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.

The Morning After

7:14 AM - Her Apartment, Upper West Side

Ariella Blake stared at the man sleeping in her bed like he was a loaded gun with the safety off.

Sunlight leaked through her half-drawn curtains, dusting his bare chest in a soft golden glow. His hair was a dark mess against her white pillow, lips slightly parted, brows relaxed in the kind of peace that shouldn't exist in people like Damien Cross. Even asleep, he was too composed, too handsome, too dangerous.

Ariella sat up slowly, every muscle in her body stiff-either from the twisted, breathless war they'd called sex last night, or from the tension that still clung to her spine like armor.

Her robe was across the floor, tangled with his blazer and her bra.

Damn it.

Damn him.

She stood, wrapping the silk robe around herself and tying it tight like she could contain the chaos beneath it. Her reflection in the mirror didn't help-flushed cheeks, lips bruised from kissing, neck marked with half-moon shadows of his mouth.

This wasn't her.

She didn't do this. She didn't sleep with enemies. She didn't blur lines. She didn't let the past crawl into her bed and whisper things that sounded like apologies but felt like control.

Yet she had.

And it was perfect.

And she hated that.

She poured herself black coffee and took the first bitter sip just as Damien stirred.

"Morning," he said lazily, voice still gravel and silk.

She didn't answer. She sipped.

He sat up, the blanket falling to his waist, revealing more tan skin and lean muscle than anyone should look that good wearing. He raked a hand through his messy hair and smirked like they were just two lovers enjoying the afterglow.

She finally spoke. "You need to leave."

He raised a brow. "No good morning? No small talk over overpriced coffee beans?"

"This was a mistake," she snapped.

He yawned. "You said that last night. Right before you-"

"Finish that sentence and I'll throw this mug at your face."

He smirked wider. "Temper. I'd forgotten how much I liked it."

She glared. "Get dressed, Cross. I've got a company to run, and you've got a face I'd like to forget."

He stood slowly, unashamedly nude, as he reached for his slacks.

Ariella looked away.

"You sure about that?" he asked softly.

"Dead sure," she lied.

---

9:03 AM - Blake & Bloom Headquarters

Ariella strode into the office like nothing had happened, dressed in a steel-gray pantsuit with black heels that echoed through the marble lobby. She wore war like perfume.

Lucy trailed behind her, handing her the morning schedule. "You have a joint meeting with Cross Global at ten, a call with Vogue at noon, and the creative pitch with Durell Pharmaceuticals at two."

"Good. Move the Durell pitch to three. I want an hour with the digital team."

Lucy hesitated. "Um... should I also mention that Damien Cross is already in the building?"

Ariella stopped walking.

"He's what?"

Lucy nodded nervously. "He showed up early. He's in the glass conference room. Alone. Waiting."

Ariella's jaw clenched. "Fine. Bring him coffee. No cream."

Lucy blinked. "You want me to bring him your order?"

"No," Ariella said, eyes narrowing. "Bring it exactly how he hates it. Add cream. Add sugar. Add almond milk. And write 'From Ariella' on the cup in red marker."

Lucy grinned. "Consider it done."

---

10:02 AM - Glass Conference Room

Damien was already leaning back in the executive chair when Ariella walked in, wearing smug like cologne.

"Nice coffee choice," he said, holding up the sugar-filled monstrosity like it was a trophy.

Ariella took her seat across the long glass table, laptop open, notes in hand, face unreadable. "Thought you'd enjoy a change. Or maybe I just wanted to see if you'd spit it out like a child."

He sipped it slowly. Didn't flinch. "Delicious. Just like last night."

Her smile was venom. "You talk about it again, and I'll leak the footage of you begging."

His eyes gleamed. "I don't beg, Ariella."

"Funny. My thighs would say otherwise."

The room fell into silence, heavy with challenge.

Then the glass door opened.

Two senior board members entered-one from Blake & Bloom, one from Cross Global. They carried tension like briefcases.

"Shall we begin?" the older man asked.

Ariella and Damien didn't break eye contact.

"Yes," they said in unison.

---

11:46 AM - Post-Meeting Debrief

Ariella was halfway to her office when Damien caught up with her in the hallway.

"You're good," he said, tone unreadable.

"I know," she replied without stopping.

He matched her stride. "You didn't flinch once when they announced the co-leadership role. Not even a twitch."

"I don't twitch."

"No. You smirk. It's worse."

She stopped outside her office, turning to face him. "Let's get one thing straight, Cross. This partnership? It's business. Strictly business. There will be no repeat of last night. No lines crossed. No games."

He stepped closer.

She didn't move.

He leaned down until his mouth was at her ear.

"Everything with us is a game," he whispered. "And sweetheart... I don't lose."

Then he turned and walked away.

And Ariella stood there.

Still.

Burning.

---

That Night

11:08 PM - Ariella's Apartment

She couldn't sleep.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt him.

His hands.

His mouth.

The way he'd looked at her after.

Like she was a puzzle he'd finally solved.

She hated it.

She hated him.

But the worst part?

She didn't hate how it felt.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Damien: Still thinking about it?

She stared.

Then, another.

Damien: You moaned my name like a prayer, Ariella. I'll remind you again soon.

She threw the phone across the room.

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.