Kiss me, Then Hate me

The elevator chimed like a war bell.

Ariella Blake didn't flinch, though her manicured fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her espresso shot glass. Standing in four-inch stilettos, with her legs crossed at the ankles like a dancer in first position, she stared out the floor-to-ceiling window of the 47th floor conference room of Blake & Bloom, the marketing agency she had bled to build.

Outside, Manhattan glittered like a cold queen's crown, but inside, tension was thick and waiting-like gunpowder begging for a spark.

Her assistant, Lucy, practically vibrated as she stepped in, heels whispering apologies on the marble floor.

"He's here," Lucy whispered like it was a funeral announcement.

Ariella didn't turn. "Let him wait."

Lucy blinked. "But-"

"Five minutes."

The girl swallowed and left without further protest. Ariella took one slow sip from her espresso shot. No cream. No sugar. Just bitterness and bite.

She hadn't seen Damien Cross in ten years.

Not since that night in the rain.

Not since he'd humiliated her in front of the entire senior class.

Not since she'd left that godforsaken town, bruised but unbroken, vowing one day, she'd be richer, stronger-and absolutely untouchable.

And now the universe, with its wicked humor, had placed him on her boardroom doorstep.

The CEO of Cross Global.

The man acquiring her firm.

The boy who used to call her "Scarlet the Scarecrow" in the hallways.

The man she now had to work with.

A cruel, perfect full circle.

She straightened her posture and fixed the collar of her blood-red silk blouse. Her lipstick matched the shade. Her signature.

Five minutes, sharp.

She stepped into the hallway, her heels slicing through the silence, and pushed open the thick, frosted glass door to Conference Room B-the one with no window to the outside world, only reflections.

And there he was.

Damien Cross.

The man had no business looking like that.

Tall. Dark hair slightly tousled, like he'd just run a hand through it in annoyance-or desire. Slate gray suit tailored to slice hearts. A jawline cut by vengeance. And those eyes-icy, assessing, amused.

Their gazes locked.

His lips curved, slow and sinful. "Well, well. Scarlet blooms in glass towers now."

Ariella's smile was sharp enough to wound. "And the devil still wears Tom Ford."

"Ah, you remember." He straightened, and the scent hit her. Expensive, magnetic, layered with something dangerous beneath. "I missed our conversations. Always so... sharp."

"I wasn't aware torment counted as conversation."

"Oh, come now. Don't flatter yourself. You think I remembered you all these years?"

Her smile didn't flicker, but her voice was laced with lethal calm. "You remember everything you destroy, Damien."

The air in the room thickened.

His smirk faltered-just for a moment.

Then he stepped closer.

Ariella refused to step back. Let him feel the heat. Let him remember that the girl he broke became the woman who could set his world on fire.

"I've done my research, Ms. Blake," he said smoothly, voice a deep velvet threat. "Impressive numbers. Fast growth. A little reckless, but smart. And fiercely independent, of course."

"I've also done mine, Mr. Cross. A trail of acquisitions. One scandal buried per quarter. No woman stays. No partner dares argue twice."

His brows lifted. "And yet, you still signed the deal."

Ariella's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I don't mind dancing with the devil. I just don't let him lead."

Damien chuckled, low and rich, and something in her chest tightened despite her resolve.

"I came to meet the real Ariella Blake," he said, his voice suddenly dropping, more serious. "The woman who took a no-name startup and made it a contender in five years. Who told my board to go to hell before accepting a merger. The girl I knew... she never would've dared say no."

"The girl you knew died." Her voice was ice. "The woman you're looking at rebuilt herself without your name in her mouth or your shadow on her back."

He took a slow step closer.

Then another.

They were inches apart now.

"Tell me," he murmured, gaze falling to her mouth. "Do you still taste like fire when you're angry?"

Her pulse roared in her ears.

She slapped him.

The sound cracked like lightning in the room.

His face turned with the impact. And then, maddeningly, he laughed.

"Ah," he whispered, rubbing his jaw, "there she is."

---

Three Days Later

Tuesday, 8:03 PM

Downtown Manhattan – Gala Event

The gala was glass, gold, and gossip.

Ariella glided through it like a blade in silk. Her black gown clung to every curve with quiet authority, a single slit up the leg the only hint of rebellion.

She hated these events-fake smiles, expensive champagne, men who stared too long. But she was here for optics. For press. For power.

And because Damien would be here.

She saw him before he saw her.

Or maybe he did. Maybe men like him always knew when danger walked into a room.

Their eyes met across the crowd, and just like that, every lie she'd told herself-about time healing, about indifference-crumbled.

He didn't smile this time.

He stalked toward her like he had every right to.

"Ms. Blake."

"Mr. Cross."

"You look like sin."

"You look like you've been drinking since noon."

He tilted his head. "I've missed you."

"I haven't missed you at all."

Silence.

Tension.

Then he stepped close enough that the heat between their bodies rose like a slow fever.

"Liar," he whispered.

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Because maybe... maybe she was.

---

Hours later.

It shouldn't have happened.

But it did.

In the back of a black SUV, the gala long forgotten, words were replaced by mouths, insults turned into hands that clutched and clawed, memories dissolved into a kiss so savage and desperate it could've scorched the city.

He tasted like power and apology. Like all the nights she cried over him. Like everything she shouldn't want.

Her hands were in his hair. His mouth was on her neck.

And when he whispered her name like a man finally finding oxygen, she wanted to hate him.

She wanted to.

But she moaned instead.

---

2:47 AM

Her Apartment

They didn't make it to the bedroom.

The living room floor witnessed what ten years of bitterness had built.

She arched beneath him, eyes locked to his, nails digging into his back.

"You still hate me?" he breathed, his voice raw as he moved inside her.

"I hate you," she gasped.

He grinned darkly. "Say it again."

"I hate you."

But her hips rose to meet him.

And her mouth found his again.

And it was all lies.

---

Later.

Ariella lay still, breathing ragged.

Damien sat beside her, shirt half-buttoned, tie gone, his skin glowing faint in the city light.

She turned her face away.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"A mistake," he said, after a pause.

She nodded, jaw tight.

"Good," she said. "Then we won't repeat it."

He leaned down, brushing her jaw with his knuckles.

"You can lie to me, Ariella. But your body already told the truth."

She slapped him again.

He caught her wrist this time.

And kissed her palm.