CHAPTER 3: Take Off The Mask
748 Words
The next morning, Arielle walked into Black Enterprises with her head held high and her heart screaming behind her ribs.
She wore a fitted black pencil skirt, a silk blouse the color of crushed pearls, and heels that clicked like war drums. She had tied her hair into a sleek knot. No trace of the trembling girl from yesterday. Only steel.
She had survived Damon Black once.
She’d do it again.
The moment she stepped into his office, she felt it.
The tension.
Sharp. Waiting. Watching.
Damon sat behind his desk, unreadable, flipping through a file. He didn’t look up.
“You’re early,” he said.
She closed the door behind her. “I don’t like being late.”
“Good.” He snapped the file shut. “I hate lazy people.”
She stepped forward. “What’s on today’s schedule, sir?”
He finally looked at her.
And the air shifted.
His eyes swept over her outfit. Too long. Too slow. Not quite inappropriate—but enough to make her skin feel hot.
“I hope you’re not trying to impress me,” he said.
She didn’t flinch. “Is that a problem?”
His lips curled. “Only if it works.”
Arielle stiffened.
He stood up and walked past her, his scent brushing the air—clean, expensive, dangerous.
“Come,” he said without turning. “There’s a private event tonight. You’re coming with me.”
She blinked. “I thought assistants didn’t—”
“Mine do.”
“Do you always make your assistants play dress-up and follow you to parties?”
He turned slowly.
And smirked.
“Only the ones I can’t stop thinking about.”
Arielle’s breath caught. Is he flirting? No. He’s provoking.
She raised a brow. “I’ll come. But I don’t do small talk or fake smiles.”
He walked toward her again—slowly. Predatory.
“Good,” he whispered. “I’m allergic to liars.”
Her blood turned to ice.
She opened her mouth, but he brushed past her, too close again.
“Pick a dress. Something that says power, not desperation.”
The door shut behind him.
And Arielle stood there—shaken, burning, and dangerously aware.
He was testing her.
And she was about to play the most dangerous game of her life.
That Night...
The ballroom shimmered in golden light, full of polished men in tuxedos and women draped in diamonds. Champagne flowed. Secrets danced in every corner.
Arielle stepped inside, breath catching.
She wore a midnight-blue gown that clung to every curve, backless, with a slit that kissed her thigh. Her hair cascaded in soft waves, lips painted like sin.
She wasn’t just beautiful.
She was lethal.
And across the room, Damon Black turned and saw her.
His jaw clenched.
His glass shattered in his grip.
He reached her in seconds.
“You’re late.”
She tilted her head. “I was aiming for dramatic.”
His eyes swept over her again. “You succeeded.”
He offered his arm. She took it.
And the war began.
They danced.
Their bodies moved too close. His hand at her lower back. Her breath near his throat.
“Who are you really, Arielle Quinn?” he murmured, his lips close to her ear.
“I’m the woman you hired.”
“No,” he whispered. “You’re something else. I can feel it.”
She pulled back, eyes sharp. “Maybe you don’t know me at all.”
He leaned in again. “That’s what terrifies me.”
Across the room, a pair of eyes watched them from the shadows.
Veronica Black—Damon’s fiancée.
And she wasn’t smiling.
Later that night, as the car drove them home in silence, Damon suddenly spoke.
“You said you don’t lie.”
She looked out the window. “I don’t.”
“Then why do you flinch every time I get too close?”
Her breath caught.
“Why do you look like you’ve been burned… by me?”
The air was suffocating.
“Because I have,” she whispered.
He turned to her sharply, eyes burning.
“What did you just say?”
But she was already stepping out of the car. “Goodnight, Mr. Black.”
And she left him sitting in the backseat, staring after her, jaw clenched and fists shaking.
Because something in her voice had sounded like… truth.
And truth had always been the one thing Damon Black couldn’t handle.
- Writer
