CHAPTER SEVEN: THE MISTAKE

Aria’s POV

What am I going to do?

Shit. Damian is going to lose it.

I stare at the grease stain blooming across clause four of the merger addendum. Black ink, now smeared.

How do I explain this? Sorry, your brother dripped grease on the new merger deal?

I check my watch. Fifty-two minutes until the board meeting.

Okay. Breathe. Reprint.

I shove out of my office, eyes locked on the paper, scanning the stain like it might disappear if I glare hard enough.

I slam into something broad. Solid. A wall that smells like cedar and ink.

The file slips and the papers scatter everywhere. My stomach drops.

I look up.

Noah.

His pale eyes track me with some intrigue. He doesn’t bend down to help.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, dropping to my knees to snatch the papers. “I was in a hurry—”

He steps closer and I freeze.

I think he’ll leave it at that. Noah Reyes usually does.

But he doesn’t move.

“And may I ask,” he says, voice quiet enough that I have to stop breathing to hear it, “why are you in a hurry, Miss Sinclair?”

I swallow. My throat’s sandpaper. “Funny story. The merger you gave me to—”

He bends. Picks up the file before I can finish.

His thumb finds the great stain.

My soul leaves my body.

I want the floor to crack open. Swallow me, the stain, the whole damn merger.

He looks from the paper to my face. No anger. No smile.

“Care to explain?”

I took a deep breath. “Luca came to my office for lunch. He made a mess.” I gesture at the file, forcing a laugh that comes out broken. “But I can fix this, I swear—”

I reach for it.

He doesn’t let go.

His grip isn’t tight. It’s final. The paper between us, his knuckles white against the black ink.

“I can help with that,” Noah says.

A beat. Then: “My office.”

He turns. Expects me to follow.

We walk in silence. His pace measured. Mine one step behind, clutching the rest of the ruined file like my life depended on it.

His office is cold. Glass, steel, no personal photos. Just law books and a view of Manhattan that makes you feel small.

He doesn’t sit. He holds out his hand.

“File.”

I hand it over. My fingers brush his palm.

His thumb grazes my knuckles. Barely there. Gone before I can name it.

He drops the file on his desk and wakes his keyboard. “I’ll retype it.”

Relief hits so fast my knees wobble. “Why don’t we just photocopy it? To save time.”

“Photocopying sets the stain.” His eyes stay on the screen, but his voice loses its edge. “It’ll reproduce darker. Damian will see it.”

Right. Of course. Stupid.

I bite my lip. “I’m sorry. I’m wasting your time.”

His fingers pause for a second.

“You’re not,” he says.

“And,” he adds, typing again, “Damian fires people for typos. He’ll crucify someone for negligence. You don’t deserve that.”

I watch him. The way his jaw ticks when he concentrates. It puzzles me.

He glances up. Catches me staring.

“Question?”

The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I just… why are you helping me? I thought you didn’t like me.”

His fingers stop.

“I don’t,” he says finally.

The air leaves my lungs.

I wait for the rest. For the insult. For the dismissal.

He gives me silence instead.

So I fill it. Because I’m stupid like that. “You acted like I was a pest this morning. Like I was annoying you.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t look up. Just types one line. Deletes it.

I think he’s not going to answer.

“Don’t take it personally.” His voice is the same. Quiet. Even. But his eyes lift from the screen now. And they’re not cold. They’re… assessing. Like he’s deciding how much truth I can handle.

“I find people annoying,” he says. “In general.”

A pause. His thumb taps once against the desk. The only tell he has.

“It’s not a you problem, Aria.”

He says my name. This is the first time he’s said that.

It shouldn’t matter. But my stupid heart stutters anyway.

I nod because I don’t trust my voice.

We go back to silence.

But it’s different now.

He slides the finished, perfect, grease-free page across the desk to me. His fingers don’t linger.

But the corner of his mouth does. Not a smile. Just… less of a straight line.

“Thanks,” I manage, picking it up. The word feels too small for what he just did.

He grunts. One syllable. Dismissal.

And just like that, he was back to usual.

I turn for the door, file clutched to my chest like armor.

“Aria.”

His voice stops me cold.

I turn.

He’s not looking at the screen anymore. He’s looking at me. Really looking.

“You can always come to me,” he says.. “If you need anything.”

Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it.

I nod. Because “thank you” would break whatever this is.

His eyes drop back to his keyboard ending the conversation.

I slip out of his office and shut the door quietly behind me.

My heart’s still doing something stupid in my chest. Something it clearly shouldn’t be doing.

I press the warm page to my ribs. The heat slips through my blouse, but it doesn’t calm the fluttering under my skin. Why did it feel so good speaking to him? I think I have lost my mind entirely. Please God help me.