Chapter 2

The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, releasing Ethan into the cool, echoing atrium of Hart Studio. Glass. Steel. Silence sharpened into purpose. Everything about the place felt intentional: clean lines, open air, light poured in through impossible angles as if Dante Hart had shaped the sun itself.

Ethan’s breath caught.

This wasn’t an office. It was a cathedral built from precision and imagination.

His footsteps sounded too loud as he moved across the polished concrete floor, a portfolio clutched against his chest like a shield. His shirt stuck slightly to his back nerves, not heat. He had arrived thirteen minutes early, but it did nothing to calm the riot in his pulse.

He approached the reception desk, where a woman with silver framed glasses looked up from her tablet.

Ethan Matthews? she asked, as though she already knew him.

Yes, he managed.

She studied him for one long, unreadable moment. Then, with a small nod, she stood.

He’s waiting for you.

Those few words struck him harder than they should have.

Dante Hart was waiting for him.

The receptionist guided him down a long hallway lined with floor to ceiling windows. Outside, the city stretched wide and shimmering. Inside, Ethan felt like he was walking toward something irreversible.

They stopped before a matte black door.

Go in, she said, then turned away, her heels clicking briskly down the hall.

Ethan breathes hard. His hand hovered above the handle, fingers trembling.

You wanted this, he reminded himself.

Now go.

He pushed the door open.

And there he was.

Dante Hart stood with his back partially turned, sleeves rolled up, one hand braced against a drafting table as he studied a series of blueprints pinned beneath a strip of warm light. His posture was relaxed yet undeniably controlled, like someone who owned the space around him without effort.

Ethan froze in the doorway.

Dante was even more striking in person, sharper, more intense, as if photographs could never capture the current of energy humming through him. 

Dark hair fell across his forehead in a careless sweep. A crisp black shirt hugged the lean lines of his frame. His presence alone seemed to reshape the air, pulling it taut.

Then Dante spoke low, smooth, without looking up.

You’re early.

Ethan blinked. Yes. I thought it would be better than being late.

Dante then turned.

His gaze, cool, assessing, unblinking hit Ethan with unexpected force. It wasn’t just looking. It was an analysis. Dissection. As if Dante were taking him apart piece by piece, cataloging strengths and weaknesses with a glance.

Ethan’s breath hitched.

Dante stepped closer, each movement calm and deliberate. Punctuality matters. But eagerness; His eyes flicked briefly to Ethan’s tightened grip on the portfolio, then back to his face, can cloud judgment.

Ethan tried to speak. Failed. Tried again.

I can be calm. I mean, I am calm. A beat.

Heat flared across his cheeks. God, stop talking.

Something flickered in Dante’s expression so quickly Ethan almost doubted he saw it. Amusement? Maybe. Or irritation. Or both.

Come, Dante said simply, turning and walking deeper into the studio.

Ethan followed, trying to match the man’s composed stride but feeling like a mismatched shadow. His thoughts tangled. Every time he looked at Dante at the clean angles of his jaw, at the quiet power in the way he moved, his brain short circuited.

They stopped by a large table scattered with models and meticulously placed tools. Dante leaned against it lightly, crossing his arms.

I’m not interested in small talk, Dante said. I want to know why you submitted your portfolio despite knowing I only choose one assistant a year. Most don’t bother trying.

Ethan swallowed. Because your work changed the way I see design.

Dante tilted his head. How?

The single word was a command.

Ethan took a breath.

Your buildings they’re not just structures. They breathe. They hold emotion. Space becomes a story. Shadow becomes an accent. Everything you design feels like it has a pulse.

Dante’s gaze sharpened not softening, not warming, but focusing deeper.

And you think you can create like that?

I want to learn, Ethan said. I want to build something that makes people feel the way your work made me feel.

Dante uncrossed his arms slowly, stepping closer. Ethan could feel the heat of his body now, subtle but undeniable.

And what feeling was that? Dante asked quietly.

Ethan hesitated. His voice came out softer than he intended.

Like I wasn’t just looking at a building. Like I was looking at possibilities.

Silence stretched between them.

Dante’s expression remained unreadable, but something in the air shifted, charged, delicate, dangerous.

Possibility, Dante repeated.

Ethan nodded.

Dante’s eyes swept over him again, as though reevaluating, recalibrating. You speak with conviction. Yet you’re shaking.

Ethan glanced down and felt mortified. His hands were trembling slightly. I’m nervous.

Why? Dante asked. You don’t know me.

That’s the problem, Ethan thought.

He barely knew Dante yet something about the man made the world tilt. His presence was like gravity: invisible, heavy, inescapable.

Before Ethan could form an answer, Dante stepped past him, brushing so close that Ethan inhaled a faint trace of cedar and ink.

The contact so slight, so accidental sent a jolt down Ethan’s spine.

Dante walked toward a long shelf of models, speaking over his shoulder. Let’s look at your work.

Ethan hurried after him, fingers fumbling with the latch of his portfolio. He handed it to Dante carefully, as if offering something fragile.

Dante opened the portfolio without sitting, flipping through pages with unnerving precision. He didn’t hum or nod or make a sound. His face remained utterly blank.

But his silence was not careless. It was dissecting.

Ethan felt sweat prick at the back of his neck.

After several long minutes, Dante closed the portfolio and set it aside.

Your lines are bold. Unexpectedly, he said.

Ethan’s heart lifted slightly.

But, Dante continued, you hesitate in your shading. You compromise when you shouldn’t. And your perspective works while imaginative lacks confidence.

Ethan swallowed hard. I can improve.

Dante stepped closer again, stopping only a breath away. The proximity made Ethan’s lungs stutter.

Most people fold when criticized, Dante said quietly. You don’t. You absorb. That’s good.

Ethan forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. I want to grow.

Dante studied him for a long, charged moment. Then:

Do you always look at people like that?

Ethan blinked. Like what?

Like you’re trying to understand something deeper than what’s in front of you.

Ethan flustered. I didn’t realize I was.

Dante hummed a soft, unreadable sound. Interesting.

The word brushed against Ethan like a touch.

He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

Dante turned away abruptly. Come.

He moved toward a large workspace near the window. Ethan followed, grateful for the distance yet hating it all at once.

Dante gestured to the city beyond the glass. Tell me what you see.

Ethan looked. Movement. Flow. Layers.

Good, Dante said. Now tell me what’s missing.

Ethan hesitated, letting his instincts guide him. A sense of pause. Everything is rushing. There’s no space to breathe.

Dante looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly, as if Ethan had said something he didn’t expect.

That’s not an answer I hear often, Dante murmured.

It’s what I felt, Ethan said softly.

Silence stretched again, but not empty this time. Something hummed beneath it, subtle.

Dante stepped closer once more, closing the distance until Ethan could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

You’re affected, Dante said quietly.

The words struck Ethan like lightning.

I…. what? Ethan whispered.

You’re flustered around me. Why?

Ethan’s breath stuttered. His pulse throbbed against his throat. His mouth opened, but words tangled on his tongue.

I……. .

Dante waited, gaze unwavering, as if peeling back layers Ethan didn’t even know he had.

Say something, Ethan begged himself.

Anything.

But all he managed was a shaky inhale.

Dante’s lips curved barely. A ghost of a smirk.

No answer? he murmured.

Ethan felt the ground tilt beneath him.

Dante stepped back at last, breaking the tension that had pulled taut between them.

You’ll start Monday.

The words landed like a blow.

If you’re early, you’ll wait outside. If you’re late, don’t come at all.

Ethan nodded quickly. Yes. Of course. I’ll be…..

Dante held up a hand, stopping him.

One more thing.

Ethan’s heart thudded. Yes?

Dante’s gaze locked on his, piercing, unreadable.

Whatever pull this is between us, he said slowly, you’ll need to control it.

Ethan’s breath stopped.

His pulse roared.

I don’t tolerate distractions, Dante continued, voice low. Not even intriguing ones.

Ethan’s knees nearly buckled.

Before he could respond, before he could even breathe, Dante turned away, dismissing him without another word.

Ethan stumbled toward the door, dazed, shaken.

His hand was on the handle when Dante’s voice cut through the air.

Ethan.

He turned.

Dante stood in the center of the studio, shadow and light carving him into something unreal.

Next time, Dante said softly, Don't look at me like that unless you know what you want.

Ethan’s breath shattered.

Because I don’t play games.

The door slipped from Ethan’s fingers.

Dante’s gaze pinned him like a force of nature.

And if you keep staring at me the way you did today…

A pause.

A slow exhale.

you might start something you’re not ready to finish.

Ethan’s heart stopped.

Dante turned away.

And Ethan realized too late that the pull he felt wasn’t going anywhere.

It was only getting stronger.