Chapter Nine

Cracks in the Armor

Time became a weapon.

Days bled into nights, and Aurora learned to measure her survival in boardroom victories and breathless moments stolen behind closed doors.

Zane kept her on a razor’s edge. In meetings, he was merciless — questioning her decisions, dissecting her strategies, pushing her until her voice trembled with restrained fury. But beneath the hostility lived something more volatile — awareness, electric and undeniable.

Every glance felt like a test. Every word, a blade. And still, she kept winning.

By the second month, she had outperformed everyone on the floor. Even his most loyal executives began to take notice. They called her “the Ice Queen,” a name she secretly cherished. It meant her mask was working. No one could see the chaos underneath.

But Zane could. He always could.

Their secret meetings continued — unscheduled, untraceable. Sometimes it was his office after hours, sometimes a darkened penthouse window overlooking the city’s glittering sprawl. Each encounter began as business and ended as something far more dangerous. He never asked for more than she gave, but his presence devoured her self-control piece by piece.

It wasn’t love.

Not yet.

It was something darker — a collision of ambition and addiction.

One night, after a brutal twelve-hour day, she found him waiting by the elevator. The floor was deserted, silent except for the soft hum of electricity. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled to the elbow — a dangerous contrast to her polished perfection.

“You handled yourself well in that board review,” he said, voice low.

“Did I?” Her tone was sharp, but her pulse betrayed her. “Because it felt like you wanted to break me.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

He stepped closer, eyes glinting under the fluorescent light. “Because I need to know what it takes.”

“What what takes?” she challenged.

“To destroy you,” he said simply. “Or to trust you.”

Her breath caught. “That’s not trust. That’s control.”

“It’s both. And it’s the only language I speak.”

The elevator doors slid open behind her, but she didn’t move. She hated him — the arrogance, the games, the way he peeled away her composure like silk from skin. And yet, when he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she didn’t stop him.

“You shouldn’t touch me here,” she whispered.

“I shouldn’t,” he agreed. “But tell me to stop.”

Silence.

That was her mistake — her moment of surrender.

He didn’t kiss her. He didn’t need to. The tension was the kiss. The withheld breath. The trembling that started at her throat and worked its way down until she wasn’t sure where anger ended and need began.

When the doors finally closed between them, Aurora pressed a hand to her chest, trying to slow the thunder of her heart.

He was unraveling her. Thread by thread.

And she was letting him.

Later that night, her phone vibrated on the nightstand. A message.

> Come to me.

No explanation. No address. But she didn’t need one.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she typed:

> You’ll never own me.

His reply came instantly.

> We’ll see.

The words haunted her long after she turned off the lights.

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