Get Your Hands Off Me
"Take your hands off me."
Aria Stone’s voice cut through the silence of the executive office. Steady. Even though her pulse was racing.
She stepped back, putting the polished oak desk between herself and Richard Collins. Marketing Director. The man she’d respected for three years.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stretching long shadows across the room. It didn’t soften anything. Not the disgust twisting in her stomach.
Richard sighed like she was the problem. He straightened his expensive tie, then leaned against his desk, arms folded.
“You’re taking this too seriously, Aria.”
She stared. “You said this meeting was about my promotion.”
“And we are discussing it.”
“No.” Her voice went hard. “You’re asking me to sleep with you.”
A smug smile slid across his face. There it was. No misunderstanding.
“Let’s be realistic,” he said. “You’re talented. Hardworking. Attractive. I can make you Senior Marketing Manager today. Bigger office. Double salary. Company car. Everything you’ve worked for.”
He opened a drawer and set a cream envelope on the desk. The company logo gleamed on it.
“Your promotion letter. Already signed.”
For half a second, Aria’s heart jumped.
A year of late nights. Weekends lost to projects. Overtime she never got paid for. She’d told herself it would mean something.
Then Richard smiled again.
“One night with me. That’s all.”
The hope in her chest cracked.
She looked at the envelope. Then at him. Disappointment flared into anger.
“So my work didn’t matter?”
“It mattered enough to get my attention.”
“That’s supposed to make it better?”
Richard shrugged. “This is how the world works. Successful people take opportunities.”
Aria laughed. No humor in it.
“No. Men like you just convinced yourselves that power means you get to collect women like prizes.”
His face hardened.
“Think carefully before you say no.”
“I already have.”
She picked up the envelope.
Richard sat back, satisfied. He thought she’d caved.
Instead, she tore it.
Rip.
Then again.
Rip.
And again.
The pieces drifted onto his perfect desk like snow.
“I earned that promotion,” she said, holding his stunned stare. “But not like this.”
Richard’s confidence cracked.
“You’ll never work here again.”
“Maybe not.”
She grabbed her handbag.
“But I’d rather be jobless than lose myself.”
He slammed a palm on the desk. “Do you know what you’re throwing away?”
She did.
The rent she could barely cover. The bills on her kitchen table. The student loan still hanging over her. Losing this job would wreck her.
But saying yes would wreck something worse.
Her dignity.
She turned toward the door.
“If this company rewards men like you,” she said quietly, “then it’s not the place I thought it was.”
She walked out. No second glance.
Thirty minutes later, Aria stood outside Blackwood International with a cardboard box.
Her entire office life fit inside it.
A family photo.
A notebook.
A mug that read: _Believe in Yourself._
She looked up at the glass tower that used to be her future. It didn’t feel familiar anymore.
The doors opened. An elderly security guard stepped out.
“I’m sorry, Miss Stone. They told me to escort you out.”
Aria managed a small smile. “You’re just doing your job.”
He nodded and went back inside.
She stayed a moment longer, watching employees rush in, laughing, planning their evenings. An hour ago, that was her.
Now she was unemployed.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon. Miss Aria Stone?”
“Yes.”
“This is Claire, from the Blackwood Foundation. One of our hospitality assistants called in sick. Your agency recommended you for tonight’s charity gala.”
Aria frowned. “They don’t know I was just fired.”
“They do.”
Her brows rose. “And they still recommended me?”
“They spoke highly of your professionalism.”
For the first time all day, someone was on her side.
“How much does it pay?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
That covered rent. That bought her time.
“I’ll be there.”
The Grand Imperial Hotel looked unreal.
Crystal chandeliers. Soft string quartet. Politicians, celebrities, CEOs. Champagne glasses clinking like music.
In a black waitress uniform, Aria told herself one thing: Get through the night. No mistakes. No attention. Just work, then leave.
Tray of champagne flutes. Steady hands. Move through the crowd.
The ballroom doors opened.
Conversations died.
Every head turned.
Damien Blackwood.
Thirty-two. CEO. The man who built Blackwood International into an empire. The press called him the Ice King. No smiles. No interviews. Fear from rivals. Respect from everyone else.
He moved through the room with calm authority. Nods, but no small talk.
Aria didn’t see him.
She was dodging another waiter who cut across her path.
She stepped aside—
And crashed into someone behind her.
The tray slipped.
Glass shattered on marble.
Champagne sprayed across a black, tailored suit.
Silence.
Aria went pale. “Oh no…”
She rushed forward with a napkin. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Blackwood. I wasn’t looking—”
His hand closed around her wrist before she could touch him.
Heat. A jolt. Like static, but deeper.
Aria’s breath caught. The room felt too small. Too loud.
Damien froze. But inside him, something woke up.
His wolf.
Years silent. Now alert.
_Mate._
The word hit his mind like a command.
He let her go slowly, eyes locked on hers.
She looked human. She felt human.
Every instinct he had said otherwise.
Across the ballroom, a “waiter” lowered his head and murmured into an earpiece.
“The target has made contact with Blackwood.”
A cold female voice replied at once.
“Then don’t let either of them leave the hotel alive.”
