Red Heat, Cold Steel

Chapter Four

The rain had been falling all afternoon, soft against the windows, the kind of gentle, rhythmic drizzle that makes the world feel far away. Our apartment smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and the lavender candle Diane insisted on lighting whenever she was home. Diane had curled herself into the corner of the couch, scrolling through t****k while Naya sat cross-legged on the floor, painting her nails a deep plum shade. I was sprawled in the armchair, wrapped in my favorite oversized blanket, sipping tea that had long gone lukewarm. The TV was turned to a station showing a movie none of us were interested in seeing. It was a rare Saturday night where life felt manageable. No deadlines, no corporate emergencies—just laughter, comfort, and the soft hum of the city outside.

Naya glanced up from her nails, arching a brow. "We could be at that new rooftop lounge right now, you know. Heat lamps, live music, cocktails. Instead, we're here, watching Diane doom-scroll and a rerun of this old crap."

Diane didn't even look up. "Because my sister would rather rot in her blanket than wear heels, and I'm broke and sick, and you only come over for my Wi-Fi and snacks."

I snorted, tossing a pillow at her. "For the record, I like peace, not rotting. And these heels you're so eager about? They're foot-killers, not fashion."

"You're twenty-four, not sixty-four," Diane teased, finally lowering her phone to fix me with a look that was way too knowing. "When was the last time you went on an actual date? Not, like, coffee with a client or... whatever it is you and your boss do."

Naya glanced at me, threw her head back and laughed. "You mean the last time she got it? Yes Jordan, tell us."

Before I could fire back, my phone buzzed against the coffee table, its glow cutting through the cozy dimness. The name flashing across the screen made Diane's grin bloom like wildfire.

"Well, well," she drawled, leaning forward like she was watching a soap opera unfold. "Speak of the ice king himself."

Naya's eyes lit up instantly. "That's him? Damien Blackwood? The one you said looks like he was designed by a team of gods but has the personality of a glacier?"

I groaned, snatching the phone before they could grab it. "Yes, him. And don't start. He's my boss, not... whatever you're thinking."

"Uh-huh," Diane murmured, clearly unconvinced.

I answered the call, trying to smooth my voice into something neutral. "Hello?"

Damien's voice was a low, measured thing—cool enough to make my spine straighten, but edged with something that felt like heat if you knew where to listen. "Blackwood enterprises needs Shanghai projections redone, the numbers are a disaster. I want you in the office. Now."

I blinked at the clock. "It's Saturday night, Sir. Can't this wait until—"

"No." He didn't raise his voice, didn't have to. His authority slid through the line like a blade. "Bring your laptop. We'll work until it's done." And just like that, the call ended.

Diane's grin was positively feral. "You're going in? On a Saturday night? Either he really hates you, or he—" she dragged out the pause, "really doesn't."

"Shut up," I muttered, already standing. "This is work, strictly work. Need I remind you Diane, that this work is what pays your medical expenses."

Diane eyed me and muttered beneath her breath. "Maybe I'm better off dead."

I hit her lightly. "Shut up!"

Naya smirked knowingly. "Sure, babe. Work. With the marble statue who summons you like you're his personal savior every other night. Completely innocent."

Their laughter followed me out the door, teasing and warm, even as my chest tightened with something I refused to name.

⸻

The office was nearly silent when I arrived, the usual hum of phones and voices replaced by the faint buzz of lights and the sound of rain smudging the skyline. Blackwood enterprises always felt intimidating at night—like the building itself held its breath, waiting.

Damien was already there, standing at the head of the conference table with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie abandoned on the chair behind him. His dark hair looked slightly disheveled, as though he'd been raking his hand through it in frustration, but his face... his face was all sharp lines and control, unreadable as ever.

"You're late," he said without looking at me.

I glanced at my phone. "By two minutes."

"Two minutes is still late." His eyes lifted, catching mine for just a beat too long before flicking back to the papers. "Sit. We don't have time to waste."

Something about his tone always made my chest tighten—not just from irritation, though there was plenty of that, but from something warmer, heavier, that I refused to unpack. I set up beside him, biting back a retort because I knew it would only amuse him.

For the first hour, we worked in silence, our laptops the only sound between us. But the quiet wasn't comfortable—it thrummed with something unspoken. Every time I looked up, I felt his gaze slide over me, assessing, lingering just a second too long.

At one point, I leaned forward to grab a report, my fingers brushing his. The touch was brief, accidental, but it was like a spark had jumped between us—sharp, electric. My breath hitched before I could stop it.

He didn't pull away immediately. His hand stayed there, cool and steady, his dark eyes lifting to mine. For one dangerous moment, the room felt too small, too still.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice lower than usual, almost like a warning. Or a challenge.

I drew back quickly, clutching the report. "It was an accident."

One corner of his mouth curved—not a smile, but something close, something infuriatingly knowing. "So you say."

The hours stretched on. Outside, the city dimmed from black to gray as dawn approached, the rain easing to a mist. Somewhere between the fourth cup of coffee and the final draft of the report, the tension between us became impossible to ignore. He stood close behind me as I typed, scanning the spreadsheet over my shoulder, his presence like heat licking at my skin.

"You missed a decimal," he said softly, his breath grazing the shell of my ear as he pointed at the screen.

My fingers froze on the keyboard, my pulse stuttering. "Fixed," I said, correcting it with a speed that felt like self-preservation.

He didn't move right away, didn't step back even when he could have. When he finally did, the space between us felt wrong, too wide, too cold.

By the time the sun had begun to stain the windows gold, I was raw—tired, wired, and teetering on some edge I couldn't quite define. The silence was thicker now, full of all the things neither of us had the nerve or the sense to say.

I got up and stretched, a yawn escaping my lips softly. He glanced at me and I felt his eyes linger on me. I felt bare as I traced his eyes to the smooth curve of my belly where my black blouse had pulled off my trouser.

I turned away immediately, heading to the coffee maker where he had somehow already brewed a fresh batch.

I poured myself some and turned to ask if he wanted any but he was standing behind me already. I gasped as the mug fell off my hands. "I'm so sorry."

He grabbed my hand, flickering the inside of my palm. I felt heat and something familiar, something I had been feeling alot recently when he was around me, creep up my spine. It felt like a fire, fierce and intense.

He flicker a curl of hair off my face and leaned in. "Is that how I make you feel? Fire that makes you burn and break things?"

And then the conference room door opened.

Richard Blackwood—Damien's father, the founder and spine of Blackwood enterprises —stepped inside, his silver hair immaculate, his tailored coat immaculate despite the hour. His presence was commanding without effort, a reminder of why even Damien seemed sharper in his shadow.

"I thought I'd find you here," Richard said, his voice smooth but cool. His eyes swept the room, pausing when they landed on me. For a moment, there was something in his gaze—curiosity, interest, calculation—before it smoothed over into polite neutrality.

"Good Morning Sir," I said quietly, lowering my eyes. He hummed in response.

Damien straightened subtly, though his posture remained collected. "We're finalizing the Shanghai projections. They'll be ready within the hour."

Richard nodded, his attention flicking back to his son, though I could feel the weight of that earlier glance lingering on my skin like a phantom touch. "Good. The board meets at nine. Don't keep them waiting."

With that, he turned and left as quietly as he'd arrived, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a beat, the room was silent, save for the faint hum of the lights. I looked at Damien, searching for some trace of his reaction, but his face was carved from the same cold steel as ever. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had just shifted—not just in the room, but in the way the ground beneath me felt.

Whatever was coming next, I had no idea if I was ready for it.