For the first week, it was war.
Bianca operated with a cold, surgical precision. She was the perfect employee: punctual, relentlessly efficient, and completely devoid of all emotion. She treated Eddie like a problem to be solved, a set of variables to be managed on a spreadsheet.
Their 10 AM planning call was a daily exercise in torture.
"Mr. Blackwell," she'd say, her voice clipped and formal to the group on the speakerphone, "regarding section 4a, the liability clause is too broad. It exposes your partners to unnecessary risk."
"Tighten it, Ms. Carter," his voice would reply, just as cold, just as distant. "I trust your judgment on the particulars."
Ms. Parker was thrilled. "He clearly respects you, Bianca," she'd said after one such call, beaming. "The Blackwell deal is a career-maker, and you're knocking it out of the park."
Bianca just smiled, the mask of the "polished professional" feeling more like a prison.
She hated him. She hated that he could so easily dismiss their night together. She hated that he was right; she was the best person for this job. Most of all, she hated that, even through the phone, his accent made her skin prickle.
The "professional" wall began to crack on a Thursday. It was 9 PM, and Bianca was still at her desk, drowning in a sea of Blackwell's international tax codes. She found a flaw, a subtle inconsistency in a holding company's registration that could cost them millions.
It was Ms. Parker's file, but she was at a charity gala. Bianca knew, instinctively, that this was something Eddie needed to see as soon as possible.
She broke protocol and emailed him directly.
Subject: URGENT - Blackwell Holdings / Dublin Registration
Mr. Blackwell, I have found a significant discrepancy in the Dublin registration that conflicts with Section 8. This needs addressing before tomorrow's filing. - B. Carter
Her finger hovered over the 'send' button. It felt too intimate, too direct. She hit it anyway.
A reply came back in seconds.
Good catch, Ms. Carter. You are doing better than my own team. Call me.
It wasn't a request. She stared at his name on her screen, her heart hammering. She hit 'dial'.
"Eddie here," he answered on the first ring.
"The file from your Dublin office," she said, no preamble. "It's misdated. I think it's intentional. It looks like someone is trying to hide an asset."
"That's definitely the doings of Marcus West," he said, and she could hear the sharp intake of his breath. "He's my father's old guard."
"I... I don't know about that," Bianca stammered. "I just know the numbers don't add up. If this goes to a judge..."
"It won't," he said. "Because you caught it." There was a long pause, and the sound of him pouring a drink. "You've been at the firm for what, two weeks? And you're already saving my entire empire from my own people."
"Just doing my job, Mr. Blackwell."
"You know you don't need to call me that," he said, his voice low and rough, no longer the cold CEO. It was the man from the bar. "You're the only person who does. It's... exhausting."
"We're supposed to be professional," she whispered, her resolve crumbling.
"Professional, then," he said, "thank you, Bianca. You've more than earned your place on this deal."
He hung up. Bianca stared at her phone, her hand shaking.
That was the thaw.
After that, the professional lines began to blur. It started with late-night emails, then became "professional" dinners at high-end restaurants to "go over the terms." They were always the last to leave the office, the two of them falling into an easy routine.
They talked about the deal, but they also talked about their personal lives.
"I spent my whole life running from all this," he admitted one night, swirling his whiskey in a private club. "Boarding schools, Oxford, the army. Anything to avoid becoming... him. My father."
"And now you're trapped," Bianca said, understanding.
His ice-blue eyes met hers. "Is it that obvious?"
"You wear it like that suit," she said softly. "Like a tailored costume."
He told her about the engagement. "Tasha's father took a fall for mine, years ago. He went to prison. This... arrangement... is a debt my father left for me to pay. It's like an obligation, Bianca. It's not love."
Bianca found herself opening up, too. She told him about her father's addiction, about the string of volatile men her mother brought home. "I studied law because it was the only armor I could find. I just wanted to build something for myself. Something no one could take away from me."
He listened. He actually listened, his gaze intense. He understood what it meant to be haunted.
The physical tension was a constant, low hum beneath every conversation. But they never crossed the line. This emotional connection, this raw honesty, felt far more dangerous.
It all came to a head a month after the deal began. A "war room" had been set up at the Sterling & Cross offices for the final push. It was two in the morning. Crumpled coffee cups and takeout containers littered the massive conference table. Everyone else had gone home.
It was just the two of them.
"One more time," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion, rubbing his eyes. "Run the final dissolution clause by me."
Bianca couldn't. She was too tired to even see the words. "It's fine, Eddie. It's the same clause we've read six times. It's done. The deal is done."
He slumped back in his chair, dropping the CEO facade. "I hope this goes well as planned".
They sat in silence for a full minute, the only sound the hum of the city far below.
"We did it, we're closing this deal," she said quietly.
"No," he said, turning his chair to look at her. "You did it. I just signed the cheques."
"It was a team effort."
"Was it?" He smiled, a real smile, one she could vividly remember from the bar. It lit up his whole face. "You're... remarkable, Bianca."
Her heart did a stupid, dangerous backflip. "So are you, Eddie. You're not the man you're afraid of becoming. You're not your father."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable, and the air crackled. The space between them felt impossibly small. He was out of his chair, and she was standing, and she wasn't sure who moved first.
His hand came up to her face, thumb tracing her cheek with a tenderness she hadn't expected. "Bianca," he whispered, like a prayer.
She should have run. She should have reminded him about Tasha, about professionalism, about all the reasons this couldn't happen.
But she didn't.
She leaned into his touch, closing the distance between them. The kiss was everything she remembered, and more. Not desperate and reckless, but slow, deep, full of a month's worth of tension and longing. She felt herself unravel, letting the walls slide away inch by inch.
They didn't speak as they moved together, the room lit only by city haze and exhaustion. His hands lingered at her waist; hers around his shoulder. The deal, the engagement, the secrets, all faded, just breath and skin and the powerful ache of being truly seen.
When it was over, they rested side by side, hearts still pounding, the air thick with everything unsaid. For a rare moment, Bianca let herself believe in what might be possible.
She dressed in silence, emotions swirling.
"I… I have to go," she murmured, bracing herself on his chest, the aftershock strong as ever. "This is… a lot." She smiled.
He cupped her hand, his own voice rough. "I know. I'll see you tomorrow."
She fled, down the silent corridors, into the cool night, her mind spinning with questions that wouldn't have answers.
The constant question ringing in her head. What did I just do?
She got back to her apartment at 3 AM, her mind spinning. She was in love with him. It was a complete, terrifying disaster.
She tossed her phone on the counter and fell onto her couch, crashing immediately from pure physical and emotional exhaustion.
Bianca woke up slowly to the gentle buzz of her phone, a message lighting up the screen just as dawn spilled pale gold across her floor.
Delivery update: Your package is en route and should arrive shortly.
Her heart fluttered with an unfamiliar mix of excitement and nerves. She didn't know what to expect, but somehow, even the thought of a delivery from him made her pulse race.
Groggily, she dressed and went to the door just as the faint knock echoed through her quiet apartment. Outside stood a deliveryman, holding an exquisite bouquet of rare roses in deep reds and purples, their scent rich and intoxicating.
Nestled amidst the blooms was a small, cream-colored envelope, sealed with dark wax. With trembling hands, Bianca broke the seal and unfolded the note inside.
Bianca,
I'm sorry for everything, and yet, I'm not sorry for last night.
Last night was the most honest I have ever been.
You see me, the real me, when no one else does.
My life is a mess; I'm trapped by this engagement and my father's shadow. But with you, I am sane. I am myself.
You're the most genuine, rational light I've found in a long time.
You, Bianca, are the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Her legs gave way. She sank into a chair, breathing in the rich perfume of roses and hope. She read the final lines again and again, feeling her carefully guarded heart begin to unravel.
A love letter, she whispered. And for the first time, she believed every word.