Aria Vale
The elevator ride felt longer than it should've. I could feel my pulse in my throat, a steady thrum of dread and defiance. My fingers grazed the inside pocket of my coat—the flash drive was still there, still burning like a brand against my skin.
The penthouse doors slid open with a soft chime. Damian was already waiting, shirt sleeves rolled, dark eyes unreadable as he poured two fingers of scotch into a crystal tumbler.
"Drink?" he offered, like we were old lovers meeting for a casual nightcap.
I stepped inside. The doors whispered shut behind me.
"You called," I said coolly. "Here I am."
He didn't hand me the glass. He simply studied me, his gaze too sharp, too still.
"You found it, didn't you."
I didn't flinch. "You tell me."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He walked over, slow and silent, and set the glass on the table between us.
"I wanted to believe it wasn't true," he said. "That your father was the victim. The scapegoat."
"He was," I said, even though part of me wasn't sure anymore.
Damian's eyes darkened. "No. He was in it up to his neck. My father might've been the devil, but yours wasn't the angel you've been pretending to avenge."
"You're wrong."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a photo. Folded. Faded.
I didn't want to look.
He tossed it onto the table between us.
Two men. Smiling. A handshake over contracts and scotch. My father. His father.
Allies, not enemies.
I stared at it like it was a knife. One that had already slid beneath my skin.
"I wanted to ruin you," I whispered.
"I know."
"I still might."
"I know that too." He stepped closer.
And when I didn't move away, he reached up and undid the button of my coat.
Slow. Deliberate. Like undressing a liar.
"You've been playing a long game, Aria." His voice was low now, magnetic. "But the game's changed. Haven't you figured it out yet?"
I let him open my coat. Let the flash drive fall into his palm like a surrender.
Or maybe a challenge.
"I figured out everything," I said.
He leaned in, mouth near my ear. "Then you know this only ends two ways."
My breath hitched. "And which one is this?"
His lips brushed my cheek. "The one where we burn it all down."
Then he kissed me.
And this time, I didn't resist.
Because we weren't enemies anymore.
We were co-conspirators.
He didn't just taste like power.
He tasted like ruin.
And I wanted all of it.
---
Damian Wolfe
The taste of her still lingered on my mouth. Like sin. Like surrender. Like something I hadn't earned but took anyway.
I wasn't supposed to touch her.
Not like that.
Not with the kind of desperation I'd spent years suppressing, the kind that clawed through my chest the moment her lips parted and her nails bit into my skin like she wanted to tear something out of me.
I stood in the silence after she'd left—heavy, suffocating, and so goddamn empty.
Aria Vale was unraveling me.
Not with words, but with the way she stared me down like a blade poised to strike. She wanted to destroy me. I could see it in the way her jaw set, in the venom beneath her kiss, in the storm she tried to cage behind her eyes. But what she didn't realize—what she couldn't possibly know—was that I wanted to be devoured.
By her.
Only her.
I walked toward the bar, poured myself a glass of the aged scotch I'd been saving for a victory I no longer cared about. It burned going down, but not enough. Nothing burned like she did.
The file lay open on the table—her father's name printed across the top, bold and bloody like a scar. I knew what she'd come for. Revenge. But she didn't know the truth. Not yet.
She didn't know what my father did to hers. What I had to do to clean it up.
My phone buzzed. Jasper.
We've got movement on the merger. Her side is baiting us into a trap. You still think she doesn't know?
I stared at the message, then slowly typed back.
She knows pieces. But not the full story.
And when she does?
I hesitated.
Then I pray she chooses fire over ice.
Because I could handle her hatred. I could take her wrath. But if she turned cold on me—truly cold—I wasn't sure I'd survive it.
The penthouse still carried her scent. Jasmine, citrus, and war.
She'd left scratch marks on my chest. I hadn't even noticed until the mirror caught them. Red lines, like warnings. Or promises.
I leaned against the glass wall, watching the city pulse below like a living, breathing thing. Somewhere out there, she was planning her next move.
So was I.
But for the first time in years, I wasn't sure if I wanted to win this game—or lose it all, just to see how far she'd go.
I poured another glass of scotch, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal as I watched the city lights flicker like distant stars. The fire in my chest had nothing to do with the liquor. It was her. Always her.