CHAPTER 2
1071 Words
If confidence had a sound, it would be the click of Ariella Monteverde’s heels echoing across the marble floors of Vale Enterprises.
She’d never felt this nervous in her life—but damned if she’d show it.
“Good morning, Ms. Monteverde,” said the front desk lady, clearly in awe of her. “Mr. Vale is already in the conference room for the morning briefing.”
“Perfect,” Ariella smiled. “Let’s give him a show.”
Because today wasn’t just her first day on the job.
It was revenge era, baby.
Damian Vale was leaning against the glass wall, talking to his executives in a calm, low tone that somehow managed to sound both sexy and terrifying.
He looked every bit the billionaire stereotype—black suit, silver watch, eyes like they could undress your soul.
When Ariella entered, the room stilled.
“Ah, Miss Monteverde,” Damian said smoothly. “Glad you could join us. Everyone, meet our new marketing consultant.”
Twelve pairs of eyes turned to her. Some curious. Some doubtful. One guy was already whispering to another, probably gossiping about how a random woman from the outside world landed a position personally hired by the CEO.
Ariella smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, gentlemen. I don’t bite unless provoked.”
A few chuckled. Damian did not.
“Let’s begin,” he said, clicking the remote.
The presentation started. Charts. Graphs. Sales figures. The usual corporate nonsense.
Ariella listened—until she couldn’t anymore.
“Excuse me,” she said, raising a hand.
Damian arched a brow. “Yes, Ms. Monteverde?”
“I’m sorry, but this—” she pointed at the screen, “—is boring. The visuals look like they were made by a Windows 98 intern. No emotion. No hook. You’re selling products, not funeral plans.”
The room gasped.
Damian’s lips twitched. “You have a better idea?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She walked to the front, grabbed the remote from his hand (ignoring the way his fingers brushed hers, sending a jolt up her arm), and clicked off the slide.
“Let’s talk real strategy,” she said, facing the room. “You don’t sell luxury by telling people how expensive it is. You sell it by making them feel like they’ll never be enough without it.”
The employees were silent. Even Damian looked… intrigued.
“Keep going,” he murmured.
She paced slowly, fire in her eyes. “We rebrand the campaign around experience. Desire. Temptation. People don’t buy a car—they buy status. They don’t buy jewelry—they buy validation. We sell that emotion.”
One of the execs cleared his throat. “And what exactly would you call this new campaign?”
Ariella turned, smirked, and said,
“The Art of Wanting.”
For a long moment, nobody spoke. Then Damian clapped once. Slowly.
“Impressive,” he said. “Unprofessional, but impressive.”
“Unprofessional?” she repeated, folding her arms.
“You hijacked a meeting and insulted my slides.”
She smirked. “And yet, you’re still clapping.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
Later that afternoon, in his office—
“Sit,” Damian ordered.
Ariella dropped into the chair across his desk, crossing her legs. “If this is about the presentation, I’ll only apologize if you admit I was right.”
He chuckled. “You’re not exactly shy, are you?”
“Why would I be? You hired me for my mouth.”
Damian raised an eyebrow.
“Marketing mouth,” she corrected quickly. “Don’t look at me like that.”
He leaned back in his chair. “You should read your contract, Miss Monteverde.”
She frowned. “I did.”
“Page five. Clause eight.”
She flipped through the printed contract. “‘Employee shall refrain from any form of unprofessional interaction with the CEO.’” Her brow arched. “Define ‘unprofessional,’ Mr. Vale.”
“Flirting, for one.”
She smirked. “Who said I was flirting?”
“Your tone.”
“Your imagination.”
He grinned, slow and dangerous. “You sure you want to play this game?”
“Oh, I was born for this game.”
The tension between them thickened. The air felt heavier, the silence stretching like a taut string.
Then, mercifully—or maybe not—his phone buzzed.
He looked at it, frowned slightly, then stood. “Meeting’s over. I have to take this.”
She rose too. “So I’m not fired?”
“Not yet,” he said, his voice low. “But if you keep talking to me like that, you might end up promoted… or sued.”
Ariella laughed. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”
That night, back at the house.
The air was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Ariella sat on the couch, scrolling through t****k, when Damian came in—tie loose, sleeves rolled up, looking exhausted and stupidly gorgeous.
“Rough day?” she asked.
He gave her a sideways look. “Someone hijacked my meeting.”
She grinned. “Someone needed to.”
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, took a sip, and leaned on the counter. “You really think you can keep up in my company?”
“Try me.”
He smirked. “You know what your problem is, Ariella?”
“What?”
“You don’t know when to stop.”
She stood, meeting his gaze head-on. “And you don’t know when to start.”
Their eyes locked. Neither moved. The tension hummed again, electric and dangerous.
Then—c**k-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOO!
The rooster screamed from outside.
Ariella burst out laughing. Damian groaned, running a hand through his hair.
“Your pet has worse timing than my ex,” she said between laughs.
He smiled—actually smiled. “Apollo likes you. That’s rare.”
She smirked. “Guess even your rooster knows good taste.”
“Careful,” he warned softly, taking a slow step closer.
“Or what?” she teased.
“Or you’ll find out exactly how dangerous it is to work for me.”
Her heartbeat quickened. “Promises, promises.”
He grinned, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Ms. Monteverde.”
“Sweet dreams, Mr. Vale,” she whispered, watching him walk away.
And somewhere in the silence that followed, the line between rivalry and attraction blurred completely.
- Writer
