Chapter 4

The conference room was too quiet.

That was Ethan’s first thought as he followed Dante inside, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. The walls were pristine white, broken only by a sprawling window that overlooked the city and a sleek table of pale oak that somehow made Ethan feel both small and exposed.

Dante stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, presence coiled with a controlled intensity that made the air feel tighter. Marcus and Mira entered last, each carrying tablets, their eyes deliberately neutral as if they were preparing to witness something they knew Ethan wasn’t ready for.

Ethan’s sketch a concept Dante had assigned him earlier that morning rested on the display board. Too raw. Too fresh. Too vulnerable.

Dante gestured toward it with a lazy, cutting motion of his fingers.

Let’s begin.

Those words hit Ethan like a pressure drop.

He swallowed. This is a preliminary concept for the riverside pavilion using curved lines to mimic the natural bend of the water. I wanted to create a gentle visual flow…..

Dante cut in. Why curved?

Ethan blinked. Because the river bends.

That’s observation, not intention, Dante said, voice cool and precise. Try again.

Already, Ethan’s stomach twisted.

He forced himself to speak steadily. Because curves soften the experience. They guide movement. They invite people to follow……

Dante’s gaze sharpened like a scalpel. So your design relies on a passive audience?

Ethan’s mouth went dry. No, that’s not….

Then what is it? Dante pushed. Not loudly. Not aggressively. But with a steadiness that made Ethan feel completely stripped bare.

Ethan felt Marcus watching him. Taking satisfaction in every stumble.

He took a breath. I wanted a balance, he said finally. Inviting but intentional. Gentle, but not timid.

Dante studied him for a long beat.

Show me the intention, Dante murmured. Not the fear.

Heat crawled up Ethan’s neck.

Mira leaned subtly forward. Marcus folded his arms.

Dante stepped to the board, standing so close to Ethan that the faint scent of cedar brushed across his senses. He tapped one of the lines in Ethan’s sketch with the tip of a pen.

This, he said, “is hesitant.”

Ethan’s heart sank.

Dante traced part of the arc not touching the paper, but close enough that Ethan followed the movement of his hand with a strange intensity.

You started strong, Dante continued, but you pulled back here, and again here. Why?

Ethan stared at the spots Dante had marked, his breath catching.

Because he’d second guessed himself.

Because part of him had wondered if boldness would disappoint the man standing beside him now.

Because confidence felt dangerous.

He forced himself to answer. I wasn’t sure if the angle worked.

Then you test the angle, Dante said. Not your worth.

The words hit Ethan harder than they should have.

Dante turned toward him closer than before, eyes dark, resolute. 

When you design, Ethan, your lines speak before you do. And right now, yours are saying, I’m afraid of taking space.

Ethan’s pulse stumbled.

Dante wasn’t mocking him, he was seeing him. Too clearly. Too deeply.

And that terrified Ethan more than any mistake he could have made.

He lowered his gaze. I can improve it.

Improving isn’t the point, Dante replied. Owning it is.

Something twisted in Ethan’s chest, fear and exhilaration colliding like sparks.

Show me the version you held back, Dante said softly, dangerously. The one you didn’t draw because you doubted yourself.

Ethan felt his throat tighten. I didn’t put it on paper.

Then draw it, Dante said.

I don’t have…. 

Dante slid a fresh sheet toward him and placed a pencil in Ethan’s hand.

The touch was minimal, nothing more than fingers brushing fingers but Ethan felt it like an electric current.

Marcus exhaled sharply, as if annoyed by the exchange. Mira glanced away as though pretending not to notice.

Dante stepped back, folding his arms. Begin.

Ethan stared at the blank page, pencil trembling slightly between his fingers.

He could feel Dante watching him.

Not judging.

Assessing.

Measuring.

He closed his eyes for half a second. Trust your lines, he told himself. Trust your instinct, not your fear.

He drew.

The first curve sliced across the page bold and unbroken. Then another. And another. The flow is strong. Confidence. Unrestrained. The lines came faster, surer, guided by something that felt less like technique and more like surrender.

When he stopped, the sketch pulsed with life.

Mira leaned forward slowly. Ethan, that's good.

Dante stepped closer again, eyes narrowing not in criticism, but in unmistakable recognition.

That, Dante murmured, “is what I wanted to see.”

Ethan’s breath shuddered.

Dante moved around him, standing just behind his shoulder close enough that Ethan felt warmth radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt.

You thought your instinct was a weakness, Dante said, voice low. It isn’t.

Ethan exhales, unable to trust his voice.

It’s your strength, Dante continued, breath grazing the back of Ethan’s neck in the subtlest, most dangerous way. Don’t hide it from me again.

Ethan’s chest tightened painfully.

He realized too late that he was trembling.

Dante noticed.

His voice dropped even lower. Still nervous?

Ethan forced out, Just focused.

Dante’s gaze flicked to Ethan’s hand, which was still unsteady around the pencil.

You’re lying, Dante said softly. But you’re improving.

Heat washed through Ethan’s body, leaving him breathless.

Marcus made a sound sharp, dismissive. So we ignore the fact that he didn’t follow the assignment at all until you forced him to redraw it?

Dante didn’t turn. We focus on potential, not posturing.

Marcus stiffened.

Dante stepped away, reclaiming his usual cool distance.

Ethan, finalize both concepts, he said. The hesitant version and the honest one. We’ll refine them tomorrow.

Ethan nodded. Yes sir.

Dante paused.

Then without warning his eyes met Ethan’s again. And this time, the intensity there made Ethan’s knees weaken.

This, Dante said, tapping the confident sketch, is who you are when you stop being afraid of me.

The room went silent.

Mira looked down. Marcus stiffened. Ethan’s breath caught somewhere deep in his chest.

Because there was no mistaking the subtext.

No mistaking the charge humming between them.

No mistaking the way Dante had phrased it.

Afraid of me.. Not afraid of failure. Not afraid of pressure.

Emotion swirled inside Ethan, confusion, admiration, hunger for approval, something deeper he refused to name.

And beneath it all excitement. Frightening. Thrilling. Impossible to ignore.

Dante stepped back. Meeting adjourned.

Marcus stormed out first. Mira followed more quietly.

Ethan remained frozen in place, pulse wild, breath tight.

Dante moved past him toward the door and paused.

Without turning, he said:

Ethan.

Ethan’s heart stopped. Yes sir

Dante’s voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a tension that wrapped around Ethan’s spine.

Don’t ever be afraid to challenge me, he said. I don’t want obedience. I want fire.

Fire.

The word seared through Ethan, leaving him unsteady and far too warm.

Dante added, even softer: "And whether you realize it yet or not, you have it.”

Ethan’s breath stilled.

Dante reached for the door.

But just before he opened it, he said; We’ll talk more privately.

Ethan’s pulse stumbled dangerously. About the designs?

Dante half turned, eyes dark and unreadable.

No, he murmured. About you.

Then he left the room.

And Ethan was left standing alone, shaking, breathless, and painfully aware, whatever that was unfolding between them, isn't just professional.

It wasn’t safe.

And it was nowhere near over.