The rooftop terrace was a secret haven, a concrete slab furnished with a few weather-beaten benches and a stunning, panoramic view of the London skyline. The cool night air was a shock after the stuffy office. Luca was there, leaning against the railing, facing the city. He held two steaming mugs.
He turned as she approached. The arrogant Creative Director was gone. In his place was the tired man from the other night, his features softened by the dim glow of the city.
"Truce?" he asked, handing her a mug. It was tea, properly brewed, the scent of Earl Grey comforting and familiar.
"Truce," she said, her anger dissipating as she wrapped her hands around the warm china.
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the endless red stream of taillights on the bridges below.
"I was a bastard in there," he said quietly, not looking at her. "The pressure… it doesn't excuse it, but it explains it. You stood your ground. Most people don't."
"It's a good layout," Isla said, choosing her words carefully. "The one you wanted. But mine was good, too. It was just… a different story."
He finally turned to look at her, his stormy eyes reflecting the city lights. "I know." He took a sip of his tea. "This job… it can make you forget that there's more than one way to see things. You… remind me."
The admission was so unexpected, so vulnerable, that it stole her breath. This wasn't about work anymore. This was about him, and her, on a rooftop in the dark.
The line they had been toeing since he brought her that first cup of coffee was no longer a line. It was a threshold. And they were both standing on it, looking across.
### Chapter 3: A Truce Forged in Tea
The next three days were a relentless onslaught. The office became a pressure cooker, and Luca Thorne was its volatile core. The brilliant collaborator of the late night was gone, replaced by the sharp-tongued Creative Director who could silence a room with a single, disappointed glance.
The tension came to a head over the feature layout for the "New Romantics" spread. Isla had spent hours on it, crafting a narrative that was soft, fluid, and poetic. Luca took one look at the open, airy design and scoffed.
"It's timid, Reid. It lacks edge. Chroma doesn't do wistful. We do defiant." He grabbed a red marker and slashed a brutal 'X' across her primary image. "Find a new lead. Something with more teeth."
Frustration and exhaustion boiled over. "With all due respect, Luca, the 'teeth' are in the clothes! The copy shouldn't have to fight the layout for attention. This isn't a battle, it's a collaboration!"
The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. The handful of other staffers still working late froze, their eyes wide. No one talked back to Luca Thorne.
His expression darkened. "In this office, everything is a battle. And I'm the general. Do it again."
He turned on his heel and strode back into his office, slamming the door just hard enough for the glass to shudder.
Humiliated and fuming, Isla stared at the ruined layout. Tears of pure rage pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She spent the next two hours in furious silence, tearing her workapart and rebuilding it with the aggressive, angular aesthetic he demanded. It was good. It was exactly what he wanted. And she hated it.
She sent the file to the production team with a terse email and was packing her bag to leave when her phone vibrated on the desk.
Luca: The typography on page 47. You were right. It’s cleaner your way.
She stared at the screen, her anger momentarily short-circuited by sheer surprise. An apology? From him? It was the closest she would ever get.
Before she could formulate a reply, a second message arrived.
Luca: Meet me on the roof?
Her heart gave a traitorous lurch. The professional in her screamed no. The curious, undeniably attracted part of her won. She typed a single word.
Isla: Okay.
The rooftop terrace was a secret haven, a concrete slab furnished with a few weather-beaten benches and a stunning, panoramic view of the London skyline. The cool night air was a shock after the stuffy office. Luca was there, leaning against the railing, facing the city. He held two steaming mugs.
He turned as she approached. The arrogant Creative Director was gone. In his place was the tired man from the other night, his features softened by the dim glow of the city.
"Truce?" he asked, handing her a mug. It was tea, properly brewed, the scent of Earl Grey comforting and familiar.
"Truce," she said, her anger dissipating as she wrapped her hands around the warm china.
