Hate Me Closer

Chapter 1: The Return The city hadn't changed. That was the first lie Aria Cole told herself as the taxi pulled away from the curb at Halston International, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with a single suitcase and a heart full of old fire. It had changed. She had changed. That was the point. Seven years. Seven years since she'd stood in the marble lobby of Vale Tower with her father's hand shaking in hers, watching security escort them out like criminals. Seven years since Dorian Vale had looked right through her — nineteen and invisible — and signed the papers that took everything. Now she was twenty-nine, and she wasn't invisible anymore. Aria adjusted the strap of her bag and looked up at the skyline. Vale Tower still dominated it, glass and steel and arrogance. Somewhere up there, on the forty-first floor, Dorian Vale sat behind a desk that should have been her father's. She'd spent three years learning everything about that desk. About him. She pulled out her phone and opened the email she'd read a hundred times. "Ms. Cole — Mr. Vale has agreed to meet regarding the Halston Foundation gala. Thursday, 10 a.m. Come prepared." Prepared. She almost laughed. She'd been preparing for this since she was nineteen. --- The Vale Tower lobby smelled like money — cold air, polished stone, something citrusy in the diffusers. Aria's heels clicked across the floor with a confidence she didn't entirely feel. The receptionist looked up, smiled the practiced smile. "Aria Cole for Mr. Vale." "Of course. Forty-first floor. He's expecting you." The elevator ride was the longest ninety seconds of her life. She watched the numbers climb and rehearsed the woman she needed to be: cool, professional, untouchable. Not the girl who'd cried in this same elevator seven years ago. The doors opened onto a quiet corridor. A woman in her fifties — sharp eyes, sharper suit — waited. "Ms. Cole. I'm Margot, Mr. Vale's executive assistant. Right this way." Aria followed her past glass-walled offices, past the kind of art people bought to prove they had taste. And then Margot opened a door, and there he was. Dorian Vale hadn't changed either. That was the second lie. He stood by the window, back to the door, phone to his ear. Broad shoulders in a charcoal suit. Dark hair a little longer than in the photos she'd studied. He turned as they entered, and Aria's rehearsed composure cracked — just for a second — because his eyes were exactly as she remembered. Gray. Assessing. Cold enough to burn. He ended the call without looking away from her. "Ms. Cole." His voice was lower than she'd expected. "Sit." She sat. She didn't let her hands shake. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Vale." "Dorian." A brief, unreadable smile. "We're going to be working closely on the gala. Might as well skip the formalities." Working closely. The words landed like a dare. "I've reviewed your proposal," he continued, moving to his desk. He didn't offer her coffee. He didn't offer anything. "The foundation's board was impressed. I'm... cautiously impressed." "Cautiously?" "You have no track record with events at this scale, Ms. Cole — Aria. Your firm is two years old. This gala is the foundation's biggest night of the year." "Which is exactly why you need someone who isn't coasting on last year's playbook." She met his gaze and held it. "I've attached the vendor list, the budget breakdown, and three concepts for the theme. I don't waste people's time, Dorian." Something flickered in his expression — surprise, maybe. Or interest. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Bold." "Honest." A beat of silence. Outside the window, the city glittered. Inside, the air felt charged, like the moment before a storm. "Alright," he said finally. "You have the gala. Margot will set up weekly check-ins. Don't make me regret this." "I won't." She stood, smoothed her skirt, turned for the door. She'd made it three steps when his voice stopped her. "Aria." She turned. "Your father," he said. "Ellis Cole. He was a good man. What happened to Halston & Cole — that was business. Nothing personal." The room tilted. Seven years of grief and rage rose up in her throat like bile. She swallowed it down and smiled — the coldest smile she owned. "Of course," she said softly. "Nothing personal at all." She walked out with her head high and her hands fists at her sides. In the elevator, alone, she let out a shaky breath and looked at her reflection in the mirrored walls. The woman staring back was a stranger — poised, polished, dangerous. Good. Let him see the stranger. Let him never see the girl. Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Did he buy it?" She typed back: "He bought it. Phase one complete." She slipped the phone away as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby. Phase one. Get inside his world. Earn his trust. Learn his weaknesses. Phase two — the part she didn't let herself think about yet — was the part where she destroyed him. What she didn't know, as she stepped back out into the sunlight, was that Dorian Vale was standing at his window, watching her go, with an expression that was anything but cautious. "Margot," he'd said after the door closed, "pull everything we have on Aria Cole. Everything." He'd recognized something in her eyes. Not fear. Not ambition. Hunger. The same hunger he saw in his own mirror. And Dorian Vale had never been able to resist a worthy adversary.