The city never truly slept. At night, its pulse shifted, becoming slower, heavier, more dangerous. Glass towers still glowed like molten steel against the black sky, and the roads hummed with a restless rhythm of headlights and exhaust fumes.
Elena sat in the back of Adrian's sleek black car, her hands knotted tightly in her lap. Her body still thrummed with leftover adrenaline, her cheeks warm from the lingering closeness in his office, the ghost of his nearness etched into her every nerve.
He sat beside her, silent, commanding, his profile sharp as stone against the faint reflections of passing streetlights. He didn't look at her once during the drive.
That somehow made it worse.
Because if Adrian Blackwell looked at her—if those piercing storm-grey eyes turned toward her—she was afraid she'd do something reckless. Like remember the exact heat of his hand when it brushed her wrist. Or imagine leaning into his cologne and undoing every rule she'd ever made for herself.
But he didn't look.
He didn't speak, either.
And the silence weighed heavier than words.
Elena forced herself to stare out the tinted window. The city blurred, neon signs flickering across her vision, streets packed with late-night diners, couples, drifters. She felt like she was inside a cage, and Adrian was the man who held the key—without even realizing it.
Finally, when the car stopped at the restaurant—a discreet, dimly lit rooftop place that screamed "exclusive" even without the gold-lettered sign—he shifted, his low voice breaking the silence.
"Stay close," he said. "Don't speak to anyone unless I introduce you. Do you understand?"
His tone wasn't cruel. It was protective. Possessive.
Elena swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, Mr. Blackwell."
His eyes flicked toward her for a fraction of a second at the title—something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he turned away.
The driver opened the door, and Adrian stepped out first, tall and broad-shouldered, radiating effortless dominance. The kind of man who made people pause, who turned heads simply by existing.
Elena followed, her heels clicking softly against the pavement, the cool night air sweeping across her skin. She smoothed her dress instinctively, acutely aware of every detail—the daring dip of the neckline, the slit that brushed her thigh, the faint trace of Adrian's cologne that clung to her from sitting so close.
Inside, the restaurant buzzed with the quiet hum of wealth. Soft jazz curled through the air, waiters in crisp uniforms moved like shadows, and every table was occupied by men and women who could afford to be here.
Adrian's hand pressed briefly, firmly, against the small of her back as he guided her forward. It was a simple touch, fleeting—but Elena's breath caught. The warmth of his palm lingered long after he withdrew it.
They were led to a private table near the windows, overlooking the glittering skyline. The view was breathtaking, but Elena hardly noticed. She was too aware of him.
Too aware of the way Adrian loosened his tie slightly, how the low lighting carved his features into something dangerously magnetic.
As the waiter poured wine, Adrian finally spoke again.
"You did well tonight," he said, his gaze fixed on her, unwavering.
Elena blinked, startled. "In… what way?"
"In every way." His voice was calm, but his eyes—his eyes held storms. "You were professional. Composed. Even when you were terrified."
Heat crept into her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to her hands, twisting the napkin between her fingers. "I wasn't terrified," she lied softly.
Adrian leaned forward, his voice dropping to something private, intimate, a velvet blade.
"Yes, you were."
Her heart stuttered.
He didn't smile. He didn't mock her. He simply stated it as if he could see straight through her chest, straight into her soul.
And maybe he could.
Before she could respond, the waiter returned with dishes—steak for him, salmon for her, elegant sides arranged like art. The moment broke, but the tension didn't.
For several minutes, they ate in silence. Elena tried to focus on her food, but every movement felt magnified—the way he cut his steak with practiced ease, the way his long fingers curled around the glass stem.
She realized, with a sinking heart, that she wanted his attention more than she should.
And that want was dangerous.
Halfway through the meal, Adrian set his utensils down and finally asked, "Why did you take this job, Elena?"
Her breath caught.
She forced herself to look up, meeting his gaze. "Why?"
"Yes." His voice was steady, but curious. Probing. "A woman like you… you could have gone anywhere. Why Blackwell Enterprises?"
Elena's throat tightened. She hadn't expected him to ask that. She'd thought he'd be too busy, too consumed with his empire to wonder why his secretary sat across from him.
She chose her words carefully. "Because I needed… stability."
His brows furrowed faintly. "Stability."
"Yes." She forced herself to keep her gaze even, though the truth clawed at her ribs. "I've moved around a lot. I wanted something steady. Reliable. Safe."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close. "Safe. With me."
The way he said it—it wasn't arrogance. It wasn't pride. It was almost… ironic.
Because Adrian Blackwell was many things. Brilliant. Ruthless. Magnetic.
But safe?
No. He was the opposite of safe.
Elena's stomach twisted. She dropped her gaze again, stabbing at her food though she couldn't taste a bite.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, softly, Adrian said, "You'll regret it."
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"Working for me." His gaze held hers like steel shackles. "You'll regret it, Elena. Sooner or later."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
He wasn't threatening her. He wasn't warning her away.
It was worse.
It was a promise.
And the terrifying thing was… she already knew he was right.