Chapter Six — First Day, First Clash

The morning sun crept lazily over Notting Hill, its light spilling through Dianne’s curtains and landing on her face. She groaned, pulling the duvet over her head.

For a second, she hoped last night had been a dream — the phone message, the smug smirk, the contract she’d never meant to sign.

But when she turned her head, the folder from Sinclair Group sat mockingly on her nightstand, like a sealed promise she couldn’t escape.

“Damn it,” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing her temples. “Just my luck. From bride-to-be to corporate hostage.”

She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled to the mirror. Her reflection stared back — puffy eyes, hair sticking out at odd angles.

“Perfect,” she whispered dryly. “Just the look for a woman about to face her arrogant boss.”

After a long shower and two cups of strong coffee, she was finally ready — sleek ponytail, fitted white blouse, black pencil skirt. Professional armor.

Still, as she stood at her door, bag in hand, she whispered to herself, “You can do this, Dianne. He’s just a man. A ridiculously handsome, insufferable man, but still… a man.”

The lobby of Sinclair Group Headquarters in Mayfair was already buzzing by the time she arrived. People moved with purpose, sleek suits and hushed phone calls filling the air.

Dianne signed in and stepped into the elevator, her pulse thrumming. She wasn’t nervous, she told herself — just annoyed.

When the elevator doors opened to the executive floor, Roy’s voice was the first thing she heard. Deep, calm, commanding.

“…make sure the projections are revised by noon,” he was saying to his assistant, a tall blonde named Tessa who was clearly enjoying every moment of being near him.

Then his eyes met Dianne’s.

For a moment, the air between them seemed to still.

“Miss Blake,” Roy said smoothly, hands in his pockets. “You’re early. I’m impressed.”

Dianne gave a tight smile. “I’m professional. You should try it sometime.”

Tessa’s brows shot up, but Roy only smirked. “Feisty already. This is going to be fun.”

“Fun,” she echoed, walking past him toward the glass-walled meeting room. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

Roy followed her in, closing the door behind them. “Then what would you call it?”

“Punishment,” she said without hesitation.

He chuckled. “You talk like I chained you to a desk.”

“You practically did,” she snapped, dropping her bag on the table.

He leaned closer, his tone dropping to a near whisper. “If I did, Miss Blake, I assure you, you’d enjoy it.”

Her eyes widened, heat rushing to her cheeks. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re blushing,” he said, voice low and teasing. “How interesting.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Sinclair.” She straightened her shoulders, forcing calm. “I’m here to do my job, nothing more.”

Roy smirked, circling her like a predator sizing up its prey. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

By mid-morning, Dianne had immersed herself in her work — a detailed report on how to clean up Sinclair Group’s image after the tabloid incident that tied them both together.

She hated to admit it, but Roy was brilliant. Arrogant, yes, but sharp and calculating. His questions cut to the bone, his insights unnervingly precise.

At one point, he leaned over her shoulder to review a document. His cologne — something dark, spicy, expensive — filled her senses, and she froze.

He’s too close.

Her pulse betrayed her. She swallowed hard, pretending to adjust her screen. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he murmured near her ear. “Carry on.”

She exhaled sharply and turned to face him. “Personal space, Roy. Ever heard of it?”

He stepped back, that damn smirk still on his lips. “You say my name like it’s a sin.”

“Maybe it is,” she shot back.

Their eyes held for a moment too long. Then the phone on his desk rang, snapping the tension.

Roy turned away to answer, his tone crisp. “Sinclair speaking.”

Dianne took the moment to steady her breathing, staring at the reflection of her flushed face in the glass. Get it together, Blake. He’s your boss, not a fantasy.

When he hung up, his voice was calmer, colder. “That was a client dinner confirmation. You’ll be joining me tonight.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re my PR lead. It’s an image meeting. You’ll be there.”

“I have plans.”

He raised a brow. “Cancel them.”

Her jaw tightened. “You really think you can order me around like one of your employees?”

“I don’t think, Miss Blake,” he said with quiet confidence. “I know.”

She glared at him, hands balling into fists at her sides. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said, his tone silk and danger, “you still showed up.”

Later that evening, Dianne sat in her car outside her Notting Hill flat, head against the steering wheel.

She had just survived her first full day working under Roy Sinclair — and somehow, it felt like she’d run a marathon in heels.

Her heart still raced when she thought of his smirk, his voice, the way he looked at her like he could see right through her.

No, she told herself firmly. I’m not falling for that. Not after everything.

She sat up straight, staring out at the quiet street.

“This is business,” she whispered. “Strictly business.”

But deep down, she already knew she was lying to herself.

Across the city, Roy sat in his office, tie loosened, watching the security feed that showed her walking out of the building.

Aaron entered, tossing a file on his desk. “You’ve got it bad.”

Roy didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

Aaron smirked. “You’re watching her leave the building. That’s not business, that’s obsession.”

Roy finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “She’s trouble.”

Aaron chuckled. “That’s the point.”

Roy’s gaze lingered on the screen as Dianne’s car disappeared into traffic.

“Trouble,” he repeated quietly. “The kind I can’t seem to stay away from.”

She tossed her keys on the counter and kicked off her heels, sighing in exhaustion as the silence of her Notting Hill apartment wrapped around her like a blanket. The day had drained every ounce of her energy — mentally, emotionally, and… something else she refused to name.

“God, what a day,” she muttered, collapsing onto her sofa.

Her laptop bag slid to the floor, but she didn’t bother to pick it up. Her thoughts were too busy replaying him. The way his voice dropped when he said her name, the dangerous calm in his eyes, the subtle scent of his cologne that somehow still clung to her blouse.

She shut her eyes tightly. Why am I even thinking about this man?

Roy Sinclair wasn’t just arrogant — he was infuriating. The kind of man who thought the world revolved around him and somehow made everyone else believe it too.

And yet… there was something about him. Something that unsettled her. The quiet confidence, the commanding aura that filled a room before he even spoke, the way his gaze seemed to pierce through her defenses like glass.

No, she thought firmly. I’m not doing this again. Not after Damian. Not after everything.

Her heart still ached at the thought of her ex-fiancé — the humiliation, the public disgrace. She had sworn to never let another man have that kind of power over her again.

But Roy… Roy didn’t even need to try. He just existed, and she felt it. The pull. The challenge. The fire.

“Get out of my head,” she whispered to the empty room.

She stood and headed for her bedroom, too tired to eat. As she unbuttoned her blouse and let her hair down, she caught her reflection in the mirror — the faint blush still staining her cheeks from earlier when he’d leaned in too close.

Her stomach twisted. “I hate that he gets to me,” she said softly.

She climbed into bed, wrapping the duvet around her tightly like a shield. The faint hum of the city outside was her only company.

But her mind wouldn’t stay still.

She remembered the look in his eyes earlier — cold, unreadable, but not cruel. More like a man used to control… and startled by someone who refused to bow to it.

For a fleeting moment, she wondered what he was doing right now. Probably sitting in his penthouse, drink in hand, smug and untouchable as ever.

Does he even think about me?

The thought surprised her — and she quickly buried it.

She turned onto her side, exhaling slowly. “It doesn’t matter. He’s my boss. That’s all.”

But as sleep slowly pulled her under, her last thought wasn’t of reports or deadlines — it was of Roy Sinclair’s eyes, dark and unreadable, and the strange way her heart had stuttered when he’d said her name.