Chapter six

I walked into Ashford Tower at seven forty five on Monday morning, dressed in my sharpest navy suit and heels that clicked confidence against the marble lobby floor. I had rehearsed this moment all weekend, practiced my professional smile in the mirror, prepared myself to be calm and collected and completely in control.

That confidence lasted exactly thirty seconds.

Because when I stepped into the twenty first floor conference room, Dominic was already there.

He stood at the windows overlooking Manhattan, hands in his pockets, looking like he owned not just this building but the entire city stretching out before him. The morning light caught the silver in his hair, made his profile look carved from stone. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly salary, crisp white shirt, no tie yet. He looked different in daylight, sharper somehow, a man who carried empires on his shoulders and made it look easy.

Then he turned and saw me.

Something flickered across his face before he could mask it. Shock, maybe. Recognition. That same dark hunger I had seen in my father’s study, quickly buried under layers of practiced control.

“Miss Martinez.” His voice was formal, distant, like we were strangers meeting for the first time. “Punctual. Good.”

The coldness in his tone cut through my carefully constructed composure like a knife. Miss Martinez. Not Bella. Not even Isabella. Just Miss Martinez, like I was any other employee, any other architect he had hired to work on his building.

I forced my professional smile back into place. “Mr. Ashford. Thank you for this opportunity.”

“Thank the quality of your proposal.” He gestured to the conference table, where blueprints and documents were already spread out. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

The project team filtered in over the next few minutes, six people total including the construction manager, the chief engineer, and a historic preservation specialist. They were all older than me, all men except for the preservation specialist, and they all looked at me with varying degrees of skepticism masked as politeness.

I knew that look. I had been getting it my entire career.

Dominic took his seat at the head of the table, and I sat two chairs down on his right, far enough to be professional but close enough to see the tension in his jaw. The team sensed something off between us but couldn’t name it, their eyes moving between Dominic and me like they were watching a play they didn’t quite understand.

“Let’s begin,” Dominic said, opening the first set of blueprints. “Ms. Martinez, walk us through your vision for the lobby restoration.”

I launched into my presentation, grateful to have something concrete to focus on. The lobby was the heart of everything, the first impression, the promise of what the rest of the building would become. I explained my plans to restore the original Art Deco metalwork, preserve the geometric marble patterns, update the lighting systems while maintaining period authenticity.

The team asked questions. I answered them, confident in my research, in my vision. This was my element. This I could control.

Then Dominic leaned forward to point out a detail on the blueprint, and suddenly he was too close.

Way too close.

The scent of him reached me first, cedar and clean soap and something indefinably him. His shoulder nearly brushed mine as he turned the page. His hand moved across the blueprint, long fingers tracing the elevation drawing, and when he reached for his pen, the back of his hand grazed mine.

It was accidental. Had to be.

Except his entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump. He withdrew his hand like I had burned him, shifting away in his chair, putting deliberate space between us.

I stared at the blueprint, forcing myself not to react, not to acknowledge what had just happened. My skin tingled where he had touched me. Five seconds of contact and my pulse was racing.

This was going to be impossible.

“The numbers here don’t work,” Dominic said, his voice slightly rough. He cleared his throat. “The structural load for the restored ceiling fixtures exceeds the original specifications. You’ll need to reinforce the support beams.”

“I disagree.” I pulled up my calculations on my laptop, angling the screen so everyone could see. “The original beams were overengineered by 1929 standards. They can handle the additional weight if we distribute the load correctly. Reinforcement would require invasive construction that could damage the original materials.”

“That’s a significant risk.”

“It’s a calculated risk. And it’s the right one if we want to maintain architectural integrity.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re prioritizing aesthetics over safety.”

“I’m prioritizing both. That’s what good architecture does.”

The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. The rest of the team shifted uncomfortably, looking between us like they weren’t sure if they should intervene or just let us fight it out.

Dominic leaned back in his chair, studying me with an expression I couldn’t read. Annoyance, maybe. Admiration. Something darker he refused to name.

“Show me the math,” he said finally.

I did. Walked him through every calculation, every safety margin, every scenario I had considered. By the time I finished, even the skeptical construction manager was nodding.

“She’s right,” the engineer said grudgingly. “The original beams will hold. It’s actually a smarter solution than reinforcement.”

Dominic’s gaze stayed locked on mine for a beat too long. “Fine. We’ll proceed with your specifications.”

It felt like winning something bigger than an argument about ceiling beams.

We moved through the rest of the agenda, discussing timelines and budgets and contractor bids. I held my own, answered every question, proved I belonged at this table. But I was acutely aware of Dominic the entire time, of the way he watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking, of the careful distance he maintained between us.

Two hours in, right as the preservation specialist was explaining the challenges of restoring the original elevator doors, the lights went out.

Complete darkness. Sudden and absolute.

Someone cursed. Papers fluttered as people reached for phones to use as flashlights. The emergency lighting should have kicked in immediately but didn’t. A power failure, probably. Or a blown circuit.

My breath caught in my throat.

I hated the dark. Had hated it since I was seven years old and got trapped in a broken elevator for three hours. The rational part of my brain knew this was just a conference room, knew the lights would come back on, knew I was safe. But the irrational part, the part that remembered being seven and terrified and alone, started to panic.

My hands gripped the edge of the table. My chest felt too tight.

Then a hand found my wrist in the darkness. Strong. Steady. Warm.

His.

“Stay close,” Dominic murmured, so quietly only I could hear. His voice was low, meant only for me, rough with something that might have been concern.

His thumb pressed against the inside of my wrist, right over my racing pulse. He had to feel how fast my heart was beating, had to know I was seconds away from losing it. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t draw attention to my fear, just held on.

I focused on that point of contact. On the solid warmth of his hand. On the steady presence of him beside me in the dark. My breathing slowed. The panic receded.

For just a moment, I allowed myself to lean into his strength, to let him anchor me.

The emergency lights flickered back on, bathing the room in harsh fluorescent glow. Dominic’s hand dropped from my wrist instantly, as if the light had burned him. He shifted away, putting space between us again, his expression carefully blank.

But I had felt the way his grip had tightened just before he let go. Had felt the slight tremble in his fingers.

The team started talking at once, comparing notes on what they had been discussing before the outage, checking laptops to make sure nothing was lost. The construction manager made a joke about the building trying to sabotage the renovation.

Dominic stood abruptly. “Let’s take fifteen. I need to check with building management about the power situation.”

He walked out without looking at me.

I sat there, staring at my wrist where his hand had been, my skin still tingling from his touch. Around me, the team dispersed for coffee and bathroom breaks. The preservation specialist asked if I was all right, and I nodded, forcing a smile.

But I wasn’t all right. Nothing about this was all right.

When the team reconvened, Dominic was back, composed and professional, like nothing had happened. We finished the meeting efficiently, assigned action items, scheduled the next check in for Friday. Everyone gathered their things and filed out, talking amongst themselves.

I was shoving my laptop into my bag when Dominic’s voice stopped me.

“Miss Martinez. A moment.”

I straightened, suddenly very aware that we were alone in the conference room. The door was still open, people passing by in the hallway, but it felt intimate somehow. Dangerous.

“Yes?”

He stood by the windows again, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city. His profile was tense, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.

“How long will you be on this project?” he asked, not looking at me.

The question caught me off guard. “Six months, give or take. Depends on how the construction timeline goes. Why?”

His hands clenched in his pockets. Every part of him seemed to be bracing for something. When he finally turned to face me, his expression was troubled, guarded, like he was fighting a war with himself.

“No reason.”

It was a lie. We both knew it.

“Mr. Ashford—”

“That’s all, Miss Martinez.” His voice went cold again, dismissive. “I’ll see you Friday.”

He turned away before I could push further, before I could ask what he was really thinking, what he really wanted to know. He stared out the window like he was looking for something he couldn’t find, and the tension he left behind settled heavily on my skin.

I gathered my things and walked out, but I could feel his gaze on me as I left. When I glanced back from the hallway, he was still standing at the window, shoulders rigid, hands still clenched in his pockets.

A man at war with himself.

I made it to the elevator before the realization hit me with sinking certainty: working with Dominic Ashford might be the most dangerous thing I had ever done.

Not because of the project. Not because of my father. Not even because of the twenty year age gap or the fact that he was my boss.

But because of the way my heart had calmed when he held my wrist in the dark. Because of the way he had looked at me when I had won that argument, like he saw something in me that terrified him.

Because six months suddenly felt like both too long and not nearly long enough.

The elevator doors closed, and I caught my reflection in the polished brass. My cheeks were flushed. My eyes were too bright. I looked like someone who was falling into something she couldn’t climb back out of.

And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to.