CHAPTER 5

Elara POV

His words lingered in the air, heavy and dangerous. My pen slipped from my hand, clattering against the table, but I didn’t move to pick it up. His presence was too close, his eyes pinning me down as if the whole room had vanished and it was just us.

“I don’t have time for games, Mr. Velasco,” I said, though my voice came out lower than I intended.

“Good,” he murmured. His gaze dipped briefly to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. “Neither do I.”

The silence between us was sharp, like a string stretched too tight, ready to snap at any second. The hum of the lobby faded into nothing. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the subtle scent of his cologne—dark, woodsy, commanding.

I forced myself to move, to break whatever spell he was weaving. I bent down to retrieve my pen, but before I could grab it, his hand was already there.

Our fingers brushed.

Electric. Immediate.

I snatched my hand back as if burned, clutching the pen like it was a weapon. “Thank you,” I said, clipped, almost breathless.

He leaned down, close enough that his breath ghosted over my ear. “Be careful, Ms. Santos. You’re already in over your head.”

My pulse stuttered. I turned to face him, my glare meeting the full force of his smirk. “And you think you’re the one who can drown me?”

He chuckled low, dark, the sound curling through me like smoke. “No,” he said, straightening, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t realize she’s already swimming.”

With that, he walked toward the elevators, leaving me gripping my sketches with trembling hands, my breath uneven, my mind a battlefield of anger and something far more dangerous.

I hated him.

God help me, I hated how much I wanted him.

By the time I walked into the conference room, my palms were still damp. No matter how many times I told myself to focus on the work, my mind kept replaying that moment in the lobby—his voice, his smirk, the way his words slid under my skin like they belonged there.

I laid out my sketches on the long glass table, straightening them until they were perfectly aligned. My armor was precision. My shield was control.

The door opened.

I didn’t need to look up. I knew it was him. His presence filled the room like a storm.

“Ms. Santos,” Adrian said smoothly, taking the seat at the head of the table. “Let’s see if your designs are as stubborn as you are.”

I raised my chin. “I don’t design for stubbornness, Mr. Velasco. I design for people. For spaces that breathe.”

His gaze locked onto mine, unreadable but sharp. “Then show me.”

I walked him through my plans—every line, every detail. My voice steadied as I spoke about natural light, flow, texture, how the space could invite comfort instead of intimidation. I expected interruptions, dismissive comments. But instead, he sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on me, silent. Listening.

Too closely.

When I finished, the silence stretched.

Finally, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. “Interesting,” he said slowly. “Bold. Different.”

I blinked. “You sound almost impressed.”

“Almost,” he said, lips curving. “But bold choices invite bold risks. Are you prepared to fail, Ms. Santos?”

I bristled. “Failure doesn’t scare me. Betrayal does.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it. His gaze sharpened instantly, like he’d caught something I hadn’t meant to reveal.

He stood, closing the distance between us. Too close. Too deliberate. My breath hitched as his hand brushed over the edge of my blueprint, his knuckles grazing mine.

“Then don’t confuse the two,” he murmured. “Because if you keep looking at me like that, Ms. Santos…” His eyes darkened. “…I won’t be able to tell if you’re fighting me—or asking me to give you exactly what you’re afraid of.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I should have stepped back. I should have said something sharp to put him in his place.

Instead, all I could whisper was, “You’re insufferable.”

And his smirk widened, devastating and dangerous. “And yet you can’t look away.”

His words coiled around me, heat and danger in equal measure. I forced myself to look anywhere but his eyes, but they pulled me back every time—dark, steady, unrelenting.

“Do you always do this?” I asked, my voice low, almost a whisper.

His brow arched. “Do what?”

“Play these… games. Push people until they snap.”

He tilted his head, closing the space between us inch by inch, until I felt the warmth of his body brush against mine. “Only the ones who make it worth it.”

My breath caught. His hand hovered above my blueprint, then slid slowly until his fingers were a breath away from mine. The heat of his skin seared me without touch.

I swallowed hard. “This is unprofessional, Mr. Velasco.”

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Then tell me to stop.”

God help me, I couldn’t. The words tangled in my throat, drowned by the pounding in my chest.

Instead, I found myself leaning forward, my lips parting before I realized what I was doing. His gaze dropped to my mouth, and for a heartbeat—one dangerous, fragile heartbeat—he leaned in too.

The air between us snapped like live wire.

“Sir?”

We jolted apart. A junior associate had slipped into the room, clutching a folder to his chest, his eyes wide as if he’d walked into something he shouldn’t.

Adrian straightened instantly, his mask snapping back into place. “Leave it on the table,” he ordered, his voice clipped.

The young man obeyed quickly, retreating as fast as he came. The door clicked shut, leaving us alone again.

My pulse still hadn’t settled. My lips tingled with the ghost of something that hadn’t happened.

Adrian’s gaze lingered on me for one last, scorching second before he turned away, his tone cool, composed, as though nothing had transpired. “We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow.”

I nodded stiffly, gathering my papers with trembling fingers, refusing to let him see the storm he’d left raging inside me.

Because if I stayed a second longer, I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk away.

I left the building with my sketches pressed tight against my chest, as if the paper itself could shield me from the way my body still burned. The Manila night air was thick with rain and exhaust fumes, jeepneys rattling past with blaring horns, but all I could hear was the echo of his voice.

“Then tell me to stop.”

I should have said it. I should have shoved him back, reminded him of boundaries, professionalism, pride—everything I swore I’d protect after Daniel and Cassandra’s betrayal. Instead, I froze. Instead, I leaned closer.

By the time I reached my tiny studio apartment, my legs ached and my chest was tight. I locked the door behind me and dropped my sketches on the desk, staring at them without really seeing.

“This is insane,” I whispered to the empty room.

I kicked off my heels, curling my toes into the cool tiles as I paced. My mind replayed every detail. The brush of his hand near mine, the way his gaze dropped to my lips, the heat in his voice. It was as if my body had betrayed me as much as he did.

I poured myself a glass of water, my hands trembling so badly half of it sloshed over the counter.

“I don’t want him,” I told myself, firm, sharp, like an order. “I don’t.”

But my reflection in the dark window didn’t believe me. My cheeks were still flushed, my eyes still wide. My body remembered the way he leaned in, the electricity snapping between us, even though nothing happened. Nothing.

And yet it felt like everything.