~Karla's POV~
The next morning, I stand in front of my closet like I'm picking armor for battle.
I settle on a soft blue button-up and dark jeans, and look professional but not stiff. Confident, but not trying too hard. I even brush my hair twice. Big effort for someone I claim not to care about impressing.
Tessa leans in the bathroom doorway, sipping her protein smoothie like a judgmental gym instructor. "You dress cute when you're angry."
"I'm not angry," I lie. "I'm... focused."
She snorts. "Focused on Vale's jawline, maybe."
I chuck a hair tie at her. "I hope you choke on your spirulina."
*****
At Vale & Co., the air hums with Monday tension.
I settle into my desk, trying to look casually indifferent as Dominic walks by with Claudia, deep in conversation. He doesn't glance at me—not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
And for some reason, that stings more than it should.
Good, I think. Keep walking. Stay cold. Stay consistent.
But ten minutes later, I get the Slack message:
DOMINIC VALE:
Conference Room B. 10 minutes. Bring the revised campaign rollout.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. "Round two," I mutter.
*******
Inside the glass room, I'm setting up my notes when he walks in alone.
No, Claudia. No team.
Just him.
He doesn't sit at the head of the table this time. Instead, he drops into the chair beside me.
Okay. That's new.
"I looked over your edits," he says without looking at me. "Better. Cleaner. The tone's sharper."
My hands freeze over my laptop. "So… you approve?"
"I didn't say that," he replies, but there's no bite in his voice.
He finally glances over—and for the briefest second, there's something different in his expression. Less ice. More... interest?
Not in the campaign.
In me.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "So what's this meeting really about?"
He watches me for a beat too long. "You're not like the others."
I blink. "What does that mean?"
He looks back at the file. "You speak your mind. You don't flatter. You challenge."
"I thought you hated that."
He pauses. "I don't."
The silence stretches, thick enough to touch.
My heart kicks against my ribs—out of confusion or curiosity, I don't know. I grip my pen like it's going to anchor me to sanity.
"Was that... a compliment?" I ask slowly.
Dominic smirks. Just barely. "Don't get used to it."
He stands and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to say, "Update the client deck. You're leading the next call."
Then he's gone.
And I'm left wondering what the hell just happened.
Again.
As soon as the glass door clicks shut behind Dominic, I sit there for a full thirty seconds in stunned silence.
Did that just happen?
Did Dominic Vale, CEO of Charm-and-Chill Deficiency Inc., not only almost compliment me but also say I'm "not like the others" and not insult me?
No. Nope. That wasn't real.
I need a moment.
I rush into the bathroom and lock the door behind me, pressing my back against the wall like I've just escaped a hostage situation.
Phone out. Thumbs flying.
KARLA:
tessa. emergency. An emotional meltdown is happening. whisper-screaming in corporate bathroom rn
TESSA:
omg WHAT DID HE DO NOW
Is he yelling or staring??
or worse... smirking??
KARLA:
smirked.
Complimented me.
SITTING NEXT TO ME IN A MEETING. NO SNOWSTORM. NO, CLAUDIA. JUST US.
TESSA:
…
ok, that's it. I'm buying a dress for your future wedding right now.
KARLA:
TESSA, I'M SERIOUS
TESSA:
So am I (followed with an emoji)
I let out the quietest groan of my life, my forehead lightly thudding against the cold bathroom tile. I've lost control of the plot. I don't even know what genre I'm in anymore.
I wash my hands like that's going to cleanse the chaos, smooth my shirt, and walk back out with what I hope is a composed face and not a billboard that says dominic said something nice and now I'm spiraling.
*****
Back at my desk, I try to focus on literally anything besides the memory of his voice. The way he said I wasn't like the others. The pause before he said he didn't hate it.
Then—
Ping.
A message. But not on Slack this time.
FROM: Dominic Vale
Subject: Meeting—My Office
Time: Now.
My mouth goes dry.
My office.
This will be the first time I step foot in his office.
I mean—his real office. Not a conference room, not a hallway ambush. The place with the private espresso machine and the skyline view that screams, "I don't even use this chair, but it costs more than your rent."
I check my reflection in the screen, smooth my shirt again, and then slowly stand.
As I head to his office, every step feels loud.
Not because of my heels.
But because something between us is shifting—and we both know it.
And whatever happens on the other side of that door?
I'm not ready.
But I knock anyway.
I knock once, expecting a clipped "Come in."
Instead, the door swings open—automated, because of course it is—and I step inside.
And holy hell.
This isn't just an office.
This is an empire.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one side, overlooking half of Manhattan like it belongs to him. The skyline blurs in the morning light—ruthless, glittering, and impossibly far away. The floors are black marble, polished so perfectly I catch a faint reflection of myself. Warm-toned furniture, sleek and modern. And on one side, not a minibar—not a cart—but an entire glass wine island, encased with dim lighting, lined with bottles that probably cost more than my tuition.
The air smells like leather, aged oak, and something deeper.
Power.
There's no desk clutter. No chaos. Just a world sharpened to perfection.
And standing in the middle of it, sleeves rolled up, talking into a Bluetooth earpiece and tapping notes into a tablet—
Dominic Vale.
He ends the call and turns toward me without missing a beat.
"Close the door," he says, his voice calm but commanding.
I do.
He nods toward the seat across from the minimalist black desk, where two velvet chairs face him like they've never been used without permission. I sit slowly, eyes still trying to take in every corner of the room.
He leans on the desk, arms crossed, sleeves hugging his forearms in a way that feels criminal.
"This won't take long," he says. "I wanted to run through the adjustments you made for the campaign—especially the tone shift. The messaging's more mature now. Less flashy."
I nod. "I thought it better aligned with the emotional hook. The audience research pointed toward depth."
He hums a small note of approval. "Smart call."
I should be taking notes.
I should be paying attention.
But for the first time, I really look at him.
And it knocks the breath from my lungs.
His face is cut like something drawn, all harsh edges and quiet perfection. Strong jaw, clean lines, lips made for secrets. His voice, low and unbothered, is velvet over ice—something I could almost fall asleep to if it weren't usually being used to make me question my career.
God,This man is breathtaking.
Just like the magazines.
Worse, even. Because now I know the voice, the way his eyes move when he's thinking, the way his tone sharpens when he's annoyed.
And the way it softens—just slightly—when he speaks to me now.
"Your instincts are good," he says, finally glancing up at me. "I don't say that often."
I clear my throat. "I can tell."
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—more like the idea of one.
And suddenly the room feels too quiet. Too expensive. Too full of something I don't know how to name.
Before I lose my balance completely, I stand. "Is that all?"
"For now."
I nod, turning for the door.
"Smith," he says.
I pause.
"Don't second-guess yourself. You were right to push back."
My chest tightens. I don't turn around. I just nod once more and walk out.
The door clicks shut behind me.
And I exhale like I've been holding my breath the entire time.