Hate Me Closer

Chapter 3: Terms & Conditions

Chapter 3: Terms & Conditions

Her desk sat fifteen feet from Margot's, in an alcove with a view of the river. By nine o'clock on her first morning, Aria had organized it into a command center: laptop, vendor binders, a whiteboard covered in timelines.

By nine-fifteen, Dorian Vale had ruined her peace.

"Aria." He appeared at her desk without sound, the way dangerous things did. "My office. Now."

She followed him past Margot, who didn't look up — which meant Margot knew exactly what this was about and had decided it wasn't her problem.

He closed the door and turned. "Vivienne Marsh."

"The event planner?"

"She had lunch with Abernathy yesterday. Told him you're too green for a gala of this scale, that her firm could take over tomorrow, no disruption." His jaw was tight. "The board is nervous. They want experience."

Aria's stomach dropped, then steadied. This was business. She knew business. "And what do you want?"

"I want you." He said it flatly, and the words landed between them like a dropped glass. He saw her expression and clarified, cool as ever: "On this gala. Exclusively. No other clients until it's done."

"I'm flattered, but I have a firm to run—"

"Then let me make it worth your while." He slid a contract across the desk. "Triple your fee. You work on-site, on-call, full creative control — but I sign off on every vendor, every dollar. And you sign this."

She scanned the document. NDA. Non-compete for the duration. A clause requiring her to disclose any "material conflict of interest."

Her throat went dry. A material conflict of interest. Like planning to destroy him.

"These terms are aggressive," she said.

"These terms are necessary." He leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "You want my trust, Aria? This is what it costs."

She looked up at him. "And if I refuse?"

"Then Vivienne Marsh gets the gala, and you get a very polite goodbye." A beat. "Your call."

It wasn't a call at all. She needed this — the access, the proximity, the weeks inside his world. Without the gala, phase one collapsed.

But she wasn't going to let him see her cornered.

"Full creative control," she said. "In writing. You don't touch the design."

"Weekly reviews. I touch everything."

"Biweekly. And I choose my vendors."

"From my approved list."

"From a list we approve together." She met his eyes. "I'm not your employee, Dorian. I'm your partner on this. Treat me like one."

Something like respect flickered in his expression. He picked up a pen, amended two lines by hand, initialed them, and pushed the contract back.

"Sign."

She signed. He signed. The scratch of pen on paper sounded absurdly final — like a vow, or a sentence.

"Terms and conditions," she said softly.

"Always." He stood and extended his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

---

She regretted it by six o'clock.

Not the contract — the proximity. Working fifteen feet from Margot meant working thirty feet from Dorian's office, and Dorian's office had glass walls, and Dorian had spent the entire afternoon in meetings with the door open, his voice carrying: low, decisive, occasionally edged with dry humor that made his executives laugh despite themselves.

She hated that she noticed.

At eight, Margot left with a pointed look. "He'll work till midnight. Don't feel you have to match him."

At nine, Aria was still at her whiteboard, reworking the seating chart, when a coffee appeared at her elbow.

"You missed dinner," Dorian said.

She turned. He'd lost the jacket, rolled his sleeves to the elbow. He looked less like a CEO and more like a man, and she resented the difference.

"I don't need you to feed me."

"No. You need to eat." He set the cup down firmly. "There's a difference."

She stared at the coffee — black, exactly how she took it. "How did you know—"

"Margot knows everything." He leaned against her desk, close enough that she caught his scent: cedar, something darker underneath. "Walk me through the seating chart."

It was an excuse and they both knew it. But she walked him through it anyway — donors, egos, old feuds, who couldn't sit near whom — and he listened with genuine attention, asking sharp questions, once reaching past her to tap a name on the whiteboard.

"Whitmore can't sit near the Da Costas," she said. "Not after the marina incident."

"The marina incident," he repeated, and laughed — a real laugh, low and unguarded, that did something alarming to her chest. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Ms. Cole. You collect secrets like other people collect art."

"I collect what keeps my clients alive," she said. "Yours are particularly bloodthirsty."

"They're philanthropists," he said dryly. "The bloodthirsty part is just a hobby."

She laughed before she could stop herself, and his eyes warmed in a way that made her forget, for exactly three seconds, why she was here.

His arm brushed her shoulder. Neither of them moved.

The air went electric. She could feel the heat of him along her side, see the pulse at his throat. His eyes dropped to her mouth for one dangerous second —

His phone rang.

He stepped back like he'd been burned, answered with a clipped "Vale," and walked to the window. The spell shattered.

Aria gripped her marker until her knuckles whitened. This was the plan. Get close. Let him want her. Use it.

So why did she feel like the one being hunted?

Her phone buzzed. Nadia: "Contract signed?"

Aria typed back: "Signed. I'm inside."

Nadia: "Phase one complete, then. When do we start phase two?"

Aria looked at Dorian's silhouette against the city lights — broad shoulders, head bent over the call, alone in all that glass.

"Soon," she typed.

But her hand was shaking, and she told herself it was just the coffee.

---

End of Chapter 3