Chapter 4

Kiana Perkins POV:

The sound of my palm slapping against the cheap plastic of my desk echoed in the silent office. I stared at Cristian, my eyes wide with horror at my own outburst. He stared back, his expression a perfect mixture of confusion and shock, his handsome face looking almost comical in its bewilderment.

In that frozen moment, a bizarre thought struck me. This was him. This was the same endearingly awkward man from our chats. The intimidating author and the shy, bewildered man in front of me were one and the same. The line between my two worlds had never felt so thin.

"I... I have a cramp," I blurted out, the first ridiculous excuse that flew into my head. "A really bad hand cramp. From all the... clicking."

I snatched my phone off the desk, clutching it like a lifeline. "I need to... go to the restroom. To run it under warm water."

Without waiting for a response, I scrambled out of my chair and fled toward the hallway, my cheeks burning with a humiliating heat.

I didn' t stop until I was safely locked inside the women' s restroom. Leaning against the cool tile of the wall, I took deep, gulping breaths. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely operate my phone. With frantic taps, I logged out of all my social media accounts on my work computer remotely. I sent a quick, reassuring message to C.L.' s chat.

Me: Everything' s fine. Just a long night at work. Talk to you later.

I splashed cold water on my face, took one more deep breath, and forced myself to walk back to my desk.

Cristian was still there, but he was now sitting in my chair, scrolling through the design file. He looked up as I approached, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Your kerning is off in the main headline," he said, his tone all business, as if my bizarre outburst had never happened. "And the leading needs to be tighter. Here, I' ll show you."

For the next two hours, he sat beside me, directing my work. He was a demanding, meticulous critic, but his feedback was brilliant. He knew exactly what he wanted and, more impressively, he knew the technical design language to explain it. The work was grueling, but under his guidance, the campaign materials transformed into something sleek, evocative, and powerful.

Finally, just after midnight, he leaned back. "There. That' s it. That' s perfect."

I felt a wave of relief so profound it almost made me dizzy. "Great. Well, I' ll just pack up and..."

"Where do you live?" he asked abruptly.

"I' m sorry?"

"It' s late. I can' t let you take the subway alone at this hour. I' ll drive you home."

My internal alarm bells started screaming. Alone in a car with him? The intimacy of it, the proximity, was terrifying.

"No, thank you," I said, probably a little too quickly. "I' ll be fine. I can get a cab."

"I insist," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. It wasn' t a request; it was a statement of fact.

Defeated, I nodded. There was no getting out of this.

As we walked to the parking garage, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from C.L.

C.L.: I' m so glad we fixed things. I feel like I can breathe again. I was thinking... I need to get you a birthday present. What do you like?

The silence in his car was thick and uncomfortable. I stared determinedly out the passenger window, watching the city lights blur past, feeling his presence beside me like a physical weight.

"My... partner' s birthday is coming up," he said suddenly, his voice startling me. "I' m not very good at gifts. What do you think a woman would appreciate?"

My breath caught in my throat. He was asking me for advice on what to buy... for me. My own birthday was next week. The absurdity of the situation was almost too much to bear.

"I... I' m not sure," I stammered. "It depends on the woman."

"She' s... creative," he said, his voice softening. "Smart. A little bit stubborn. She doesn' t like expensive things. I sent her a ridiculously expensive necklace once, and she made me return it."

I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I remembered that argument. I had told him his money meant nothing to me, that I' d rather have a thoughtful letter than a diamond.

"Maybe something handmade?" I suggested, my voice quiet. "Something that takes time and effort. It shows you were thinking of her."

He was silent for a moment. "That' s a good idea. Thank you." He glanced over at me. "How old are you, if you don' t mind me asking?"

"Twenty-six," I said, my heart fluttering.

"What' s your name?"

The question felt loaded. I knew he already knew my full name from the payment app, but he was testing me. Seeing if the real me matched the file he had on 'Kiana Perkins.'

"Kiana," I said. "My name is Kiana."

"Kiana," he repeated, the name sounding strange and wonderful in his voice. We pulled up to my apartment building. The car rolled to a stop, but he made no move to unlock the doors.

"Thank you for the ride," I said, reaching for the door handle.

"Kiana," he said again, his voice low.

I turned to look at him. His grey eyes were searching my face, a storm of emotions swirling within them. He looked like he was on the verge of saying something important, something that would change everything.

Then, just as quickly, the moment was gone. He blinked and gave a small, awkward shake of his head.

"Never mind," he said, unlocking the doors. "Goodnight."

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