Bound by Vows, Torn by fire

Power Suit Politics

The elevator doors sighed open with the hush of wealth. Josie Hart stepped out, her heels clicking too loudly on the marble. The lobby of Rourke Enterprises' top floor was a cold cathedral of steel, glass, and ambition. High ceilings. No art. No welcome.

Only power.

A woman behind a reception desk lifted her chin, eyes scanning Josie with the kind of precision meant for metal detectors. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m here to speak with Mr. Rourke,” Josie said, offering no apology for the drop-in. She squared her shoulders beneath her trench coat, her worn leather satchel slung across one shoulder like a soldier’s pack.

The receptionist’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid Mr. Rourke doesn’t take unscheduled meetings.”

Josie leaned in. “Tell him it’s about the Crestfall merger.”

That was a bluff. Bait. And she knew it. But the receptionist blinked.

For a beat too long, there was silence then a phone was lifted, a quiet murmur exchanged. Josie caught the tight pull at the woman’s temple. Then:

“You can wait.”

Josie turned, eyes sweeping the glass corridor. Men in black suits passed like phantoms. Everyone looked like they belonged to the building. Not inside it, but of it.

She didn't.

Her blouse was secondhand silk, and the tailored pants had seen one too many laundromats. But Josie didn’t shrink. She took a seat, back ramrod straight, eyes on the massive double doors at the end of the corridor.

The ones that led to the man she had staked her career on.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

On the dot of twenty, the doors opened.

Dalton Rourke filled the frame with the stillness of a wolf on a hill. He didn’t move so much as lean into the air. His power didn’t roar it coiled. Silent. Commanding.

He was tall, sculpted from long lines and quiet violence. A charcoal suit wrapped around his frame with the sharp precision of a blade. The white shirt beneath it glinted faintly beneath the open collar, no tie like he didn’t care to finish the kill.

Josie stood. Slowly.

Their eyes locked. And the world tilted.

Dalton didn’t blink. He walked forward with the calm surety of a man who had never once been denied. His gaze dragged over her face, her frame, the bag at her hip, and then back to her eyes.

“I don’t recall scheduling an interview,” he said, voice low and dry as aged whiskey.

“You didn’t.” Her chin lifted, eyes hard with defiance. “But if you answer three questions, I’ll walk out that door and never bother you again.”

A pause.

Dalton smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

And then he stepped closer.

Close enough that Josie could smell leather and a faint echo of cedar subtle, expensive, masculine.

“Three questions,” he murmured. “That’s ambitious for a stranger in my building without an appointment.”

“I didn’t come here for polite conversation.”

“Clearly.”

She held her ground. “But you also don’t want a story running tomorrow with blanks I have to fill in myself. Do you?”

His eyes flared, amused.

There it was the spark. He liked the challenge.

Dalton Rourke studied her like he might study a contract before slicing it apart.

“Ten minutes,” he said finally, turning on his heel. “You waste a second of it, and you won’t get a second chance.”

Josie followed him down the corridor, her heartbeat rioting against her ribs.

Inside, the office was everything she expected and nothing she’d prepared for.

A glass wall looked out over the city like the throne room of a god. No clutter. A single steel desk. A bookshelf lined with first editions. A black leather sofa, like a shadow, curled against the far wall.

He gestured wordlessly to a chair.

She sat, careful not to fidget.

Dalton leaned on the edge of his desk instead of taking the seat opposite her. Power move. He crossed his arms, waiting.

Josie opened her notebook.

“First question,” she said. “Is the Crestfall deal going through, or is your board planning to back out?”

His eyes didn’t flicker.

“That’s privileged information.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Dalton studied her for a moment longer than comfort allowed. Then: “Next.”

She tightened her grip on her pen.

“Second question. What’s your connection to Cambria Locke?”

This time, the pause was different.

Tight.

“Loose acquaintances,” he said smoothly. “Next.”

Her breath caught. He was lying. Or half lying.

“Final question,” she said. “What happened to William Hunt?”

His expression froze.

The name had struck something deep.

Dalton’s smile vanished.

For a moment, Josie thought he might stand. Walk out. End it all there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned his back to her, staring out the window. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“That’s a dangerous question to ask in this building.”

“Is it dangerous because of the answer?” she pressed.

He turned, eyes darker now. “It’s dangerous because the people who want the answer rarely live long enough to print it.”

Josie’s breath hitched.

And for the first time, she wondered if she’d pushed too far.

Dalton looked at her truly looked and said, “Your ten minutes are up.”

She rose slowly, her notebook half full, her mind reeling.

“Thank you,” she said, breathing steadily despite the adrenaline in her throat.

But just as she reached for the door, his voice stopped her.

“I answered your questions.”

She turned back.

Dalton’s eyes held hers.

“Now you answer one of mine.”

Josie hesitated. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I’m altering the deal.”

And then his gaze pinned her.

“Who tipped you off?”

Josie hesitated.

“That’s confidential.”

Dalton’s smile returned, slow and wolfish.

“That’s not a no.”

Josie’s heart pounded.

Then he stepped forward and leaned in. Not too close. But close enough to make the air thinner.

“I don’t like reporters,” he said softly. “They lie. They dig. They bleed people dry for headlines. But you...”

He tilted his head.

“You don’t smell like fear. That makes you either brave or stupid.”

She swallowed. “I’ll take brave.”

Dalton laughed. A single, unexpected sound. Dark and smooth.

Then his face shifted again, colder.

“Careful, Miss Hart. I play long games. And I always win.”

Josie met his stare. “Then maybe you need a better opponent.”

That paused him.

He stepped back.

And this time, when she reached the door, he let her go.

But the moment she stepped into the hall, she knew it.

She wasn’t done with him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t done with her.

Dalton Rourke didn’t lean back. He didn’t blink. He simply watched her.

Josie Hart felt the air in the room shift, not colder, not warmer, just… heavier. Something vast and invisible had settled on her shoulders the moment, she sat across from him. She met his gaze and refused to look away.

“So,” Dalton said, voice low and deliberate, “you want a story.”

“No,” she replied calmly. “I want the truth.”

His lips twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. “Same thing, depending on who’s telling it.”

Dalton sat behind a desk that belonged in a museum: dark mahogany, hand-carved, probably worth more than her entire college education. He was dressed like every photo she’d seen online tailored charcoal suit, French cuffs, no tie, shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at ease without sacrificing control.

His presence didn’t fill the room. It compressed it.

Josie straightened her spine, not because she was nervous, but because something about him made you want to sit straighter. “I’ll be brief.”

“No,” Dalton said. “You’ll be bold.”

She paused.

“Because if you’re not,” he continued, “I’ll end this in sixty seconds. I don’t suffer cowards, Miss Hart.”

Josie smirked. “And I don’t suffer liars.”

That earned her a flicker of something behind his eyes. Interest, maybe. Maybe even respect. But it was fleeting. The shark-like stillness returned. His hands folded on the desk, one over the other. There was a pale scar across his right knuckle. She made a mental note of it.

“Ask your first question,” he said.

“Your acquisition of KressTech came with five hundred layoffs. Three plants closed within sixty days. Yet your press release used words like ‘strategic refinement.’ Do you believe in euphemisms, Mr. Rourke?”