The jet was silent in a way commercial flights never were.
No chatter. No announcements. Just the low, steady hum of power.
Amara sat across from Alexander in the leather-clad cabin, her laptop open, eyes fixed on data she wasn't reading. The proximity was… distracting. Too much space. Too much him.
"You could have declined the trip," Alexander said without looking up from his tablet.
"And allow you to misrepresent me to European regulators?" she replied. "Unlikely."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "You assume I'd do that."
"I assume you'd consider it."
He glanced up, gaze intent. "And yet you came."
"Because I don't run from difficult men."
His eyes darkened at that.
The jet hit mild turbulence. Instinctively, Amara braced herself against the armrest.
Alexander noticed.
"You don't like flying," he said.
"I tolerate it."
He studied her. "You tolerate a lot."
The observation landed closer to the truth than she liked.
They worked for hours—numbers, models, consequences. The more they collaborated, the more the edges between them blurred. Respect deepened. Friction softened.
When the lights dimmed for night travel, the cabin grew intimate.
Amara felt it then.
The awareness.
Not desire—not yet.
But something sharp and anticipatory.
London greeted them with rain and scrutiny.
Cameras flashed as they exited the car at Blackwood's Mayfair residence. Amara stiffened.
"This wasn't part of the agreement," she said through a polite smile.
"Neither was visibility," Alexander murmured. "But it's unavoidable."
Reporters shouted questions. Is this the woman behind Blackwood's new direction?
Are the rumors true?
Rumors?
Inside, Amara rounded on him. "You let them think there's something between us."
"I let them think you matter," he corrected.
She folded her arms. "That's not the same thing."
"No," he said softly. "It's more dangerous."
That night, Amara stood at the window of the guest room, city lights blurring beneath rain. She felt exposed—seen in ways she hadn't consented to.
A knock came at the door.
She opened it to find Alexander, jacket discarded, tie loosened.
"I wanted to check on you," he said.
She hesitated. "I'm fine."
He didn't move. "You're not."
Silence pooled between them.
"You don't trust me," he said.
"I trust myself," she replied.
His gaze dropped—just briefly—to her mouth.
Then he stepped back. "Good night, Amara."
She closed the door and leaned against it, heart racing.
She had never been so aware of the thin line between control and surrender.
The gala was a mistake.
Amara knew it the moment Alexander offered his arm.
This was not a professional setting. This was theater. Silk gowns, champagne, predatory smiles. Power disguised as elegance.
"You look uncomfortable," Alexander murmured.
"I feel like a prop," she said.
"You're not."
"Then don't look at me like that."
He paused. "Like what?"
"Like you're imagining things you shouldn't."
Music swelled. Lights dimmed.
They stood too close.
"You're wrong," he said quietly. "I'm imagining things I absolutely should not."
Her breath caught.
For one reckless second, she wondered what it would feel like—to lean in, to test the tension that coiled so tightly between them.
Alexander's hand hovered at her waist. Not touching. Waiting.
"This ends badly," she whispered.
"Yes," he agreed.
Their eyes locked.
The moment stretched.
Then—she stepped back.
"Good night, Mr. Blackwood."
She walked away before she could change her mind.
Alexander remained where he was, jaw clenched, pulse roaring.
He had conquered markets.
This woman was undoing him.
The conference hall in Geneva was colder than it looked.
Steel beams, echoing floors, and the low murmur of diplomacy wrapped in tailored suits. Amara sat beside Alexander at the panel table, her expression neutral as cameras flashed.
She was not used to being seen like this.
Midway through the session, a familiar voice cut through the air.
"Ms. Okoye."
Her spine stiffened.
She turned to see Julian Moreau, international development financier, rising from the audience. His smile was warm, charming—dangerous in its own way.
"I didn't realize Blackwood Capital had learned the value of ethical consultation," he said smoothly.
Alexander's posture shifted—subtle, territorial.
"We evolve," Alexander replied coolly. "Some faster than others."
Julian's gaze flicked to Amara. "You always did like impossible challenges."
Always?
After the session, Julian approached her immediately.
"You look… well," he said. "Power suits you."
"It suits you too," she replied cautiously. "What are you doing here?"
"Watching you change the game." He glanced at Alexander. "Careful who you play it with."
Alexander said nothing.
But his silence was loud.
Back at the hotel, Alexander closed the door harder than necessary.
"You know him."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Amara replied. "We worked together years ago."
"And?"
"And nothing."
Alexander removed his jacket, movements clipped. "He looked at you like he still had a claim."
Amara's eyes flashed. "No one has a claim on me."
His gaze darkened. "Including me?"
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
The word struck deeper than she intended.
Silence followed—thick, charged.
"I don't like surprises," Alexander said finally.
"And I don't like being interrogated."
They stood on opposite sides of the room, both breathing harder than the situation required.
"This is exactly why we don't cross lines," Amara said quietly.
Alexander's voice dropped. "We crossed them the moment you walked into my boardroom."
Their eyes met.
Heat flared.
He stepped closer—then stopped himself.
"This ends here," he said, as much to himself as to her.
She nodded, though her chest ached.
"Yes," she agreed.
Neither of them believed it.
The fallout came swiftly.
An anonymous article hit the markets by morning: Blackwood's New Moral Compass — Or Strategic Distraction?
Amara read it in stunned silence.
"You didn't leak this," Alexander said, voice hard.
"No," she replied. "But someone wants it to look that way."
His jaw tightened. "My board is demanding distance."
"And your solution?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"I'll sideline you. Temporarily."
The words landed like betrayal.
"So I'm a liability now," she said quietly.
"You're a target," he corrected.
"And you're choosing safety over integrity."
Alexander closed his eyes briefly.
"This is how power survives," he said. "By knowing when to step back."
Amara picked up her bag. "And this is how trust dies."
She walked out without looking back.
Alexander remained alone, staring at the door.
The first crack had formed.
And it would not be the last.