Chapter 3 Scarlet Lipstick and War Paint

8:37 AM - The Cross Global Lobby

Ariella Blake didn't walk into Damien Cross's headquarters.

She arrived.

Clad in a crimson sheath dress that hugged her body like temptation itself, with black stilettos sharp enough to draw blood, and her signature scarlet lipstick painted like a warning across her mouth - she was a storm in a city of men who thought they controlled the thunder.

Heads turned as she passed the front desk. Executives paused mid-conversation. Even the glass seemed to hum under her heels. But she didn't flinch. She was used to being watched. Admired. Feared.

Let them look.

Let them wonder what it meant that the CEO of Blake & Bloom had chosen today of all days to show up in enemy territory uninvited, unannounced.

Because this wasn't a visit.

It was a declaration.

She didn't knock when she pushed open the tall glass doors to Damien's executive suite.

He looked up, amused but unsurprised.

"Let me guess," he said, leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. "You finally gave in to your cravings and came here to say you missed me."

She shut the door behind her. "I came to remind you that last night wasn't an invitation."

Damien tilted his head slightly. "And this outfit? That lipstick? Pure coincidence?"

"It's war paint."

He stood slowly, and damn him, he looked good doing it. "Darling, you wore that same lipstick the first time we kissed. Remember? Your 24th birthday. That rooftop party on 5th Avenue. I told you red was your color."

"You told me a lot of things," she said tightly. "Half of them lies."

"And yet," he said, circling the desk slowly, "you still let me in."

Her eyes didn't waver. "Let me make this very clear, Damien. I am not the same girl you walked away from two years ago. I'm not some broken debutante begging for closure. I have an empire. I have power. I don't need your name. I don't need your money. And I definitely don't need your-"

He was in front of her in two strides.

One hand around her waist.

The other tilting her chin up.

"Then why," he murmured, "do you keep coming back?"

Her breath hitched. Just slightly.

That was all he needed.

He leaned in - and for one heart-stopping second, she thought he was going to kiss her.

She hated how much she wanted him to.

Instead, he whispered, "You don't have to lie to me, Ari. You're still the fire that burned me alive. And I'd still let you."

She shoved him back.

Hard.

"You are not getting in my head."

"I don't have to," he said with a crooked grin. "I already live there."

---

10:14 AM - Strategy Meeting, Joint Merger Project

The boardroom was packed. Executives from both companies sat around the long marble table, murmuring in cautious tones. A massive presentation screen loomed at the front, displaying the logo of their newly merged division: C&B Strategies - Cross and Blake.

Ariella took her seat at the head of the table.

Damien sat directly across.

It was the first official meeting since the merger was finalized. The entire city had buzzed for weeks - fashion meets tech. Elegance meets power. Two empires fused under one name. And at the helm? The two ex-lovers who couldn't stand each other.

Or so the media thought.

Damien leaned forward. "Shall we begin?"

Ariella nodded at her assistant, who dimmed the lights.

The pitch began. Marketing decks. International rollouts. Projections. Branding shifts. She absorbed it all like oxygen. Calculated. Composed. Deadly.

But her skin was still buzzing from his proximity.

As if her body hadn't gotten the memo that her brain was in charge.

"-Ariella?"

She blinked.

The CFO was looking at her. "Your thoughts on the Q4 diversification plan?"

She stood.

Poised. Precise.

"Q4 should focus on European expansion, not Asian. Cross Global already has deep ties in Hong Kong and Seoul. We'd be cannibalizing resources. Paris and Berlin give us untapped brand equity, especially with the fashion-tech crossover. Focus on Milan next year. London in winter. Add AI fashion metrics to our spring launch and you'll own half the luxury market by July."

Silence.

Then a slow clap.

From Damien.

"Well said," he drawled.

She smiled coldly. "Try to keep up, Cross."

---

Later That Day - Elevator Ride from Hell

The meeting had ended. Ariella stepped into the executive elevator.

Of course, Damien followed.

Of course, the doors shut behind them with a ding.

They stood in silence as the elevator began its slow descent.

She stared straight ahead.

He stared at her.

"You didn't have to humiliate me in there," he said finally.

"I didn't. You did that all on your own."

A beat.

"Are we going to keep pretending this thing between us doesn't exist?" he asked.

"No," she said.

He blinked.

Then smirked. "No?"

"We're not going to pretend," she clarified. "We're going to ignore it."

"Not the same thing."

"It is if you shut up."

He took a step closer.

She stiffened.

"You want me," he said softly. "You're just afraid it'll destroy you."

She turned, furious. "No, Damien. I'm afraid it'll destroy everything I've built."

"Then let it," he said simply.

The elevator dinged. Doors opened.

She left without looking back.

---

That Night - Damien's Penthouse

Rain streaked down the glass windows of his 38th-floor apartment. The skyline blinked with city lights. Inside, Damien poured himself a scotch, but the liquor burned more than usual.

He stared at his phone.

He could call her.

He could show up.

But he wouldn't.

Not yet.

Instead, he pulled open a drawer and removed a faded photograph. Two kids. A beach. Smiles and innocence.

Him and Ariella. Years before everything burned.

His jaw clenched.

She didn't remember what he'd done.

Not really.

But she would.

Soon.

---

Ariella's Apartment - Midnight

The rain hadn't stopped.

Ariella stood barefoot on her balcony, arms folded, watching the storm. Her red lipstick had faded. Her hair was loose. The war paint had melted away, and all that was left was a woman haunted by too many truths.

Why him?

Why now?

Why still?

She was halfway through her glass of wine when her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Open your door.

She froze.

Another message.

Unknown Number: I'm not here to fight.

She turned slowly, heart pounding.

A knock.

Just once.

Firm. Quiet.

She opened the door.

Damien stood there.

Soaked. Black shirt clinging to his chest. Hair wet. Eyes blazing.

"Damien..."

"I couldn't sleep," he said.

She hesitated.

He stepped inside anyway.

Neither spoke.

He touched her cheek - gentle, reverent.

And when he kissed her, it wasn't war.

It was surrender.

            
            

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