Chapter Eight

ELENA 

I didn’t sleep.

I just lie in bed all night, rehearsing. My presentation. My tone. How to stay professional around Damien Blackwood at an hour when the whole city is still half-asleep.

By 4 AM, I’ve changed outfits three times. The black dress feels too fitted. The pantsuit too harsh. The blouse too revealing. I finally settle on gray slacks and a cream sweater—simple, calm, the kind of outfit that says I’m here to work.

Not to remember the night he already saw me in far less.

Stop thinking about it.

I reach Blackwood Tower at 6:47 AM. The lobby is almost empty. A security guard I don’t recognize. A janitor buffing the marble until it gleams like ice. The elevator ride feels like a punishment—bright metal walls reflecting my tired eyes, my too-tight bun, my hands clenched on my portfolio.

I look like a woman holding herself together with sheer will.

The ninth floor is dark except for one office glowing at the end of the hall. Damien’s office. He’s already inside, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loose, focused on something on his screen.

Did he even sleep?

My footsteps echo lightly on the floor. He looks up when I’m close, and something flickers over his face—relief or something close to it—but it vanishes fast.

“Ms. Martinez. You’re early.”

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” He motions to the chair across from him. “Please.”

I sit. Try not to stare. Try not to remember the way he looked in that hotel room, with shadows softening every sharp line of his face.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Yes. Thank you.”

He pours from a French press. The smell is rich and expensive. He hands me the cup without touching me, but I swear I feel his heat anyway.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Professional, Elena. Stay professional.

“I stayed up finishing the presentation,” I say.

His expression softens. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me. I already know you’re brilliant.”

The compliment is a warm hit to the chest. Too warm.

“The presentation isn’t for you,” I remind him. “It’s for the campaign.”

“Then show me.”

I start. My presentation runs through three strategies—market research, influencers, return projections. He watches quietly, barely blinking. When I finish, he’s silent for a moment.

“The third approach,” he says. “Influencer partnerships.”

“Yes?”

“It’s risky.”

“It’s different,” I counter. “That’s why it works.”

He walks to the window while he thinks. The city is waking up below us—lights, traffic, tiny movements.

“My father built this company on traditional marketing,” he says. “And after he died, the board wanted something new. I’ve resisted.”

This feels personal. I should stay professional. I fail.

“Why?” I ask softly.

He looks back at me. “Because changing things feels like erasing him.”

“Or honoring him by building on what he started,” I say quietly. “I understand more than you think.”

His brows draw together. “How?”

“My parents died when I was sixteen.”

“Car accident?” he guesses.

“Drunk driver.”

He takes it in slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t make it easier.”

We stand there in this strange stillness—two people who learned how to work while carrying grief on our backs.

“My father died two years ago,” he murmurs. “Heart attack. At his desk.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He’d want to go like that,” Damien says. “Working.”

I breathe out. “Then build something he’d be proud of. Not something frozen in time.”

He lets out a tight breath. Then: “Implement all three approaches. Stagger them. I’ll approve the budget.”

I blink. “That’s more money than—”

“I’ll approve whatever you need.” He looks at me directly. “I’m trusting you, Elena.”

My name. Soft on his tongue.

“You won’t regret it.”

He steps closer. “I already make decisions involving you that I should regret.”

“Mr. Blackwood—”

“Damien,” he corrects. “When we’re alone.”

“That’s not appropriate.”

“Nothing about this is appropriate,” he whispers, stepping closer. “I hired you even though I knew I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you were right. About the company. About me.” His voice drops. “And because when you walked into that room, I couldn’t breathe until you spoke.”

“Damien…” His name feels too intimate. “We can’t do this.”

“I know.”

“You said what happened was a mistake.”

“I lied.”

The words settle between us like something alive.

“You regret it,” I say.

“No,” he murmurs. “I regret the timing. The risk. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His hand lifts like he might touch me—but he stops himself.

“I don’t regret you,” he says.

My heartbeat trips.

“I don’t regret you either,” I whisper.

His eyes darken. He steps in closer—

The office door swings open.

We jerk apart.

Claire stands there, holding coffee. Her eyes flick from him to me, taking in everything we’re trying to hide.

“I didn’t realize you had an early meeting,” she says. Her voice is sweet with a sharp edge. “But I see Ms. Martinez has already…taken care of you.”

Damien’s voice hardens instantly. “Ms. Martinez was presenting her campaign plan. We’re finished.”

Claire sets his coffee down slowly. “Marcus wanted me to remind you about the 8:30 meeting. Budget discrepancies.”

Of course. Marcus.

“We’ll handle it,” Damien says.

Claire gives me one last look—sharp, knowing—and leaves.

The second the door closes, I grab my bag.

“I should go.”

“Elena—”

“That was too close. If she says anything—”

“She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” My voice is tight. “And Marcus already suspects something.”

He watches me, jaw tense.

“This can’t happen again,” I say. “No more early meetings alone. We keep distance.”

“You’ll need approvals.”

“Then we do them in groups.”

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

“But I hate it.”

“Me too.”

We stare at each other—wanting something we can’t touch.

“Three weeks,” I say. “I prove myself. Then maybe we figure this out.”

“It’s already something, Elena.”

“Maybe,” I whisper. “But not now.”

He nods slowly. “Three weeks.”

I leave before I lose my nerve.

The hallway is full now—people greeting each other, carrying coffee, laughing, living normal lives.

Not standing in dark offices almost kissing their boss.

I reach my office and close the door. Sit. Breathe.

Three weeks.

I can do this.

My phone buzzes.

Email from Damien:

Budget approved. Show me I was right to trust you.

-DB

PS: Professional distance is smart. Doesn’t mean I like it.

I stare at the message. Then I delete it.

And I get to work.

Three weeks suddenly feels like forever.

And I’m not sure we’ll survive it.