Chapter 3

Monday morning arrived far too quickly.

Ethan stood outside Hart Studio at 7:52 a.m., eight minutes earlier than he had dared to arrive. Dante’s warning If you’re early, you’ll wait outside. If you’re late, don’t come at all echoed in his skull like a command carved in granite.

He wiped his damp palms on his trousers, trying to slow his breathing. The glass façade reflected a ghostlike version of him, wide eyed, tense, not at all like someone who belonged in a world of prodigies and perfection.

But he was here.

Because Dante Hart had said start Monday.

And because something about the man had turned Ethan’s pulse into a frantic metronome.

At exactly 8:00 a.m., the doors unlocked with a soft click.

Ethan stepped inside.

The studio buzzed differently today.

People moved with precision designers carrying rolled blueprints, assistants typing rapidly at sleek workstations, model builders hunched over miniature structures under halo lights. Everything was clean, intentional, and brimming with silent competition.

Eyes flicked to Ethan as he passed. Quick. Assessing. Curious. Some, blatantly territorial.

He could almost hear the whisper rolling under the surface:

The new one.

He’s the one Dante picked.

Why?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

A tall woman with sharp cheekbones and a tight bun approached him with clipped efficiency.

You’re Ethan? she asked, voice cool but not unkind.

Yes. Ethan Matthews.

I’m Mira. Senior architect. Dante asked that I introduce you to the team.

Asked??

Not instructed.

Not ordered.

The distinction scraped softly against Ethan’s nerves.

Thank you, he said, falling into step beside her.

She led him along a row of drafting tables. We move fast here. Sink or swim. If you need hand holding, you won’t make it.

Understood, Ethan said.

Mira shot him a sideways glance. You’re nervous.

A little.

Good, she said. Means you care.

He wasn’t sure if that was comfort or warning.

Team Introductions

Mira gestured him forward as she listed off names.

This is Sebastian modeling. Liam visual simulations. Benjamin junior architect. Each greeted him with varying degrees of warmth. Some genuine, some polite, some cold.

Then her tone sharpened.

And this, she said, stopping at a corner desk, is Marcus Reeve.

Marcus looked up slowly.

Ethan felt the temperature drop.

Marcus was striking in an entirely different way than Dante handsome, polished, eyes a sharp steel blue that took Ethan in without blinking. There was a calculation there. Challenge. And underneath it, something that felt too close to disdain.

So, Marcus said, leaning back in his chair with folded arms, you’re the new favorite.

Favorite?

The word hit Ethan like a blade slipping beneath the ribs.

I’m just here to work hard, Ethan said cautiously.

Marcus smirked. That’s what they all say. Until they realize whose attention they’re competing for.

Before Ethan could process that, Mira cut in. Marcus has been here for three years. He trains new hires.

Some, Marcus corrected. Not all.

His eyes drifted pointedly over Ethan again.

Heat crawled up Ethan’s neck, though he wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or irritation.

Don’t mind him, Mira said, pulling Ethan onward. Some people don’t like surprises.

Ethan cast one more glance at Marcus who still watched him with unnerving intensity before moving on.

Whispers Follow Him

The tour ended near a long stretch of windows. Mira handed him a folder.

Your desk is over there. Organize yourself. Dante has you shadowing him today.

Ethan’s heart jumped.

Mira noticed. Don’t romanticize it. He’s demanding. He’ll push you harder than anyone else. That’s how he treats his assistants.

That’s fine, Ethan said, though his voice felt thin.

She studied him a moment longer, then walked away.

As soon as she did, Ethan heard soft murmurs rising behind him from neighboring desks.

He won’t last a week.

Dante only chooses ones he thinks he can mold.

No, ones he thinks he can break.

Did you see the way Dante looked at him on Friday?

That was unusual.

Ethan’s chest tightened.

He wasn’t sure which part unsettled him more, the expectation of failure, or the insinuation that whatever Dante had felt during their first meeting had been visible.

He set down his bag and tried to focus. Try to breathe.

But the tension pulsed under his skin.

Dante Arrives

The shift in air was immediate.

The low hum of conversation died abruptly. Chairs straightened. Movements sharpened.

Dante Hart entered the studio without theatrics, without a sound other than his measured footstep but his presence commanded the room regardless. Dark shirt. Rolled sleeves. Focus sharpened like a blade.

Ethan felt the breath leave his lungs.

Dante didn’t look around. Didn't need to. The space adjusted to him.

His gaze swept once across the studio, methodical, indifferent.

Then

It landed on Ethan.

Heat shot up Ethan’s spine so fast he nearly stepped back. Something unreadable flickered in Dante’s eyes, recognition, expectation, something else he couldn’t name.

Dante turned to Mira. Is he settled?

Yes, she replied.

Good. Ethan; my office.

My office.

Two words, enough to send Ethan’s pulse into a wild staccato.

He followed Dante down the hallway, aware that dozens of eyes followed him. The glass walls made everything too visible. 

Marcus watched with a narrowed gaze. Liam whispered something to Benjamin. Everyone dissected the distance between Ethan and Dante too close, too quick, too personal for a first day.

Ethan tried to force the tension from his shoulders, but every step made his awareness sharper. Heightened.

Dante walked in front of him, a shadow cut in precise lines, radiating control.

Dante’s office was expansive floor to ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, the faint smell of paper and cedar. Architectural models stood like silent sentinels.

Dante motioned to a seat across from his desk. Sit.

Ethan obeyed.

Dante studied him for a moment before speaking. You made an impression on Friday.

Ethan’s heart lurched. I didn’t mean to.

Not good or bad, Dante interrupted. Just distinct.

Distinct felt worse than impressive. Distinct meant noticeable. Exposed.

Dante leaned back in his chair, hands steepled. I expect clarity. Precision. Focus. If you struggle with any of those, say it now.

Ethan shook his head. I’ll manage.

Dante’s eyes narrowed subtle, but intense. You’re nervous again.

I’ll get used to things.

Not if you keep staring at me like you did on Friday.

Ethan’s breath stilled.

Dante didn’t blink. Does it still happen?

Shock punched through Ethan. What? No, I'm doing my best not to.

Not to what? Dante pressed softly. React? Look? Feel?

Heat slammed into Ethan’s cheeks.

I don’t know what you think I’m feeling, he whispered.

Dante stood suddenly, walking around the desk until he stood beside Ethan too close, too warm, too much.

You think I can’t tell? he murmured.

Ethan’s lungs tightened. Tell what?

Dante’s gaze traveled subtle, deliberate from Ethan’s eyes to his mouth, then back.

A slow exhale. Everything.

Ethan’s pulse thundered.

Dante straightened. We have a meeting in ten minutes. You will take notes. And you will focus. His voice dropped even lower. Can you do that, Ethan?

Ethan nodded too quickly.

Dante turned toward the door.

Ethan scrambled to stand, but his hand knocked against the side of the chair, clumsy with nerves. The pen he’d been holding slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor.

The sharp sound froze Dante in the doorway.

Ethan bent to grab it and at the same moment, Dante turned back.

Their hands collided.

Ethan inhaled sharply because the touch was brief but electric, searing through him like a live wire.

Dante’s fingers brushed his cool and sure.

Ethan looked up at him, breath caught midway.

For the first time, Dante’s composure fractured. Not visibly not to anyone else but Ethan saw it. A flicker. A tightening of his jaw. A shift in his breath.

The faintest sign that Dante felt something too.

He withdrew his hand slowly.

Careful, he said quietly. You’re shaking again.

Ethan stood, heart pounding so hard he thought Dante could hear it.

I’m fine, Ethan lied.

Dante’s eyes darkened not with anger, but something far more complicated.

No, he said softly. You’re not.

A beat.

A breath.

The air thickened between them.

Dante stepped back, regaining full control of himself.

We’ll talk later, he said.

Then he added barely above a whisper

If you can handle it.

Before Ethan could speak, Dante opened the door and walked out, leaving Ethan breathless, unsteady, and drowning in questions he wasn’t ready to ask.

And as Ethan stepped out behind him, legs still trembling; he caught Marcus watching from the hallway, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.

But one thing was clear:

Marcus had seen everything.

And he wasn’t going to stay quiet about it.