Sparks and Clashes

Amara’s POV

By the end of my first week at Cruz Holdings, I realized one thing: Damian Cruz had made it his personal mission to drive me insane.

Every morning, I arrived early, hair neat, blazer ironed, determination etched into my bones. I told myself that today, I’d prove I could handle this internship with grace. I’d be the kind of intern who kept her head down, took notes, and maybe even impressed him enough to secure a good recommendation letter.

But Damian Cruz seemed to have other plans.

“Ms. Lopez,” he’d call from his office, his voice like ice. He never even looked up from his computer. “Get me the quarterly reports. The unedited ones.”

Five minutes later, before I’d even finished organizing them: “Lopez. Where’s the coffee? Black. No sugar. This is not black.”

And then, right when I thought I could breathe, he’d casually toss another pile of impossible documents on my desk. “Correct the formatting. By noon.”

By noon. As if time bent for him.

Clara, my desk-mate and fellow intern, leaned toward me once and whispered, “He doesn’t usually bother with interns. Don’t take it personally.”

But how could I not? The man barely spoke in full sentences to anyone else. Yet with me, he seemed to have an endless stream of commands, critiques, and thinly veiled insults.

By Thursday, my patience cracked.

I set a folder on his desk, trying to be professional, but he didn’t even glance at the work. Instead, he looked at his watch.

“Ms. Lopez,” he said coolly, “you’re three minutes late.”

I blinked. “Late? I wasn’t late. The printer jammed.”

His storm-gray eyes lifted, sharp as knives. “Excuses.”

My jaw clenched. “Facts.”

The silence stretched between us, crackling like static. His stare pinned me to the spot, unreadable, calculating. For a split second, I swore I saw amusement flicker in his eyes, like he almost enjoyed this. But then it was gone, replaced by that cold, perfect mask.

“Be careful, Ms. Lopez,” he said softly, his voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. “That mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble.”

I leaned forward, heart pounding so hard it echoed in my ears, and whispered back, “Maybe it’s time someone troubled you.”

The look he gave me then… it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t annoyance. It was something darker. Something dangerous. It made my pulse race and my knees weak, and for one horrifying second, I forgot how to breathe.

I bolted from his office before I could lose my nerve.

Damian Cruz was going to ruin me. One way or another.

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Damian’s POV

She was trouble from the start.

Most interns at Cruz Holdings keep their heads down. They’re grateful just to breathe the same air as me, grateful to have the company name on their résumé. They scurry like mice, obey like soldiers, and fade into the background. That’s the natural order.

But Amara Lopez? She defied it.

She argued. She pushed back. She rolled her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking. She looked me in the eye when she answered, which most employees avoided entirely.

And instead of firing her—which I could have done with a single word—I found myself provoking her more.

“Three minutes late,” I told her today, fully aware the fault wasn’t hers but the office printer that should have been replaced months ago.

Her reply—“Facts”—was so bold I nearly laughed. Nearly.

I shouldn’t find it entertaining. I shouldn’t find her entertaining. Yet every clash left me more intrigued.

She was fire in a place full of ash. Her temper burned hot, but underneath, I saw steel.

And steel… steel could be molded.

When she leaned forward and whispered, “Maybe it’s time someone troubled you,” something inside me shifted. Most people feared me. Some hated me. But no one dared to challenge me.

No one but her.

She was reckless. Dangerous. Infuriating.

And I couldn’t look away.

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Amara’s POV

By Friday, even Clara noticed how tense things had become.

We were eating lunch in the break room, the hum of the vending machine filling the silence. I unwrapped my sandwich, trying to pretend my week hadn’t been dominated by one man and his infuriatingly perfect jawline.

“Amara,” Clara whispered, leaning close. “What is going on between you and Mr. Cruz? He’s… different with you.”

I nearly choked on my sandwich. “Different? He’s a tyrant!”

She smirked knowingly. “Maybe. But he’s paying attention to you. That never happens. Usually, interns are invisible to him.”

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly got stuck, but heat crept up my neck anyway. “Well, I don’t want his attention.”

“Don’t you?” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

I swatted her arm, laughing it off, but my chest tightened at her words. Because the truth was, his attention was impossible to ignore. Every glance, every test, every sharp word—it all lit a fire under my skin I didn’t understand.

And as much as I hated to admit it… part of me wondered if he felt the same.

Because every time he looked at me, it wasn’t just irritation in his eyes. It was something heavier. Something that felt a lot like danger.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to escape it… or fall deeper into it.