Chapter 3 THE TENSION BEGINS

In the early morning light, Hale Industries' marble corridors gleamed, so immaculate that Fiona's image might be reflected in them. Her footsteps made a repetitive clicking sound as she moved down the hallway, echoing off the glass walls and muttering criticism.

She carried a stack of files close to her chest, her chin lifted in quiet defiance, though the burn of stares clung to her every move.

"She's the new one," someone whispered from a nearby cubicle. "Preston Hale's assistant. Came out of nowhere."

Another voice answered, smooth with mockery. "No one lands that job without... influence."

Fiona's spine stiffened, but she didn't slow. The perfume of gossip hung thick in the air, envy sweetened by suspicion. She adjusted the folders, pretending not to hear. But when she reached the executive wing, her pace faltered. Preston stood at the far end of the hallway, tall and contained, speaking to a circle of sharply dressed men. His charcoal suit cut perfect lines across his frame, broad shoulders, composed authority.

Their eyes met across the distance. One flicker, one heartbeat and she forgot how to breathe. He looked away first, as he always did, his control as smooth as glass.

When she stepped into his office, the air felt charged. The scent of cedar and ink hovered, cold and precise. Preston sat behind his mahogany desk, pen poised, his jaw tight as if carved from restraint.

"The quarterly reports you requested," she said, setting the file down.

He didn't look up. "Leave them there."

She hesitated, forcing steadiness. "Is that all?"

That made him glance up. His gaze met hers like ice and fire colliding. For a moment, neither moved.

"That's all," he said softly.

Her pulse jumped. She turned, leaving the room before the walls could hear the thunder between them. Behind her, his pen snapped in half.

The breakroom buzzed faintly with the hum of the vending machine and the drip of the coffee pot. Fiona stirred her cup, eyes fixed on the swirling cream. Conversations dimmed when she entered, coworkers exchanging glances before pretending to type again.

She exhaled, shoulders tight. Damon's betrayal had already hardened her, but Preston's shadow haunted her steps in a different way, quieter, darker.

"You're still here," came a voice behind her, low and sure.

She turned sharply. Preston stood by the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked too human for a man who ruled the city's business world.

"Working late again?" he asked, stepping closer.

"That's what assistants do," she replied, sipping her coffee to hide the tremor in her voice.

"Not usually in their second week," he said, tone unreadable. "You're ambitious."

"Or desperate," she murmured.

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Both can build empires."

She met his gaze, steady. "If you're testing me, I already passed your interview."

"Loyalty isn't what I'm testing."

"Then what is?"

He stepped closer until her reflection filled his pupils. "Focus," he said quietly. "You're distracted."

Her heart thudded hard enough to betray her. "Then maybe you should stop staring."

For the first time, a laugh slipped from him dry, humorless. "If only it were that simple."

She brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his. His scent, amber, smoke, something dangerous followed her out. When the door shut, he remained still, hands in his pockets, eyes on the cup she'd left behind.

It was empty, but it burned like temptation.

The office was almost silent by nine. Rain battered the windows, lightning flashing over Covington's skyline. Fiona sat at her desk under a pool of white light, surrounded by half-open files and half-empty resolve.

The elevator chimed.

She looked up as Preston stepped out, carrying two coffees. His tie was gone now, shirt sleeves rolled again, damp hair curling slightly from the storm.

"You're still here," he said, setting a cup beside her.

"So are you."

"You skipped dinner," he replied.

"You keep tabs on my eating now?"

"I keep tabs on my staff," he said evenly.

She arched a brow. "You make it sound noble."

He leaned against her desk. "It's practical."

Lightning lit the glass walls, throwing his reflection beside hers. Their eyes met in the window, hers weary, his unreadable.

"You shouldn't take everything as a challenge," he said.

"Then stop turning everything into one," she countered.

For a second, something softened in his eyes, a flicker of the man from the bar. "You're not what I expected."

"And what did you expect?"

He didn't answer. Their hands brushed as she reached for a file. A pulse of electricity shot through the air, raw and unspoken. She froze. He didn't move.

The lights flickered. Then everything went black.

Red emergency lights pulsed through the dim elevator. Fiona leaned against the wall, files clutched to her chest. "Perfect. Stuck in a metal box with my boss."

Preston pressed the intercom. No response. "Power's out across the upper floors," he muttered.

"So, we're stuck."

"For now."

The air felt thicker than before, filled with the hum of the storm and something more dangerous. She tried to steady her breathing.

"You think this is funny?" he asked, glancing at her.

"I think it's karma."

His tone sharpened. "For what?"

"For pretending you don't remember me."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

He turned slowly. "You think I could forget?"

"Then why act like it never happened?"

He moved closer, shadows slicing across his face. "Because it shouldn't have."

"But it did," she whispered.

The words hung between them, hot and fragile.

The elevator shook, sending her stumbling. His hand caught her waist, steady and firm. For a heartbeat, neither breathed. Her fingers brushed his shirt; his chest rose beneath her touch.

"Preston..."

His name left her lips like a confession. His gaze fell to her mouth-then flicked away.

"This is a mistake," he said hoarsely. "I don't make the same one twice."

She stepped back, the space between them thick with everything unsaid.

The elevator hummed back to life, jolting their balance. Fiona steadied herself as Preston straightened his tie, voice clipped. "Forget this happened."

"Already trying," she said, though her trembling hands betrayed her.

The doors slid open.

A man stood leaning against the frame, charming, tailored, and grinning like he'd caught a secret. Adrian Lockwood. Lighter than Preston in both spirit and complexion, yet his smile was edged with danger.

"Well, well," Adrian drawled. "Didn't mean to interrupt whatever this is."

Preston's expression hardened. "You always interrupt."

"That's my nature," Adrian said. His gaze drifted to Fiona, curious. "And who might this be?"

"She's my assistant," Preston replied too quickly.

Adrian ignored him, extending a hand. "Adrian Lockwood. I'm the nicer cousin. You'll find that out soon enough."

Fiona hesitated before shaking it. "Fiona Greystone."

His eyes glimmered with interest. "Greystone strong name. Fitting."

Preston stepped forward. "That's enough."

Adrian's smirk deepened. "Touchy tonight, aren't we?"

Fiona pulled her hand back, uneasy under their tension. "I should go."

She walked past both men, feeling the pull of two very different storms.

Adrian's voice followed her. "She's trouble, cousin."

Preston didn't answer. His gaze tracked Fiona's retreating silhouette until she vanished down the hall.

For the first time that night, he wasn't sure which danger he feared more, Adrian's games or his own restraint breaking apart.