Chapter three

Chapter Three

Day two of pitch prep, and I was drowning in research.

The Martinez Architecture office was silent except for the hum of air conditioning and the occasional car horn from the street below. Everyone else had gone home hours ago,it was past midnight, the city lights glittering through the floor to ceiling windows like scattered diamonds.

I’d been at this since dawn, and my eyes felt like sandpaper. The conference table in front of me was buried under blueprints, historical documents, renovation case studies, coffee cups in various stages of abandonment. I’d read everything I could find about Ashford Tower, studied every detail of its Art Deco glory, analyzed Marcus’s previous projects to anticipate his approach.

He’d go modern. Sleek. Minimalist. All about efficiency and maximizing rentable square footage. I’d stake my degree on it.

Which meant I needed to go the opposite direction.

I turned back to the original 1929 blueprints, spreading them across the table under the harsh fluorescent lights. The tower was magnificent,sixty stories of geometric precision, elaborate metalwork, the kind of craftsmanship that didn’t exist anymore. Every detail told a story about the jazz age, about ambition and glamour and the belief that beauty mattered as much as function.

That’s when I saw it.

My finger traced along the elevation drawing, and something didn’t add up. The floor heights between fifty one and fifty two were wrong,too much vertical space, nearly twenty feet where there should only be twelve. I grabbed the floor plans, laying them side by side, and felt my pulse quicken.

There was an entire level sealed between floors. A hidden space that didn’t appear on any of the modern documents.

I pulled out the original architectural drawings, the ones from 1929 that showed every detail of the building’s construction. And there it was, rendered in beautiful precision: a ballroom. An entire Art Deco ballroom with vaulted ceilings and what looked like hand painted murals. Adjacent to it, a bar area with elaborate woodwork. Even a small stage for live music.

A speakeasy. They’d built a secret speakeasy into one of Manhattan’s most prestigious towers.

“Oh my God,” I breathed, leaning closer. This was it. This was the centerpiece of my pitch. Not demolition and modernization, but restoration,bringing back something beautiful that had been lost. Making the building legendary again instead of just relevant.

I was so absorbed in the drawings that I didn’t hear the footsteps in the hallway. Didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t register I wasn’t alone until a voice behind me said:

“You found it.”

I spun around, heart leaping into my throat.

Dominic stood in the doorway, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

He wore jeans,actual jeans, dark and perfectly fitted,and a gray henley that clung to his shoulders in a way that made my mouth go dry. No suit, no tie, his hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. Casual in a way I’d never seen him before, and somehow even more devastating because of it.

“Jesus,” I pressed a hand to my chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. Your father gave me the alarm code years ago.” He stepped into the room slowly, like he was approaching something dangerous. “Didn’t expect anyone to be here this late.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I managed. “Thought I’d get some work done.”

“Same.” His eyes moved over the conference table, taking in the chaos of my research, before landing on the blueprints spread in front of me. His expression changed. “The ballroom.”

“You knew about it?”

“I discovered it five years ago, during a routine structural inspection.” He moved closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne,sandalwood and something darker that made me want to lean in. “The space is still intact, just sealed off. Original murals, the bar, even some of the furniture under dustcovers.”

“Why didn’t you restore it then?”

His jaw tightened. “Vanessa wanted to. She loved that kind of thing,the romance of speakeasies, jazz age glamour, secret places. We used to talk about throwing parties there once we brought it back to life.” He paused, his voice going rough. “She died before we could make it happen.”

The air between us felt charged, dangerous. This was the first time he’d voluntarily mentioned his wife to me, and I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid of breaking whatever fragile moment this was.

“It was our anniversary,” he continued quietly, staring at the blueprints like they held answers. “We fought about the restoration budget. She thought I was being too conservative, that we should do it right or not at all. I said we needed to be practical. She got angry, said I’d forgotten how to dream.” His hand clenched into a fist on the table. “She drove off, and three hours later, the police were at my door.”

“Dominic.” I reached out without thinking, covering his fist with my hand. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He looked down at our joined hands, and this time, he didn’t pull away. His fingers slowly uncurled, turning palm up to lace with mine. The touch was electric, intimate, achingly careful.

“You said that two years ago,” he said roughly. “In the garden. Before I kissed you and ruined everything.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“Didn’t I? You left a week later. Haven’t been back since.”

“Because you told me it meant nothing. That you were drunk and it was a mistake.”

“I lied.” The words came out like they’d been torn from somewhere deep inside him. “I lied because you deserve better than a broken man twenty years older than you who can’t stop seeing you as his best friend’s daughter one minute and wanting you the next. I lied because I thought if I pushed you away hard enough, you’d find someone appropriate. Someone like James Sterling who could give you a normal life.”

“I don’t want someone like James.”

“You should.” But his thumb was stroking over my knuckles, betraying his words. “You want to know why I didn’t call? Why I spent two years pretending you didn’t exist?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can’t trust myself around you.” His voice dropped to something raw and honest. “Because every time I see you, I remember how you felt in my arms. How you tasted. How you looked at me that night like I was something worth saving.” He pulled his hand away, dragging it through his hair. “I’m twenty years older than you, Bella. I’m your father’s best friend. I watched you grow up. I taught you how to ride a bike, for Christ’s sake. This is wrong on every level that matters.”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“I know.” The heat in his gaze could have melted steel. “That’s the fucking problem.”

He stepped closer, and suddenly there was barely a foot of space between us. I could see the pulse jumping in his throat, could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You think I didn’t notice you before that night? You think I don’t remember the summer you turned twenty one, at the lake house?” His voice was rough silk and dark promise. “That blue swimsuit you wore. The way you looked coming out of the water with your hair wet and the sun behind you. I had to leave the dock because I couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking things I had no right to think.”

My face flamed. I remembered that swimsuit. Remembered catching him looking at me, then looking away fast like he’d been burned.

“I’ve been in hell for two years, Bella. Trying to forget. Trying to do the right thing. Trying to be the man Victor thinks I am,the man who would never touch his daughter. The man who can be trusted.”

“What if the right thing,” I said, stepping even closer, “is being honest about what we both want?”

The air between us crackled with electricity. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I watched him wage an internal war,duty versus desire, loyalty versus hunger.

“If I touch you now,” he said hoarsely, “I won’t stop at touching.”

“Good.”

He closed the distance so fast it stole my breath. One moment there was space between us, the next his hand was cupping my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. His touch was reverent, like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.

“If I kiss you now, I won’t stop,” he repeated, his voice wrecked. “I won’t be gentle. And I won’t be able to pretend anymore that you’re just Victor’s daughter. That this is just inappropriate attraction I can logic away. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.” I leaned into his touch, my own hand coming up to cover his. “I understand. And I don’t care.”

His thumb traced my lower lip, and I felt the touch everywhere. “You should care. Your father—”

“Isn’t here.”

“He trusts me.”

“Then maybe he shouldn’t.”

Something in him snapped. I saw it in his eyes,the moment the walls came down, the moment he stopped fighting. His other hand came up to frame my face, and he looked at me like he was memorizing every detail.

“Bella,” he whispered, and my name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once.

Then his phone rang.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. We both froze, still touching, still breathing too hard, as his phone buzzed insistently in his pocket.

He pulled it out with a shaking hand. The screen showed: VICTOR CALLING.

Reality crashed back with brutal, unforgiving force.

“Fuck,” Dominic breathed, stepping back so fast he nearly knocked over a chair. He answered, his voice somehow steady despite the chaos I could see in his eyes. “Victor. What’s up?”

I couldn’t hear my father’s response, but I watched Dominic’s face as he listened. Watched him reconstruct every wall, every defense, every carefully maintained boundary.

“Yes, I stopped by the office to look at the tower specs. Wanted to get a head start on understanding the scope.” A pause. “No, no one else is here. Building’s empty.” His eyes met mine, and the lie sat between us like a living thing. “I’m heading out now. See you tomorrow for golf? Great. Yeah, I’ll be there. Eight sharp.”

He ended the call and we stared at each other in the fluorescent light, both of us breathing too hard, both of us knowing we’d come within seconds of crossing a line we could never uncross.

“You should win this pitch,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Marcus is good,technically excellent, actually,but you’re brilliant. The ballroom idea, the restoration approach, that’s exactly the kind of thinking this project needs. That’s what the tower deserves.”

“Dominic—”

“Don’t throw it because of me,” he cut me off. “Don’t hold yourself back or second guess yourself because you’re afraid of what it means if we’re working together every day. Promise me.”

“I promise. But—”

“I have to go.” He was already moving toward the door, putting distance between us like his life depended on it. “Lock up when you leave. And Bella?” He paused in the doorway, not looking back. “Don’t come to the office alone at night anymore. It’s not safe.”

We both knew he wasn’t talking about the neighborhood.

Then he was gone, and I was alone with blueprints and coffee cups and the ghost of his touch still warm on my face.

His words echoed in the empty office: *I won’t be gentle.*

I touched my cheek where his thumb had been, felt my pulse still racing, and made a decision.

I was going to win this pitch. I was going to create something so brilliant, so perfect, that there would be no question I’d earned it on merit.

And then I was going to make Dominic Ashford break every rule he’d set for himself.