Liam sat at his desk, staring at the city sprawled beneath him, its restless rhythm no match for the storm inside him. He'd told himself he would wait—that he would keep things strictly business until the right moment. But the silence was unbearable.
He wanted to hear her.
It was ridiculous, almost laughable, that Liam Alcaraz—the man who reduced competitors to ash with a single phone call—was sitting there debating whether or not to dial a number. But the thought of her voice, sharp and defiant, was a temptation he couldn't shake.
Finally, with a muttered curse, he picked up the phone and dialed the number Anabel had provided.
One ring. Two.
Then her voice.
"Attorney Villaruiz." Calm. Professional. Unshakable.
It went straight to his chest like a blade. For a moment, he almost forgot how to breathe.
"Mia." Her name slipped out before he could stop it, lower, rougher than he intended.
A pause. Then her tone shifted, sharper, colder. "Mr. Alcaraz. Is this regarding the account?"
Liam clenched his jaw, forcing steel into his voice. "Yes. As your client, I need certain matters discussed outside the confines of the office. Dinner. Tonight."
There was silence on the other end, the kind that stretched and cut all at once.
When she finally spoke, her words were measured, deliberate. "I don't dine with clients."
He leaned back in his chair, fingers curling tightly around the armrest. God, she was stubborn. Stubborn in a way that made him want to drag her walls down brick by brick. He drew in a breath, forcing his tone back into something clipped, professional.
"You seem to forget," he said smoothly, "that I am your client. My time is limited, my schedule tighter than you can imagine. If I choose to discuss certain terms over dinner, you don't get to say no, Mia. You obey."
The last word came out rougher, heavier, dripping with more than just business.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then—
"Mr. Alcaraz," she said coolly, though he swore he heard the faintest tremor beneath her words, "you may be my client, but that does not give you control over my personal boundaries."
Her defiance sparked something deep in his chest—anger, yes, but also hunger. He gritted his teeth, trying to reel himself back into the safety of business-speak. "Boundaries are irrelevant if they compromise efficiency. I don't play games with billion-dollar contracts, and I don't wait for people to make up their minds. Dinner. Eight o'clock. My driver will pick you up."
Another silence. Longer this time. His pulse hammered.
Then she said, softly but firmly, "No."
Liam's hand tightened around the phone, his knuckles white. He had heard people beg for his approval, scramble to please him, bow under the weight of his name. But not Mia. Never Mia.
And it was infuriating. And intoxicating.
He swallowed hard, his voice dipping lower, breaking through his own façade of control. "Don't test me, Mia. You know how I work. When I want something, I don't stop until I get it."
There was a pause. Then her voice, cutting, steady. "Then consider this your first lesson, Mr. Alcaraz. Some things are not yours to have."
The line went dead before he could respond.
For a long moment, Liam just sat there, the phone still pressed to his ear, her last words ringing in his skull.
He exhaled, harsh and unsteady, his chest heaving. Damn her. Damn the way she could make him feel powerless with nothing but a sentence.
But as the fury settled, a darker determination unfurled inside him.
This wasn't over.
Mia tossed her phone onto the bed the moment the call ended, her heart pounding so loudly it echoed in her ears. Her hands shook, though she clenched them into fists to stop the tremor.
Why had her voice wavered? Why, after all these years, did just hearing his voice threaten to unravel her?
She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her chest. He sounded the same—commanding, deliberate, used to getting exactly what he wanted. But beneath the polished control, she had caught it. The rough edge. The urgency. The part of him that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with her.
And that terrified her.
Because once, she would have obeyed. Once, she would have said yes before he even finished asking.
But not anymore.
She straightened, lifting her chin even though she was alone. "Not this time, Liam," she whispered into the quiet. "I won't be your game. Not again."
Still, when she crawled beneath the sheets hours later, sleep refused to come. His voice lingered, low and commanding, curling through her veins like fire.
And though she hated herself for it, a part of her—the part she swore she had buried—kept replaying his words, softer now, almost dangerous in their intensity.
When I want something, I don't stop until I get it.
Her chest tightened. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, forcing her mind to silence.
But her heart knew the truth.
The game had already begun.
And this time, it wasn't just business—it was war.
The skyline was sharp against the glass, steel and light woven into the city like a crown. Liam Alcaraz stood before it, a man who commanded entire industries—yet this morning, his thoughts weren't on markets or mergers.
They were on Mia Villaruiz.
"Get me Vale," he ordered the moment Anabel stepped in with his schedule.
She lifted a brow. "First thing?"
"Now," he said, his tone brooking no delay.
A moment later, Richard Vale's even voice crackled across the line. "Liam."
"Richard," Liam replied, voice clipped, precise. "We need to establish terms for counsel."
"Terms?" Vale sounded curious now. "Is there a problem with Villaruiz?"
"Not a problem." Liam's tone was flat, but his jaw ticked, memory flashing of her dismissing his invitation with that infuriating calm. I only dine with real friends. The words had burned all night. He inhaled, steel sliding back into his voice. "But adjustments are necessary. She'll follow my schedule. Not the firm's. Not her own."
Vale was silent for a beat. "...Go on."
"I am not an ordinary client, Richard. I don't wait for slots. If I call for a meeting, it happens where I want it, when I want it—morning, night, middle of the day. If I choose dinner, she shows up. If I choose my office at midnight, she shows up. Understood?"
Vale's silence stretched, a low hum of disapproval beneath it. "That may not be reasonable, Liam. She—"
"I compensate for what I take." Liam's voice sharpened. "Whatever hours she works, however much overtime, I'll pay double her worth. Triple if needed. Bill it directly to me, off record. But I don't need pushback. I need obedience." He leaned one hand on his desk, voice lowering, dangerous. "This isn't about flexibility. This is about clarity. Attorney Villaruiz is brilliant, but she will not dictate terms to me."
Finally, Vale spoke, voice even but cautious. "I'll convey it. But Liam, you should understand—Villaruiz isn't easily swayed. You may find she's sharper than you expect."
A flicker of something dangerous curved Liam's mouth. "Good. I want sharp. But she'll follow my lead. Make that clear."
He ended the call without waiting for Vale's reply, his hand tightening on the receiver until his knuckles whitened.
Behind him, Anabel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her expression halfway between shock and disbelief. "You just demanded that a lawyer—Vale's lawyer—drop everything to follow your convenience."
Liam shot her a glare, the kind that made seasoned executives fold. "Do I look like a man who negotiates his own time?"
Anabel didn't flinch, only arched a brow higher. "No. You look like a man losing his mind."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer.
Mia's office line blinked. She picked up, professional as ever. "Attorney Villaruiz."
It was Richard himself, which already made her spine straighten. "Mia. I spoke with Alcaraz this morning. He's... particular about how this account will run."
Her pen hovered. "Particular how?"
Vale's voice carried that faint edge of hesitation she rarely heard from him. "He wants all meetings on his terms. His choice of time, his choice of venue. No exceptions. If he wants to meet at odd hours, or over a meal, you'll accommodate. He's prepared to compensate generously for overtime or out-of-hours work."
For a second, Mia couldn't breathe. "So he's dictating my schedule."
"His words," Vale said carefully, "were that he's a very busy man, and he doesn't have time for a counsel who says 'no.'"
Her grip on the pen snapped so tight her knuckles went white. She could almost hear Liam's voice in the phrasing, low and arrogant, echoing in her ear like a challenge.
"Mia," Vale continued, "I know this isn't standard. But it's Alcaraz. If we want the account, we meet him where he stands. I trust you can handle him."
Her chest constricted, fury threading with disbelief. Handle him. Like he hadn't already carved her open once. Like this wasn't exactly what Liam wanted—her at his beck and call, bound by professionalism and the promise of partnership.
She forced her tone steady. "Understood, sir. I'll... adjust."
"Good." Vale's voice softened slightly. "You've earned this. Don't let him rattle you."
When the line clicked dead, Mia sat frozen, the receiver still in her hand. Her pulse thundered, not with fear this time, but with something sharper. Anger.
Of course Liam would pull this stunt. Of course he would twist her dream into his leverage.
She shoved the phone back into its cradle, her lips curving into something fierce. "You want me at your convenience, Liam?" she whispered to the empty room. "Fine. I'll show up. I'll play along."
Her reflection in the glass stared back—calm, composed, dangerous.
"But you'll regret ever thinking you could command me."
The clock struck 8:03 p.m. The rooftop restaurant shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers, the hum of soft jazz weaving into the night air. From his corner table, Liam Alcaraz had the city at his back, skyscrapers glittering like a crown meant to frame him. He adjusted his cufflinks, the picture of composure. Everything was staged. Everything was deliberate.
And then Mia Villaruiz walked in.
The maître d' led her across the floor, and for the first time in years, Liam nearly forgot to breathe.
She wasn't in her usual armor of tailored suits and courtroom precision. Tonight, she wore a dress—no, a weapon. Midnight silk clung to her like a second skin, sculpted to every curve with ruthless perfection. The plunging neckline defied subtlety, drawing every eye in the room. Conversations faltered, forks stilled midair, and men turned in their seats to watch her pass as though she were gravity itself.
And she knew it.
Her eyes locked on his, blazing with deliberate defiance. Liam understood instantly: this was no accident. This was protest. This was her battlefield. You want control? Watch me burn it to the ground.
He rose automatically, but for a beat too long, words deserted him. Damn her. He wanted to rip his jacket off, cover her bare shoulders, shield her from every unwanted stare. His fingers twitched at the button of his suit coat before he forced himself still. Control. Always control.
"Attorney Villaruiz," he said finally, his voice low, dangerous, masking the riot inside him. "Right on time."
"Mr. Alcaraz." She inclined her head coolly, though the faintest curve of her lips mocked him.
When she sat, her legs crossed, the slit of her dress sliding higher. His jaw clenched. She folded her hands neatly as though nothing were out of place, as though she hadn't just detonated a bomb in his perfectly staged scene.
The waiter approached. "The chef's tasting menu. For two. Château Margaux," Liam ordered curtly, without sparing her a glance.
"Cancel mine." Her voice was crisp, clipped. Her eyes didn't waver. "I didn't come here to eat. I came because you summoned me. Though I assume you don't understand what office hours are."
The waiter hesitated. Liam dismissed him with a flick of his hand.
Now alone, he leaned back, masking the storm inside him. "You refuse dinner?" His gaze flicked—just once—down her neckline before returning to her face, sharp, mocking. "After burying you in work all day, the least I could do was feed you."
"This isn't dinner," she shot back, fire crackling in her voice. "It's control. You didn't want strategy—you wanted me here, at your command. So here I am."
His lips curved into a razor-sharp smile, but his voice dropped, cold. "Next time, Attorney Villaruiz, you'll wear something more appropriate."
For a moment, the table stilled.
Her eyes widened just enough to catch it—his slip, his fury at the way men had stared at her, his desperate need to cover her up. Then her chin lifted, her fury sharpening into something beautiful and deadly.
The look on his face was worth it.