The moment Alan Blake's fingers closed around her wrist, Amelia felt like she'd been struck by lightning. Not in the painful, jarring sense, but something far stranger, deeper. Her entire body lit up with an electric awareness that didn't make sense. He wasn't hurting her, not even remotely. In fact, his grip was surprisingly gentle, careful even. But there was a kind of force in the way he held on, like a man who was used to being in control of every room he entered, every deal he signed, every moment that unfolded around him. It was that entitled kind of certainty that made her freeze, her instincts flaring to life before she could process why.
And then, like a stone dropped into still water, his touch sent ripples through her mind, uninvited, unwelcome, but impossible to ignore. Images slammed into her consciousness: a half-remembered dream, one that had haunted her for years. Silk sheets tangled around limbs, expensive cologne lingering in the air, strong arms around her waist. Broad shoulders looming in a dim-lit room. Her stomach lurched at the déjà vu so intense it made her lightheaded. She was almost certain, almost that she'd never met this man before. And yet... his touch felt right in a way that defied logic. Like her body remembered something her mind had long since buried.
And Alan? He wasn't doing much better.
The moment his skin brushed hers, his brain short-circuited. Something was off, off in a way that sent a jolt down his spine and spun his world sideways. Her wrist was delicate beneath his fingers, warm, pulsing with a quickened heartbeat that seemed to sync with his own. The scent of jasmine hit him like a sucker punch to the chest. That same scent from the sachet he'd found tucked inside the suitcase that wasn't his. That misplaced piece of luggage he hadn't thought twice about until now.
He inhaled sharply. Something about this woman, her energy, her presence, her scent, was triggering every alarm in his system, but not in a bad way. In a maddening way. Like trying to remember the lyrics to a song you've heard in another life. He realized with a jolt that he was holding his breath. Why? He didn't know. Couldn't explain it. But she made him forget himself, and that... that was rare.
Amelia's instincts screamed at her to pull away. Six years of doing everything alone, six years of raising three children without help, of fighting her way back from disgrace, had sharpened her reflexes to something near primal. No one got close unless she allowed it. And this man? This stranger? She hadn't allowed anything.
But something, she couldn't even name made her hesitate.
That same strange something that had caught her eye when she saw him roll toward the elevator earlier. It hadn't been just the way he moved, or even the aura of quiet power that clung to him like a second skin. No, it was something deeper. More visceral.
She turned slowly, pulse still hammering where his hand held her wrist. Her eyes dropped first to the wheelchair, sleek black leather, clearly custom-built and likely cost more than a mid-range car. But as her gaze lifted, breath caught in her throat.
He was gorgeous.
Not in that over-polished, filtered-to-death way she was used to seeing in Gatham City's elite. This was something else. Real. Dangerous. Lethal in the way storms were, beautiful from afar, but capable of unraveling you in seconds.
The suit was tailored to perfection, charcoal grey, crisp lines that accentuated broad shoulders and a powerful chest. A man who didn't just wear power but lived in it. He was probably the type who ran multi-billion-dollar corporations before breakfast and still made it to the gym by eight. But none of that compared to his face.
His eyes were the first thing she noticed, dark, intense, and slightly tilted at the corners, giving him a predatory look. There was a watchfulness to them, like he was cataloging every detail, weighing every possibility, calculating every risk. It was terrifying. And stupidly attractive.
His nose was straight and strong, his jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds, and his lips, full, unsmiling, but shaped in a way that made her imagine what they'd look like if he did smile. Devastating, she decided. If he ever smiled, it would be devastating.
He radiated wealth, status, confidence. But there was something raw underneath it all, something untamed. And strangest of all, something familiar.
Before she could speak, his voice cut through the haze. "That scent," he demanded, low and urgent. "Where did you get it?"
Just like that, the spell shattered.
Amelia's eyes narrowed, and her spine stiffened. Reality slammed back into her like a freight train. What the hell was she doing? Letting some stranger hold her wrist and interrogate her in a hotel hallway? Wheelchair or not, this was crossing the line.
"Excuse me?" she snapped, her voice laced with incredulity. "Are you seriously grabbing random women to ask about their perfume?"
The expression on Alan's face shifted like a storm front moving in. His usual calm CEO mask faltered, crashed, really and for a beat, he just stared at her like he'd never been challenged before in his life. Which, frankly, he probably hadn't. The confusion was almost comical.
"You don't understand," he said, voice quieter but no less intense. "That specific fragrance…"
"No, you don't understand," she cut in, icy fury sharpening every word. "I don't care what your situation is. I don't care if you're dealing with some condition that makes life harder, it does not give you the right to lay hands on people. That's called harassment."
The temperature seemed to plummet ten degrees.
Alan's hand dropped away as if burned, but his jaw tightened. Behind him, the younger man, his assistant, she assumed, let out a nervous sound.
"Miss," he began, voice clipped. "Do you have any idea who…."
"I don't care if he's the King of Spain," Amelia shot back, steel in her spine. "Touching strangers and interrogating them about perfume is not okay. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
She stepped into the elevator and slammed the button, her hand trembling with fury and adrenaline. As the doors slid shut, she caught one last glimpse of him, those intense eyes burning with something unreadable, his perfect face set in hard, furious lines.
"The nerve of that woman!" Samuel burst out once she was gone. "Sir, should I call security? Have her removed?"
Alan didn't answer immediately. His expression had gone frighteningly still, the kind of stillness that made board members sweat and enemies rethink their decisions. Slowly, his fingers drummed once, precise, deliberate, against the armrest.
"No," he said finally, calm but cold. "Find out who she is. And verify if there was a luggage mix-up at baggage claim."
"But sir…"
"Now, Samuel."
The assistant nodded sharply and rushed off. He knew that tone. And he knew that look. Alan Blake wasn't angry, at least not in the normal way. He was intrigued. That woman had said no. She'd looked him in the eye and rejected him outright. It was insane. And unforgettable.
As the hallway emptied, Alan's hand dipped into his jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the silk sachet with that haunting scent. His mind spun with the echo of her voice, the heat of her skin, the fight in her gaze.
Who was she?
And why did his soul react like it knew her?