When Serena’s apartment door swung open, warmth and the scent of jasmine candlelight spilled into the hall. Serena took one look at Camille’s face, the suitcases at her feet, and pulled her into a fierce, wordless hug.
“How about some wine?” Serena said into her hair, her voice thick with understanding. “And ice cream. The good kind.”
Camille’s composure, held together by sheer will for the last hour, fractured. A single, hot tear escaped, then another. She let Serena guide her inside, the cozy, art-filled space a stark, beautiful contrast to the penthouse’s cold grandeur.
“They told me to leave after I said I wouldn’t quit my new job,” Camille finally managed, sinking onto Serena’s overstuffed sofa.
“Good,” Serena said, handing her a glass of red wine. “Their loss. Their monumental, idiotic loss.” She sat beside her, tucking her feet underneath her. “Tell me everything.”
Camille sipped the wine, the bold flavor grounding her. She recounted Leander’s concern for her and his kind gesture of bringing her soup tonight, the awkward scene with her parents at the penthouse, and his quiet, firm defense of her.
“He told them their attention should be on me,” Camille whispered, the memory of his voice, low and certain, sending a fresh wave of warmth through her. “He said I deserved… safety.”
Serena’s eyebrows shot up. Then a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Oh, honey. He didn’t just bring you soup. He brought a whole damn revolution to your doorstep.”
“It’s not like that. He was just being decent.”
“Decent men don’t stare down Vivienne St. James over chicken noodle soup. Decent men don’t look at a woman in silk pajamas and tell her she deserves a soft place to land.” Serena leaned forward, her hazel eyes sparkling. “That man wants you. And not in the way Damian Cross wants you as a shiny trophy for his mantelpiece. Leander Drake sees you. The real you. And from everything you’ve told me, he’s perfect for you.”
A blush heated Camille’s cheeks, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like embarrassment. It felt like recognition. Like a dam inside her, holding back a sea of want, had sprung a leak. “I… I think I might want him, too,” she admitted, the confession terrifying and exhilarating. “It’s terrifying.”
“The good stuff always is,” Serena said, clinking her glass against Camille’s. “Now, you’re staying here as long as you need. Tomorrow, you go to that job you love, and you show that lion exactly what you’re made of.”
Later, in Serena’s guest room surrounded by unfamiliar shadows, sleep came in fits and starts. The anxiety was a live wire under her skin. But beneath it, steady and sure, was a new certainty: something had shifted. A door inside her had opened, and she had finally, bravely, stepped through.
The morning light through Serena’s windows felt borrowed, illuminating a life Camille was visiting, not living. The disorientation was a physical thing, a slight tilting of the world where the polished floors of her past had vanished, leaving her balancing on the narrow beam of the present.
She dressed with deliberate care in a tailored charcoal dress, armor for the day ahead. The practical concerns hummed in the background—a mental list of bank accounts to separate, a real estate app to download—but they were quieter than the steady drumbeat of resolution in her chest.
She was choosing this. The job, the chaos, the terrifying, thrilling unknown.
Walking into the Drake Holdings lobby felt different today. The marble no longer echoed with judgment but with possibility. This wasn’t a detour; it was the main road. As she rode the elevator up to the forty-second floor, she rehearsed calm, professional phrases in her mind.
Good morning, Leander. Here is the daily schedule. Do you need anything specific from me today?
She placed her purse at her desk, smoothed her dress, and crossed the short distance to his open office door.
But the professional script evaporated the second she saw him.
Leander stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning sun highlighting his profile. And there, along the strong line of his jaw, was a dark bruise and a deep cut bisected his lower lip.
Worry, hot and immediate, lanced through her. It bypassed every boundary and every careful rule about personal space and professional decorum. Her heels clicked a rapid staccato across the floor before she even realized she was moving.
“What happened?” She didn’t stop at his desk. She closed the final distance and in a move that felt both instinctive and profoundly intimate, her hands reached for his. “Who did this?”
He turned his head, his green eyes meeting hers. The sight of the damage up close made her stomach clench. This was no minor scrape. This was a message.
“Two men. Last night, outside my building.” His voice was a low rumble, laced with a residual aggression that vibrated through their joined hands. “They carried Damian’s scent all over them. That attack was because you work for me now. A warning shot.”
The confirmation landed with physical force. Her quiet unease about Damian crystallized into a cold fury. The polished charm, the calculated compliments—it was all a veneer over this. Over sending thugs to brutalize a rival. She thought of her near-miss dinner, the pressure from her parents, and a violent shudder of revulsion went through her. It wasn’t a missed opportunity; it was stepping to the edge of a cliff she hadn’t seen.
“That manipulative bastard,” she breathed, anger burning away the fear, tightening her grip on his hands.
His thumbs moved, slow strokes across her knuckles. The contact was a live wire, grounding her frantic energy and charging the air between them all at once. They stayed like that, their hands locked, neither of them wanting to end the contact.
The vulnerability spilled out of her then, pulled forth by the rawness of the moment. “My parents told me to leave last night.After you left. They demanded I quit working for you. I said no. I told them I was tired of being controlled.” She heard the slight tremor in her own voice and hated it.
His expression darkened, but not with anger at her. A pained guilt flashed in his eyes. “That’s my fault. My intrusion, my overstepping with them?—”
