Dirty Valentine’s Secret

The February wind didn’t just blow in Manhattan; it screamed between the skyscrapers, a jagged blade of ice searching for any gap in a coat to bite the skin. My heels clicked unevenly on the sidewalk, the sound swallowed by the roar of yellow taxis and the frantic pulse of a city that never stopped to check if you were breathing.

I was late. Exactly six minutes late.

I ducked into the revolving doors of Hawke Tower, the sudden transition from the biting cold to the climate-controlled stillness of the lobby making my skin prickle. It was a cathedral of limestone, chrome, and calculated arrogance. I caught my reflection in the elevator’s polished doors—I looked like the professional I pretended to be. My ash-brown hair was pinned into a tight, sensible knot, and my grey eyes were wide, masked by a layer of caffeine-fueled resolve.

But inside, I was a frayed wire.

As the elevator surged upward toward the 68th floor, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A phantom limb, I reached for it.

Victor (Dad): I need cash, Aria. They’re watching the apartment. Don’t ignore me.

I squeezed the phone until my knuckles turned white. I didn't have cash. I barely had enough in my checking account to cover the subway fare for the rest of the week, let alone the "interest" my father owed the men with scarred knuckles and no last names. I shoved the phone back into my bag. If I landed this contract—if I became the lead event coordinator for the Hawke Valentine’s Gala—the commission alone would buy my father’s life. It would buy my grandmother’s surgery. It would buy me a breath of air that didn't feel like drowning.

The doors slid open with a soft, expensive chime.

The 68th floor was a world of glass. No walls, just transparent partitions that made you feel like you were walking on air, thousands of feet above the ant-like chaos of the streets. It was silent, save for the hum of high-end ventilation.

I pushed into the boardroom. The air pressure seemed to drop instantly.

Eight executives sat like stone gargoyles around a black obsidian table. Their faces were indistinguishable—rows of expensive silk ties and silver watches. But at the head of the table sat the man who owned the air itself.

Ethan Hawke.

He wasn't looking at the door when I entered. He was staring at a tablet, his profile a study in sharp, aggressive angles. His dark hair was a mess of calculated rebellion, thick and ink-black against his pale, unreadable skin.

"You’re late, Ms. Monroe," he said. He didn't look up. His voice was a low vibration, a resonance that seemed to hum in the very floorboards beneath my feet.

"The N-train had a signal malfunction," I started, my voice sounding thin in the vast room. "I apologize for—"

"I don't pay for signal malfunctions," he interrupted. He finally looked up.

The world stopped.

I had prepared for a billionaire. I had prepared for a shark. I had not prepared for those eyes. They weren't just blue; they were a storm-tossed Atlantic, deep and violent and terrifyingly familiar. A jolt of electricity, cold and sharp, bolted down my spine. I knew those eyes. I knew the way his lower lip had a tiny, almost invisible scar on the left side.

Ethan? The name died in my throat. It couldn't be. The Ethan I knew had been a boy with nothing but a chipped guitar and a promise to never let me go. This man was a titan who crushed companies for breakfast.

"Sit," he commanded. It wasn't an invitation.

I sat. My movements felt robotic. I opened my folder, my fingers trembling slightly as I laid out the proposal for the gala. "Mr. Hawke, the Hawke Tower Valentine’s Gala has a tradition of—"

"The tradition is boring," he said, leaning back. He crossed his arms, the fabric of his charcoal suit straining against his broad shoulders. "It’s a room full of people who hate each other pretending they believe in love for the sake of a tax write-off. Sell me something else, Aria. Sell me the lie."

He said my name like a challenge. Aria.

I took a breath, forcing the phantom memories of a boy in a Florida rainstorm to stay buried. I spoke about exclusivity. I spoke about 'Dark Romance' aesthetics—deep velvets, black roses, and hidden corners. I spoke about the psychology of luxury. As I talked, he watched me. He didn't look at the slides. He didn't look at his notes. He watched the way my mouth moved. He watched the pulse in my neck.

He was a predator, and I was pinned under his gaze.

"Enough," he said, cutting me off mid-sentence. He stood up, and the sheer physical presence of him seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. He was taller than the tabloids suggested, a looming shadow against the midday sun. "The rest of you, out. I want to discuss the... finer points of this contract with Ms. Monroe alone."

The executives didn't hesitate. They vanished with a rustle of paper and the soft click of the door.

I remained seated, my hands flat on the obsidian table. The silence was deafening. Ethan walked toward the window, looking out over the Chrysler Building.

"You’ve done well for yourself, Aria," he said softly. The coldness was gone, replaced by a terrifying intimacy. "From a trailer park in the Glades to a glass office in Manhattan. It’s a long way to run."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "How do you know where I’m from?"

He turned around. The sun hit his face, highlighting the cruelty in his smirk. "I make it my business to know every detail of my assets. And right now? Your father is five minutes away from having his legs broken, and your grandmother is on a waiting list for a surgery she won't live long enough to see."

He walked toward me, each step deliberate. He stopped when he was inches away, his shadow falling over me like a shroud. He leaned down, placing his hands on the table on either side of my chair, trapping me. The scent of sandalwood and cold rain filled my senses.

"I’m not here to plan a party, Ethan," I whispered, the use of his first name a slip of the tongue I couldn't take back.

"I know," he breathed, his eyes dropping to my lips. "You’re here because you’re desperate. And I’m here because I’ve been waiting seven years to hear you admit it."

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. The touch was agonizingly soft, a sharp contrast to the coldness in his eyes.

"I have a different contract in mind, Aria. One that pays much more than a coordinator's f*e."

I looked up at him, my grey eyes clashing with his blue. "What do you want?"

"I want you to be my fiancée," he said, his voice dropping to a possessive growl. "For the next three weeks, you belong to me. You wear my ring, you sleep in my house, and you convince this city that I am capable of love. In exchange? Your debts vanish. Your grandmother gets her surgery tomorrow."

"And if I say no?"

Ethan leaned in even closer, his lips almost brushing mine. "Then you can watch the world burn from the sidewalk. But we both know you won't. You were always the girl who sacrificed everything for the people who didn't deserve it."

He straightened up, the warmth of his body vanishing. He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the obsidian, stopping right in front of my shaking hands.

"Midnight, Aria. That’s your deadline. If you aren't at my penthouse by then, the deal is off, and your father is on his own."

He turned his back on me, returning to the window. "You're dismissed."

I stood up, my legs feeling like lead. I didn't look back. I grabbed my folder and fled the room, the image of his cold, blue eyes burned into my mind like a brand.

Outside, the snow had begun to fall, dusting the city in a deceptive, beautiful white. But as I stood on the curb, watching the elite of New York walk by, I realized I wasn't just cold. I was hunted.