Chapter 3

Dawn pushed her weight against the heavy glass door leading to the terrace. It swung open, and the biting chill of the early autumn New York wind hit her instantly.

The sudden drop in temperature was a shock to her system, but she welcomed it. The cold air slapped her flushed cheeks, forcing her overheated brain to clear. She stepped out onto the wooden decking, letting the heavy door click shut behind her, instantly muffling the suffocating jazz music and the chatter of the elite.

She walked straight to the edge of the terrace. She set her empty champagne flute down on a small wrought-iron table with a sharp clink.

She gripped the freezing metal railing with both hands. She leaned forward, closing her eyes, and dragged massive, desperate gulps of the crisp night air into her lungs. She focused on the physical sensation of the cold metal against her palms, trying to steady the violent shaking in her knees.

He didn't even recognize you, her mind whispered cruelly. You are nothing to him.

Suddenly, the sharp, distinct sound of a lighter's flint striking metal sliced through the quiet night. Click-clack.

Dawn's spine went entirely rigid. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

She whipped her head around, her eyes wide, scanning the dim lighting of the terrace.

Deep in the shadows, leaning casually against the exposed red brick wall of the building, was a tall silhouette. The brief flare of a flame illuminated a strong, chiseled jawline and a pair of dark, dangerous eyes.

Arlo.

He was standing there, a freshly lit cigarette held loosely between his long fingers. The wind shifted, carrying the scent directly to her. It was an intoxicating, masculine blend of sharp cedarwood and rich, dark tobacco. It was a scent that had haunted her nightmares for five years.

Dawn's eyes darted downward, drawn by an invisible pull to his left hand.

He had rolled up the sleeves of his expensive black dress shirt, exposing his forearms. There, etched into the tanned skin of his inner wrist, was a stark black tattoo. It was the Roman numeral IX.

Nine.

Dawn's heart slammed against her ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. September 9th. Her birthday. When they were teenagers, he had come to school with his wrist wrapped in a bandage. She had always told herself it was a coincidence, a meaningless number for a guy who collected meaningless things. But seeing it now, five years later, the ink still dark and permanent on his skin, sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to her core.

Arlo took a slow, deliberate drag of his cigarette. He exhaled, a thick cloud of pale gray smoke drifting into the cold air between them.

Through the dissipating haze, his eyes locked onto hers. There was no blankness now. His gaze was intense, heavy, and entirely unapologetic. He didn't look away. He stared at her as if he were dissecting her right there on the wooden deck.

He lifted his hand and casually flicked a speck of ash against the brick wall. The movement was lazy, almost insolent. It was the movement of a man who knew he controlled the space.

"Staying, or leaving?" Arlo asked.

His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that scraped against her nerve endings. It was so casual, so utterly devoid of the history between them, that it felt like a slap to the face.

Dawn's brain short-circuited. For a terrifying moment, the five years of distance vanished. She felt like she was seventeen again, standing before the untouchable heir who held the power to crush her with a single word.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, the familiar sting of pain grounding her. She forced her spine to straighten, pulling her shoulders back. She refused to cower. She forced herself to meet his aggressive, predatory stare.

The jolt of electricity was so intense she felt dizzy. She dug her nails into her palm, using the sharp pain to fight back the overwhelming wave of memories. It's a coincidence, she told herself fiercely. It means absolutely nothing. Only then could she force the words out.

"That is none of your business, Mr. Hammond," Dawn replied. Her voice was brittle, coated in a thick layer of frost.

The formal title hung in the air between them, a massive, impenetrable wall she had just erected.

Arlo's eyes darkened. A low, harsh sound escaped his throat-a scoff that dripped with pure condescension.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cold, mocking smirk. It was a cruel expression, one that completely transformed his handsome face into something dangerous.

He pushed off the brick wall. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette onto the wooden deck and crushed it beneath the heel of his bespoke leather shoe.

Then, he started walking toward her.

His footsteps were heavy and deliberate, the sound of leather hitting wood echoing like a countdown. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Dawn's breath hitched. Her survival instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet were glued to the floor. She instinctively took a step backward, but her lower back immediately slammed into the metal railing. She was trapped. There was nowhere left to go.

Arlo didn't stop until he was standing a mere few inches from her. He invaded her personal space entirely, using his massive height advantage to tower over her. His broad chest blocked out the ambient light from the city, casting her in his shadow.

He looked down at her. He studied the way her chest rose and fell with rapid, panicked breaths. He noted the slight flush of anxiety creeping up her pale neck.

He leaned in closer, his face hovering just inches from hers. The scent of cedar and tobacco was suffocatingly strong now.

"Aren't you thinking a little too highly of yourself?" Arlo murmured. His voice was dangerously soft, a lethal whisper meant only for her.

Dawn's fingers curled behind her back, her nails digging desperately into the freezing metal of the railing. She tilted her chin up, refusing to break eye contact. She poured every ounce of her stubbornness into her glare, fighting a desperate, silent war against the man who was trying to tear her apart with just his presence.