The ride back from the gala was the quietest car ride of Elara's life.
Damien sat beside her in the backseat, his profile sharp against the city lights flashing past the tinted windows. He looked like a marble statue — flawless, cold, untouchable.
Meanwhile, Elara was trying very hard not to hyperventilate.
Her pulse still hadn't slowed from the dance floor, where he'd looked at her like she was the only woman in the room. Where his hand on her waist had felt like it was branding her through silk. Where she was this close to kissing her boss — her billionaire, infuriating, emotionally unavailable boss.
She shifted in her seat, tugging at the hem of her gown. She needed to say something. Anything.
"So… fun night," she blurted, immediately wanting to throw herself out of the moving car.
Damien's gaze flicked to her, unreadable. "You handled yourself well."
"Handled myself?" she repeated. "I wasn't a horse at an auction, Damien."
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. "Could've fooled me. The way you attacked that canapé tray—"
Her cheeks flamed. "Excuse you, those mini crab cakes were the only thing standing between me and a social anxiety-induced fainting spell."
That smirk deepened, but he didn't reply.
The silence stretched again. Elara picked at her clutch, desperate to fill the void. "So, uh… about the dance…"
His jaw ticked. "Forget it."
Her stomach dropped. "Forget it?"
"It was a dance, Hart. Nothing more."
Elara's mouth opened, then closed. Right. Of course. Nothing more. Why would it be anything else? Just because she'd practically melted in his arms didn't mean he had.
"Right," she said too brightly. "Just a dance. Totally normal boss-assistant activity."
He didn't answer, and she swore she saw the faintest flicker in his eyes — something hot, something unguarded — before he turned away.
---
The next morning, Elara walked into the office with her head held high and her dignity duct-taped together.
Forget it, she told herself. Pretend it didn't happen. You can do this.
She lasted exactly twenty-three seconds.
Because Damien Kane walked past her desk, crisp in his tailored suit, his cologne trailing after him like a sin, and didn't so much as look at her.
And that hurt. More than it should've.
She slammed her coffee mug down on her desk, muttering, "Fine. Two can play the ice king game."
---
But two couldn't. Not when her pulse jumped every time he called her into his office. Not when their hands brushed over paperwork and it felt like electricity. Not when she caught him watching her once, late in the afternoon, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before snapping back up to her eyes.
She nearly dropped her pen.
It was torture.
She wanted to scream at him. Shake him. Demand: What the hell are we doing?
Instead, she plastered on her sassiest smile. "Need anything else, Mr. Kane?"
He studied her for a beat too long, then said smoothly, "That'll be all, Hart."
She closed his office door behind her, pressed her back against it, and whispered to herself, "I am so screwed."
---
That night, lying in bed, Elara replayed the dance over and over. His hand on her waist. His eyes locked on hers. That almost kiss.
She buried her face in her pillow with a groan.
It was nothing. He said so himself. But her heart refused to listen.
And the most dangerous part?
She wasn't sure if Damien Kane had convinced himself of the same lie.