Chapter 3

Chloe was visibly provoked by the faint smile on my lips.

She snapped her hand back, shaking it in the air with a look of pure disgust, as if she had touched something contaminated.

"Remember what I said, Avery. After tonight, I am Dominic’s official partner. You, on the other hand, belong in the bullpen, copying my files for the rest of your miserable life." She turned on her heel, her Louboutins clicking a sharp rhythm against the tile as she vanished through the door.

The restroom fell into a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional drip of a faulty faucet.

I walked over to the sink, studying the girl in the mirror wearing the cheap, oversized charcoal suit.

I washed my hands with deliberate slowness, then pulled a paper towel, drying each finger with meticulous precision.

I had no intention of exposing her yet.

Dominic’s intuition for deception was sharper than anyone could fathom.

For three years, he had monitored the slight hitches in my breath over video calls and encrypted phone lines; he could spot a calculated lie in a seasoned board member's eyes from across a room.

The higher Chloe climbed right now, the tighter she was pulling the noose around her own neck.

By the time I returned to my cubicle, it was already four o'clock.

The entire building was vibrating with energy for tonight’s corporate gala at The Pierre.

The other interns were frantically whispering about the list of high-society guests, while a massive black-and-gold garment box sat prominently on Chloe’s desk—the unmistakable hallmark of haute couture.

"Avery," Manager Davies called out as he emerged from his office, holding a thick leather folder, his face flushed with anxiety.

"Take the updated financial audit reconciliation report up to the executive floor. Stone needs it immediately. Move!"

"Right away, Mr. Davies." I took the file, completely ignoring the envious and mocking stares from the other interns, and walked toward the elevator bank.

The building rose thirty-four stories, and the top floor was absolute forbidden territory. Standing before the private executive elevator, I swiped the temporary clearance card Davies had provided, and the brushed-metal doors slid open without a sound.

The interior was stark and reflective, mirrors catching the harsh frames of my thick glasses. The car rose smoothly, the digital floor indicator climbing steadily: 20, 25, 30…

Then, at floor 32, the elevator shuddered. Without warning, it ground to a halt.

The doors slid back.

A man was waiting on the other side.

Dominic.

He had already stripped out of his rigid daytime armor, now wearing a custom silk-blend black dress shirt.

The top two buttons were undone, exposing a hint of his collarbone and the lean, hard contours of his chest. An unlit cigarette sat between his fingers, and the rich, familiar cloud of oud and bergamot rolled into the elevator enclosure, completely taking over the small space.

My fingers clamped down hard on the edges of the folder.

He raised his head.

When those bloodshot, predatory eyes landed on my face, his pupils dilated into dark pools. Instead of stepping back to wait for the next car, he cleared the threshold with one long stride, invading the elevator.

The metal doors closed behind him.

The air vanished instantly.

He towered over me, his broad frame radiating a heavy, clean heat that pinned me directly into the corner of the car.

The elevator resumed its ascent, but it felt agonizingly slow.

He didn't look at the files pressed against my chest.

Instead, he leaned down, the sharp bridge of his nose stopping just short of my collarbone. His breath swept hot over my bare skin, sending a violent shudder straight down my spine.

He was smelling me.

"You changed your perfume," Dominic murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that felt entirely too intimate.

My heart was hammering so violently it threatened to crack my ribs, but I forced my vocal cords to maintain that flat, deadened drone. "I don't wear perfume, Mr. Hall. It must be the industrial cleaner from the breakroom."

"Liar." His hand shot out, his thick, calloused fingers locking around my wrist with enough force to crush bone.

He pulled me upward by an inch, forcing me onto my tip-toes until my eyes collided with his. The stormy gray in his irises was gone, replaced by a dark, unraveling obsession.

"Industrial soap doesn't carry notes of Guatemalan oud. That was a custom blend she formulated for me. No one else has it." Dominic pressed closer, leaving zero space between us, his chest trapping me against the cold mirrored wall as his voice vibrated against my ear. "Who the hell are you? Your voice mimics her, and now you carry her scent. What are you playing at?!"

"You have the wrong person, Mr. Hall," I said through grit teeth, fighting with every ounce of my willpower to suppress my natural cadence, utilizing the dull, submissive persona instead. "If you like the scent, you should ask Chloe. She is attending the gala with you tonight."

At the mention of Chloe’s name, a flash of pure disgust and irritation cut through his gaze.

"Do not speak that woman's name to me," he snarled, his sanity visibly fraying at the edges of his control. He stared down at my lips, his thumb rising to deliberately, roughly press against my lower lip, as if trying to wipe away a mask. "She wore it today too, but it sits on her like a cheap lacquer. A performance. But with you... it’s coming from your skin."

The elevator chimed.

Floor 34.

The doors slid open, revealing the brightly lit executive reception area where several senior assistants stood waiting with folders.

The moment they looked inside the car, the room went completely still.

Dominic didn't release me immediately. He cast a lethal glance toward the staff, causing them to instantly drop their heads and scatter.

He finally let go of my wrist, leaving me to lean unsteadily against the wall, and stepped out onto the marble floor.

After two paces, he stopped. Without turning around, he threw a cold, unyielding directive over his shoulder.

"Starting tomorrow, you’re done in operations. You report directly to me as my personal assistant. Twenty-four hours a day."

He paused, his shoulders tightening under the dark fabric of his shirt. "And you’re coming to the gala tonight. I want you in the room when I announce my engagement to your friend Chloe."

I rubbed my reddened, throbbing wrist, watching his broad back disappear into the executive suite, my eyes narrowing behind my glasses.

He hadn't swallowed Chloe's lie for a second; he was hunting me just as intensely. By binding me to his side, was he trying to use a substitute to punish the ghost who abandoned him—or had his animal instinct already caught the scent of blood, laying a trap for me to walk right into?