."
Her eyes softened. "So work became your family."
He nodded slowly. "Of sorts."
Another thunderclap shook the building, followed by a brief flicker of the lights.
Without thinking, Arielle flinched—and before she knew it, Damien had moved closer, not touching her, but there, like a steady anchor in a chaotic sea.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I hate storms," she muttered. "They make everything feel... unsafe."
He didn't speak right away. Just sat a little closer.
And this time, she didn't move away.
Minutes passed. The air was thick with more than humidity.
This was forced proximity, yes—but it didn't feel forced anymore.
"You know," he said quietly, "when I first met you, I didn't expect to like you."
She smirked. "Feeling's mutual."
"But here you are, in my office. Sketching on my desk. Sitting on my couch."
"Against my will."
"Of course."
Arielle glanced sideways and found him already watching her.
That same storm from the sky rumbled inside her chest now. This was dangerous ground. Too many feelings that shouldn't exist. Too many things that could fall apart with one wrong word.
"I don't trust men in suits," she said.
"I don't trust anyone."
"So what now?" she whispered.
He leaned in, just slightly. "We wait for the storm to pass."
She didn't know if he meant the weather—or the feelings.
But for once, she didn't try to escape either.