Chapter 6

Orrin’s POV

The moment Aaliyah’s knees buckled in that club, my arms were there to catch her.

Her body slumped against me, warm and soft, her blonde hair spilling over my shoulder like a cascade of sunlight.

The neon lights flickered across her face, her lips parted slightly, and damn, she was beautiful—even passed out drunk.

I couldn’t help but stare. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she mumbled something incoherent, her breath warm against my chest. Cute. Too cute for a woman who’d just danced like she was setting the world on fire.

I chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” I muttered, knowing she couldn’t hear me.

The club was still pulsing, bodies swaying, but I was done with it. No way was I leaving her here, not like this.

I scooped her up, her weight light but solid, and carried her through the crowd. People stared, but I didn’t care.

My driver, Paul, was waiting outside, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw me with a sleeping woman in my arms.

“Don’t ask,” I said, sliding into the backseat of the Bentley.

“Just drive. My place.”

Paul nodded, keeping his questions to himself. “Yes, Mr. Hayes.”

The ride to my Manhattan penthouse was quiet, except for Aaliyah’s soft breathing. I glanced down at her, curled against me, her black dress wrinkled but still hugging her curves.

She looked peaceful, almost fragile, but I’d seen the fire in her eyes earlier—when she’d mixed that drink, when she’d laughed at my teasing.

This woman was a storm, and I was already caught in it. I shook my head, smirking.

“What are you doing to me, Aaliyah Monroe?”

At the penthouse, I carried her to the guest room, the one with the best view of the city. I laid her on the bed, her head sinking into the pillow. Her shoes were still on, strappy heels that looked uncomfortable as hell.

I hesitated, my hands hovering. Should I change her into something more comfortable? No. She’d wake up freaked out if I did.

I settled for slipping off her shoes, careful not to wake her, and unhooked the delicate bracelet on her wrist, setting it on the nightstand. She stirred, mumbling, but didn’t wake.

I stood there longer than I should’ve, watching her chest rise and fall, her face soft in sleep.

“Sleep tight, firecracker,” I whispered, then left.

In my study, surrounded by files and a projector screen and a desk bigger than most people’s dining tables, I tried to focus on work.

But my mind kept drifting to her. Aaliyah. The way she’d smirked when she slid that red cocktail across the bar, calling it a “Monroe Special.”

I leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my hair.

“Get a grip, Orrin,” I muttered. “She's just a deal.”

But she wasn’t. I opened my laptop, curiosity getting the better of me. I typed her name into a search engine, then dove deeper, pulling up everything I could find.

Aaliyah Monroe, 28, owner of a PR firm in New York. Articles praised her early success—savvy campaigns, a knack for spinning brands into gold.

But lately, the chatter was brutal: Divorced by billionaire Henry Smith, replaced by her twin sister. Ouch.

I also found a photo of her at a charity gala last year, all elegance in a silver gown, her blue eyes sharp and confident.

Another of her with Henry, his arm around her, both smiling like they owned the world. My jaw tightened. He’d thrown her away for her sister? Fool.

I dug into her firm’s financials—public records gave me enough to piece it together. She was struggling, clients jumping ship, her reputation tanking post-divorce.

I frowned, leaning closer to the screen. She didn’t deserve this.

A plan started forming, one that went beyond the revenge deal I’d pitched. I could help her, not just to crush Henry and Aurora, but to rebuild her empire.

I closed the laptop, my mind racing. “You’re in deep shit, Hayes,” I said to myself, half-laughing. I barely knew her, and she was already under my skin.

The next morning, I checked on her. The guest room was quiet, sunlight streaming through the windows, painting her in gold.

She was still asleep, one arm flung over the pillow, her blonde hair a mess. I was about to leave when she mumbled, “Cake…”

I stifled a laugh, covering my mouth. Cake? Really? But then her voice shifted, softer, broken. “Henry… why…” A tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the light.

My chest tightened. She was dreaming about him, the bastard who’d hurt her. I wanted to shake her awake, tell her she was worth more, but instead, I grabbed a pen and paper from the desk.

I wrote the note fast, letting my teasing side take over to hide how much her tears rattled me. I told her nothing happened, that she was safe, and—because I couldn’t help it—threw in a jab about her being heavier than she looked.

I added a line about her “yes,” and I meant it. I wanted her to stick to the deal, not just for revenge, but because I wanted her in my life.

I folded the note, left it on the nightstand, and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, I set out croissants, orange juice, and aspirin by the sink. She’d need it. Then I grabbed my coat, called Paul and left for a day of meetings, my mind still on her.

The day dragged, each meeting blurring into the next. By 4 p.m., I was done, my last deal signed. I leaned back in my office chair, the city skyline sprawling beyond the glass.

“Paul,” I called to my driver through the intercom. “Take me to Aaliyah Monroe’s PR firm. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and soon we were weaving through traffic. I didn’t know what I’d say when I saw her, but I needed to.

Her firm’s address was a rundown building above a deli, the kind of place that reeked of desperation. Inside, a young woman with wide eyes—Tara, her assistant, I guessed—looked up from her desk, startled. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Aaliyah Monroe,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “Orrin Hayes.”

Tara’s jaw dropped, like she recognized my name.

“Uh, she’s not here. She… she had a meeting with the Larson Group this morning, but she was late. They left, and she went home. It was bad.”

My gut twisted. “Bad how?”

Tara hesitated, then spilled. “They were pissed. Said she was unprofessional, a liability and lots more. She looked wrecked when she left.”

I clenched my fists, anger flaring—not at her, but at the situation. She didn’t need more blows. She was going through enough already.

“Thanks,” I said, turning to leave.

In the car, I dialed my assistant, Claire. “Get me Richard Larson from the Larson Group. Now.”

Claire didn’t miss a beat. “On it, Mr. Hayes.”

Ten minutes later, Larson was on the line, his voice wary. “Mr. Hayes, to what do I owe—”

“Cut the crap, Richard,” I said, leaning forward.

“You’re signing with Aaliyah Monroe’s firm. Today. No meeting, no excuses. You can check out her pitch later. I know it's solid, and you know it too.”

He stammered. “But she was late, unprofessional—”

“And you’ll apologize for calling her a liability,” I cut in, my voice steel.

“Set up a meeting tonight, 7 p.m., Le Bernardin. Tell her to dress for dinner. Make it happen, or I pull my investments from your company. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, cowed. “I’ll call her now.”

“Good.” I hung up, a grin tugging at my lips.

By 7 p.m., I was at Le Bernardin, seated at a corner table with a view of the entrance.

The restaurant was all elegance—soft lighting, white tablecloths, the clink of crystal glasses. I adjusted my tie as I waited.

Then she walked in, and my breath caught.

Aaliyah was a vision in a red gown, her blonde hair swept up, her blue eyes sharp despite the day she’d had.

She moved with quiet strength, scanning the room, her phone in hand.

When it buzzed, I answered, my voice low. “Aaliyah, turn to your left.”

She froze, her gaze finding mine. Those eyes—bright, fierce, a little wary—locked onto me, and I was done for.

Mesmerized.

She was more than beautiful; she was a force, and I wanted to be near her, to see that fire up close.

I grinned, standing as she approached. “Well, hello, firecracker,” I said, stepping toward her, the world fading around us.