Arielle paced.
Back and forth across the plush carpet, glass untouched on the side table, the sliding divider door between their rooms still firmly shut.
She should've felt smug.
She'd pushed him. Teased him. Made him blink first.
And yet… it didn't feel like a win.
Not with the way her heart was still racing, or the way her skin still buzzed like it had been marked by the way he looked at her. Like he knew things about her she hadn't admitted even to herself.
She tugged the strap of her slip dress back into place with a frustrated sigh and plopped onto the edge of the bed. For once, she didn't scroll her phone. Didn't call a friend to brag. Didn't even fix her lipstick.
Because none of it would matter to Dominic Raine.
He didn't care about her name.
Her looks.
Her curated chaos.
He saw through it. Saw her.
And that scared the hell out of her.
She stood again, restless, walking to the floor-length window. City lights blinked back at her from the dark—beautiful, distant, and cold. A little like him.
No man had ever made her second-guess herself before.
She was Arielle Sinclair.
She was the problem. The storm. The girl with too much attitude and not enough shame.
But now?
Now she was standing in a hotel suite with a man who hadn't even kissed her—and still made her feel like her whole world was tilting on its axis.
Her fingers brushed her lips.
They were still parted.
Still expecting.
Still waiting for a moment that hadn't come.
Not yet.
Her eyes drifted toward the closed divider door.
What would he do if she walked in?
Would he push her away again?
Would he touch her?
Would he strip her down, not just from her clothes—but from the lies she wore like armor?
She took a step toward the door.
Then another.
And stopped.
No. Not yet.
Because the scariest part wasn't what Dominic might do.
It was what she might want.
And wanting him—really wanting him—meant giving up the game.
No masks.
No attitude.
Just her.
Raw. Exposed.
And maybe… just maybe… loved.
She backed away, slowly, and crawled into the massive bed alone.
Not because she wasn't tempted.
But because she finally realized—
This wasn't about winning anymore.
It was about surrender.
The suite had never been quieter.
Arielle lay on her side, curled beneath the hotel's pristine sheets, but sleep refused to touch her. Every time she closed her eyes, he was there—his voice in her head, low and certain.
"You're a storm I plan to survive."
She huffed and flipped to her other side.
He said he wasn't scared of her. But maybe—maybe it was her who was scared of him.
Of what he made her feel.
She wasn't used to this kind of stillness. Not the kind that settled into her bones and made her question things. Not the kind that made her long for something more than power and pride.
A shadow moved under the doorframe of the divider, and her breath caught.
Did she imagine it?
No. There it was again—quiet movement, the kind of footsteps only someone deeply controlled could make. Dominic.
She sat up slowly.
The sliding divider hadn't opened.
But she could feel him.
Not just in the next room.
Watching.
Hovering on the edge of the moment like he was waiting for something. Permission, maybe. Or a reason.
She pushed the covers off her legs and padded toward the door. Her fingers hovered over the handle.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
And then—softly—she heard him speak.
"Might want to stop pacing," his voice rumbled from the other side, "before I think you're inviting me in."
Her lips curled into a smirk before she could stop it. Of course he'd been listening. Of course he'd say something that made her stomach twist in the most infuriating way.
"I'm not pacing," she replied, leaning her forehead against the cool wood of the divider. "I'm deciding whether or not you're worth the effort."
There was a long pause.
Then: "I'm not."
Another pause.
"But I'm honest. And I don't play halfway."
That did something to her. Twisted something warm and dangerous deep in her gut.
She slid the door open two inches. Just enough to see the silhouette of him—shirtless now, standing near the window, his body cast in shadow and city light. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of water.
He looked at her over his shoulder.
"Still deciding?" he asked.
She leaned against the frame.
"I never said I wanted you in my bed."
He turned to face her fully now.
"You didn't have to."
Her breath stilled. The way he looked at her—unflinching, unreadable, unbearably calm—made her ache.
It wasn't lust.
It was pressure. Power. Patience. Like he could wait forever, or walk away without a backward glance.
And that pissed her off more than anything.
"God, you're impossible," she said, voice low.
Dominic took a step closer, closing the distance until they stood just a foot apart—divider wide open now, nothing but tension between them.
"You think I want to want you, Arielle?" he said, voice dark, dangerous. "You think this is easy? You walk around like the world owes you worship—but I see you."
He reached up and brushed a knuckle along her jaw.
"And what I see is a woman terrified to let someone in."
Her throat tightened.
"And what if I am?" she asked, softly. "Would you still want me?"
He leaned in, his mouth barely brushing hers—not kissing. Promising.
"I'd want you more."
She almost caved. Almost leaned forward.
But instead, she stepped back.
And smiled.
"You should get some sleep, Mr. Raine," she whispered. "Big day tomorrow."
She closed the divider softly behind her, heart pounding like war drums.
But not before she saw his lips curl into the faintest smirk.
Dominic Raine didn't need to win tonight.
Because they both knew—
She was already undone.