The city lights sprawled beneath Conrad's penthouse like molten gold, but he barely saw them. The scotch in his glass caught the same amber hue as he swirled it absently, the ice clinking against the crystal.
He should've been reviewing the press revisions for the merger. He should've been thinking about numbers, strategies, shareholder calls, all the things that usually kept his world in perfect, measurable order.
Instead, he was thinking about her.
Rosaline Clarke.
Or rather, Nora Clarke's twin sister.
He leaned back in the leather chair, jaw tight. It was absurd, really, how vividly she still got under his skin. The last time they'd spoken, really spoken, it had ended in raised voices and slammed doors. She'd accused him of arrogance; he'd accused her of ambition without conscience. Neither of them had been wrong, and that made it worse.
Now here she was again, years later, dressed in professionalism and silence, pretending the past had never existed.
Conrad downed the rest of his drink.
He remembered how poised she'd looked earlier in that glass conference room, how every word came out measured and sharp. It was infuriating how easily she could hold herself together as if their history hadn't mattered at all.
His phone buzzed on the table.
"Reid," he answered.
It was his assistant, Matthew. "The revised draft from Harvey & Co. just came in. Do you want it forwarded to your private line?"
Conrad hesitated. "No. I'll review it in the morning."
"Yes, sir. Also, Ms. Harvey confirmed the Clarke account rep will attend the client dinner tomorrow."
His grip tightened on the glass. "Rosaline?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine." He ended the call and exhaled.
It shouldn't matter. It really shouldn't. But the thought of seeing her again, seated across a dinner table, laughing politely with investors, pretending she didn't once know every version of his temper, unsettled him in ways he didn't care to name.
He stood and crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city pulsed below, alive and ruthless, reflecting the empire he'd built. Power was easy; control was instinct. But Rosaline Clarke had always been the one variable that didn't obey his logic.
She'd challenged him once, questioned his choices, his motives. And the worst part? She'd been right about some of it. He'd hated that about her, the way she saw through him like glass.
But she'd walked away too.
He hadn't chased her.
He told himself he hadn't needed to.
Still, when he'd seen her again at Harvey & Co., that sharp, unshakable calm she wore had stirred something he'd buried irritation mixed with something dangerously close to regret.
He turned back to his desk and powered on his laptop. The email from Harvey & Co. blinked in his inbox. Against his better judgment, he opened it.
Attached were three revised statements and a short note from her.
Mr. Reid,
Attached are the revised press draft versions as you requested. Option C aligns best with your proposed tone and timeline. Kindly review before tomorrow's client dinner.
– Rosaline Clarke
No "Dear Mr. Reid." No unnecessary warmth. Just precision. Typical.
He smirked faintly despite himself and clicked the attachment. The phrasing was clean, firm, persuasive, the kind of language that could shift an entire boardroom's mood. He couldn't deny her skill. She'd always been brilliant, infuriatingly so.
When he finished reading, he sat back, his thoughts circling back not to her words, but to the way she'd looked at him earlier. The brief flicker of tension in her eyes when he'd stepped into her office. The quiet restraint in her voice.
Something was off. Not professionally, she was impeccable at that, but personally.
It was as if she were guarding something.
He frowned, pushing the thought away. It didn't matter. Whatever had happened between them in the past belonged there.
Still, when he finally went to bed, sleep didn't come easily.
The next evening, the private dinner at The Crestline was a sleek affair with chandeliers, muted jazz, and crystal glasses that never stayed empty.
Rosaline arrived precisely on time, Claire at her side for support before quietly excusing herself. She'd dressed the part, elegant and composed, her black dress understated yet impossibly confident.
Conrad was already seated at the table with Eleanor Harvey and two board members. When he saw her approach, something in his expression flickered not surprise, but awareness.
"Miss Clarke," he said smoothly as she took her seat beside Eleanor. "Right on schedule."
She smiled lightly. "You don't strike me as the type who tolerates lateness."
"You're right," he said. "I don't."
Eleanor shot them both a curious glance before turning to the board members. "Shall we begin?"
Throughout the dinner, Rosaline kept her tone measured and her focus sharp. She talked about branding strategies, media management, and crisis navigation, all with effortless control. Conrad listened, offering few words, though his gaze followed her more than once.
When dessert arrived, Eleanor excused herself to take a call, leaving them momentarily alone.
Conrad broke the silence first. "You're good at this."
"It's my job."
"Still. You weren't always this careful."
Rosaline looked at him, calm but wary. "People learn."
"Yes," he said quietly. "They do."
Something lingered between them, not quite hostility, not quite nostalgia, just unfinished business.
Eleanor returned, rescuing the conversation from the edge of danger. But as the dinner wrapped up and the guests began to disperse, Conrad leaned slightly closer to Rosaline.
"Tell your sister," he said softly, his voice low enough only she could hear, "she has impeccable taste in company."
Rosaline froze for a second, masking the panic behind her polished smile. "I'll be sure to pass that along."
He straightened, expression unreadable. "Good night, Miss Clarke."
And just like that, he was gone, leaving her heart pounding and her lie trembling under the weight of his words.