If I Could Hate You

Chapter 1: When Eyes First Met

Sophia's POV

The city always smelled different in the fall. Not in the romantic sense that the lifestyle magazines liked to romanticize, all crisp leaves and roasted chestnuts, but in the real Manhattan sense—hot asphalt cooling at night, the tang of exhaust mixed with the faint whiff of street cart pretzels, and the occasional whisper of damp stone when the wind curled around the high-rises. I pulled my coat tighter and quickened my pace down the slick sidewalk, heels tapping a steady rhythm toward the FitzGerald & Co. building.

Today was supposed to be one of the biggest moments of my career. My first high-profile assignment since the promotion. Six weeks ago I had been just another senior associate in the public relations department. Now I was the newly minted PR lead for one of the most influential investment firms in the city. FitzGerald & Co. was known for playing in the deep end of Manhattan’s elite business pool, and I had worked twice as hard as anyone else to earn a seat here. My father’s voice still echoed in my head from childhood—earn your place, never let them think they gave it to you.

I pushed through the revolving glass doors into the marble lobby and let the warm air sweep over me. The space gleamed in whites and grays, the air perfumed with expensive lilies in tall crystal vases. Even after months in this building, it still made me feel like I had wandered into the set of some glamorous drama where people spoke in perfect sentences and never spilled coffee on their blouses.

The elevator ride up to the top floor was packed with other employees, most of them in dark suits and ties with their eyes glued to their phones. I tried to calm my heartbeat, telling myself I belonged here. Today’s launch gala for the firm’s newest real estate project would be the first event I had full creative control over. If I nailed this, the partners would see I could handle much more. If I blew it, I would be back to being the woman they barely remembered in meetings.

When the elevator doors opened, I stepped into a flurry of activity. Assistants carrying garment bags and floral arrangements wove between catering staff rolling silver-covered trays toward the boardroom. At the center of it all was my carefully constructed vision—soft golden lighting, champagne towers, and a centerpiece display of photographs of the new luxury high-rise we were unveiling.

“Sophia, thank God you’re here,” my junior, Emily, called, rushing toward me with a clipboard. “We just got word. Michael FitzGerald is landing an hour early. He wants to review the speech notes personally before the event.”

I paused, pen freezing mid-checklist. Michael FitzGerald. The elusive heir to the FitzGerald empire. I had heard plenty about him but had never been in the same room. He had spent the last year expanding the firm’s European holdings and making headlines for both his aggressive acquisitions and his perfectly tailored suits. My only knowledge of him came from glossy magazine profiles and the occasional whispered story from colleagues—brilliant, ruthlessly efficient, not exactly warm.

“He wants to review them?” I repeated. “I thought the speech was final. The partners already signed off.”

Emily shrugged helplessly. “Apparently he has his own edits. And he’s… well… he’s Michael.”

Before I could ask what that meant, a ripple of movement went through the room. The elevator doors opened again and a man stepped out with the kind of presence that seemed to shift the air. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that gleamed under the lights and eyes so blue they seemed out of place against the warm gold of the room. His suit was charcoal, cut to perfection, the crisp line of his white shirt collar framing a strong jaw.

I knew instantly this was Michael FitzGerald. And I hated that I noticed how absurdly attractive he was before I remembered I was supposed to be irritated.

He scanned the space with a cool, assessing gaze, barely acknowledging the flurry of greetings from staff. When his eyes landed on me, they lingered for a second too long before he strode forward.

“You’re the PR lead?” His voice was low, smooth, but there was no trace of warmth in it.

“Yes,” I said, lifting my chin. “Sophia Bennett.”

“I’m told you have the speech notes,” he said, as if the words themselves were an inconvenience. “I’ll need to review them now.”

“They’re finalized,” I replied evenly. “The partners approved them last week. We’ve built the visual presentation to match, so changes at this stage could—”

“I’m not interested in what could or could not be done,” he cut in, his tone like ice. “If there’s an error, we correct it. Hand them over.”

Something in me bristled. Maybe it was the long nights I had spent crafting every line, or maybe it was the way he had not so much as offered a hello before issuing demands. I reached into my folder and passed him the notes, forcing a polite smile.

He scanned the first page, and I watched a faint crease appear between his brows. “This paragraph,” he said, tapping the page, “is too heavy on community impact. Investors care about returns, not playgrounds and park benches.”

“With respect, Mr. FitzGerald, our research shows that emphasizing community engagement attracts media coverage, which in turn draws more potential buyers,” I said. “It’s not just feel-good fluff. It’s strategy.”

His gaze lifted to mine, and for a moment the room seemed quieter. “Are you in the habit of challenging your superiors, Ms. Bennett?”

“Only when they’re wrong,” I said before I could stop myself.

A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his expression, but it was gone before I could be sure. He handed the notes back. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, make sure the media reps are properly briefed. I don’t want any surprises tonight.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began directing staff like a general preparing for battle.

Emily appeared at my side, eyes wide. “I can’t believe you just said that to him.”

“I was polite,” I muttered, though my pulse was still pounding.

“You basically told him off in front of half the staff.”

I watched Michael from across the room as he spoke to the catering manager. There was an undeniable magnetism about him, the kind that drew people in even when they wanted to resist. I told myself it was irritation sparking in my chest, not anything else.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of final checks and controlled chaos. By the time the first guests began arriving that evening, the space gleamed. The city lights spilled in through the glass walls, reflecting off crystal glasses and the polished sheen of marble floors. The air buzzed with conversation and the clink of champagne flutes.

Michael gave his speech without changing a single word of the notes. I stood near the back, arms folded, watching the way he held the crowd’s attention, the confidence in his voice, the faint smile that made him look almost human. He glanced my way once, just long enough to make my breath catch, before turning back to the audience.

I told myself it meant nothing.

But as the applause rose and he stepped down from the podium, something in his eyes told me this was only the beginning.