The phone call had been a massacre.

I knew because Adrian had left the door to his private office open, and his voice had carried down the hallway like a blade being sharpened. I'd been heading back to my room after helping with the dinner cleanup—because apparently I was now the kind of person who helped with cleanup, which was its own special kind of humiliating—when I heard him.

"I don't care about your excuses, Whitmore. You had one job. One."

Pause. His jaw working. I could hear it in the tension of his silence.

"No. No, that's not acceptable. You're done. Effective immediately."

The line went dead. Not hung up. Gone. Like he'd torn the phone from the wall.

I should have kept walking. Should have pretended I hadn't heard, retreated to the guest room, and let him stew in whatever billionaire rage had just consumed him. That would have been smart. Strategic. The kind of thing the old Isla—the one who'd survived eight years of poverty and humiliation—would have done.

Instead, I found myself standing in his office doorway.

Adrian was pacing like something caged and dangerous. His suit jacket was gone, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His dark hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it. The office was all floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of the city at night, and he looked small against it—which was absurd because Adrian Kross had never looked small in his life.

But something about the set of his shoulders, the raw edge to his movements, made him seem fractured.

"You should leave," he said without looking at me. His voice was low, dangerous. "I'm not good company right now."

I stepped inside anyway. Closed the door behind me.

"Shocking that you'd be terrible at something," I said. "I had you pegged as competent at literally everything. Turns out you're just a regular person with regular flaws. How disappointing."

He stopped pacing. Turned to face me, and for a moment I thought he might actually throw me out. His dark eyes were storm-black, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle working.

"Isla."

That was all. Just my name, like a warning.

"Talk to me," I said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll say something I'll regret, and you'll use it against me later, and I'm not in the mood for your particular brand of psychological warfare."

I moved further into the office. My heart was doing something stupid in my chest—rapid, uneven, like a bird throwing itself against glass. "You think I'd use your vulnerability against you?"

"I think everyone does," he said flatly. "Eventually."

There was so much pain in that statement, so much history, that I forgot to be sarcastic. Forgot to hide behind humor. For once, I just looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the man beneath the ruthlessness. The one who'd clawed his way out of nothing like I had. The one who'd learned that people were weapons and love was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"I wouldn't," I said quietly.

He laughed, but it was bitter. "You don't know me, Isla."

"Then tell me."

He turned away, back to the window. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, and I could see the war happening across his face. The battle between letting me in and staying locked down.

"Whitmore was handling the Singapore expansion," he said finally. His voice was clinical, detached. "It was a five-hundred-million-dollar deal. I trusted him. Gave him autonomy, resources, everything he needed. He got greedy. Started skimming off the top, making side deals with competitors. Eight years I've known him. Eight years."

I understood, then. It wasn't just about money. It was about betrayal. About the particular sting of being wrong about someone you'd trusted.

I'd been there. So many times.

"That's not your fault," I said.

"Isn't it?" He turned to face me, and the rawness in his expression nearly broke something in my chest. "I'm supposed to be smarter than this. I'm supposed to see through people. It's what I do."

"You're not a mind reader, Adrian. You're just a person who got hurt by another person. Welcome to being human. It's terrible and I hate it here."

Despite everything, he almost smiled. Almost.

"Come here," he said.

I shouldn't have. Every instinct I had—the ones that had kept me alive through eight years of impossible circumstances—screamed that this was dangerous. That crossing the space between us would change something fundamental. That Adrian Kross wanted to own things, control them, and I'd already given him too much access to my life.

I crossed the space anyway.

He was standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights, and when I got close enough to touch him, he reached out. His hand came up to my face, and his thumb—rough, calloused, real—brushed across my cheekbone.

The world stopped.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. There was only the sensation of his touch, the warmth of his body so close to mine, the scent of him—cedar and leather and that dark undertone of smoke that made my knees want to betray me.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

I didn't.

His other hand came up, cradling my face like I was something precious. Something worth holding carefully. His dark eyes searched mine, and I could see the question there, the war between want and control, between letting go and holding on.

"Isla," he breathed.

And then his mouth was almost on mine. Almost. I could feel the heat of him, could taste the air between us. My hands had found their way to his chest, and I could feel his heart racing as fast as mine, could feel the tension in his body like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.

One more millimeter and I would have kissed him.

One more millimeter and everything would have changed.

Instead, he pulled away.

Just like that. One moment I was drowning, and the next he was stepping back, his hands dropping to his sides. The loss of him was so sudden, so complete, that I actually swayed.

"This is business," he said, and his voice was ice. "Nothing more."

The words hit like a slap. Like a reminder that I'd forgotten the most important rule: Adrian Kross didn't do vulnerability. He did transactions. He did control. And I was a transaction with an expiration date.

"Right," I managed. My voice sounded small. Broken. "Of course."

"You should go to your room." He turned back to the window, and just like that, I was dismissed. "I have work to do."

I left before he could see me shake.

---

My room felt smaller than it had that morning. The guest suite was all cream and gold and expensive minimalism—the kind of beautiful that made you feel like you were contaminating it just by breathing. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to convince my heart to stop racing.

This was fine. This was good, actually. A necessary reminder that Adrian was a client, a means to an end, a way to pay for my mother's treatment and Marcus's recovery. Not someone I could afford to feel things for.

Except I already did.

The realization sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. I'd spent eight years convincing myself that love was a luxury I couldn't afford, that romance was a distraction from survival. I'd built walls so carefully, brick by brick, year by year, until I thought nothing could touch me.

Then Adrian Kross had walked into my life like a wrecking ball.

I replayed the moment in my head—his hand on my face, the almost-kiss, the way he'd looked at me like I mattered. Like I was something more than a convenient employee. And then the retreat. The reinstatement of boundaries. The reminder that I was nothing but a business arrangement.

My phone buzzed. A message from Marcus.

How's the billionaire treating you?

I almost laughed. If only he knew.

Fine. It's fine. How are you?

Good. Dr. Chen says the new medication is helping. Isla, I'm actually feeling better. Like, actually better. Not just pretending.

I read the message three times. Let the relief of it wash over me. This was what mattered. This was why I was here, in Adrian's orbit, playing a game I didn't fully understand.

I'm so proud of you, Marcus.

I know. You've only told me like a thousand times. But I never get tired of hearing it. Love you.

Love you too.

I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. My hands were still trembling. My lips still felt like they remembered the almost-kiss, like my body was grieving something that had never actually happened.

This was dangerous. This was exactly the kind of emotional entanglement that could destroy everything I'd built. Adrian had made it clear—this was business. Nothing more.

So why did it feel like my heart had just been handed to him, and he'd set it down on the table like it was a contract he wasn't interested in signing?

---

I didn't see him for two days.

He left before I woke up and came home after I'd retreated to my room. I caught glimpses of him—his coffee cup in the kitchen, his suit jacket draped over a chair, the sound of his voice on conference calls through the walls—but we didn't interact.

It was worse than any rejection could have been.

On the third day, I found him in the kitchen at 6 AM, making coffee like a regular person. He was wearing soft gray sweats and a black t-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, and he looked so devastatingly human that I had to grip the doorframe to keep from reaching for him.

"Morning," I said carefully.

He didn't look up from the coffee maker. "I need you to attend a gala tonight. It's a charity event—my foundation supports several organizations. Your presence would be helpful."

There it was. Business. Not even a good morning. Just straight to logistics.

"Sure," I said. "What time?"

"Seven. There's a car outside whenever you're ready."

He poured his coffee. Still didn't look at me.

"Adrian—"

"The dress code is black tie. I've had something sent to your room. Don't argue."

I opened my mouth to argue anyway, but he was already walking past me, out of the kitchen, his coffee in hand and his walls firmly back in place.

I stood alone in the pristine kitchen and wondered when exactly I'd become the kind of person who could fall for someone so thoroughly in just a few weeks. The kind of person who could want someone who'd made it abundantly clear that she was temporary.

By seven o'clock, I'd convinced myself that tonight was just another job. Another performance. Another night of pretending to be the kind of woman who belonged in Adrian's world.

The dress he'd sent was black—of course it was—and it was devastating in its simplicity. Backless, floor-length, with a slit up one thigh that showed far too much skin. It was the kind of dress designed to make a statement.

I'm not trying to seduce you, it said. But if I were, this is what I'd wear.

I put it on anyway.

When I came downstairs, Adrian was waiting in the foyer. He was in a tuxedo that probably cost more than my mother's entire house, and when he saw me, something flickered across his face—something raw and wanting—before he locked it down.

"You look beautiful," he said, and his voice was carefully neutral.

"You look like someone trying very hard not to feel anything," I replied.

His jaw tightened. "Get in the car."

The gala was held at the Metropolitan Museum, all soaring ceilings and crystal chandeliers and people who had never worried about paying rent in their lives. Adrian's hand was at the small of my back as we moved through the crowd, and even through the fabric of the dress, his touch burned.

We were approached constantly by people wanting his attention, his money, his endorsement. He was gracious and distant, the perfect version of himself. And I stood beside him and smiled and said the right things and felt like I was slowly disappearing.

It was around midnight when I excused myself to the bathroom.

I locked myself in a stall and tried to remember why I'd thought this was a good idea. Tried to remember that Adrian was a means to an end, that my feelings were a complication I couldn't afford, that this was always going to end.

When I came out, he was waiting.

"We should go," he said.

The drive home was silent. The city blurred past the windows, and I watched the reflection of Adrian's face in the glass—guarded, controlled, unreachable.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked finally.

"Doing what?"

"Pretending the other night didn't happen. Pretending you don't feel—"

"I feel plenty," he cut me off, his voice sharp. "That's the problem."

I turned to face him. "Then why—"

"Because feeling things is a liability, Isla. It makes you weak. It makes you vulnerable to people who will use it against you. I've spent my entire life building walls, and I didn't do that for someone to just walk through them."

"I'm not trying to—"

"I know you're not." His voice was quieter now, almost broken. "That's what terrifies me."

The car pulled up to his building. He got out without waiting for me, and I followed him inside, through the lobby, into the elevator. As the doors closed, I watched the numbers climb.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said.

He didn't respond. Just stared straight ahead, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

When the elevator doors opened on the penthouse level, he finally looked at me. And in his dark eyes, I saw the war—the part of him that wanted me warring with the part of him that was terrified.

"Go to your room," he said quietly.

"Adrian—"

"Please."

The please broke something in me. Because it meant he was asking, not commanding. It meant he was struggling just as much as I was.

I went to my room. And I lay in the dark and listened to the city breathe outside my window and tried to convince myself that this was all going to work out.

It was a lie I'd never been good at telling.

By the time sleep finally came, I'd made a decision: tomorrow, I was going to make him admit what we both already knew.

Either he was going to let me in, or I was going to have to walk away.

And I wasn't sure which outcome would destroy me more.