Until it was you

Chapter 2: The Cold CEO

*Chapter 2: The Cold CEO*

"Then move me."

Did I really just say that?

The words left my mouth before my brain could stop them. God, the wine. I blamed the wine, even though I had only taken two sips.

The man in front of me didn't move. He just stared.

Up close, he was even more terrifying. And more handsome. Tall, so tall I had to tilt my head up. Dark hair perfectly styled. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But his eyes — his eyes were the worst. Or the best. A stormy grey, cold, calculating, like he was looking right through my cheap black dress and seeing the broken girl underneath.

The entire rooftop seemed to hold its breath. The music was still playing, but no one near the bar was talking anymore. Everyone was looking at us. At me, the i***t girl who spilled wine on a billionaire.

Because that's what he was. I realized it a second too late. The watch on his wrist — a Patek Philippe. The suit — Armani. The way people parted for him like he was a god. This wasn't just a man. This was power.

"Do you know how much this shirt costs?" he finally asked, his voice low. Not shouting. He didn't need to shout. His quiet was more dangerous than any scream I had ever heard from Liam.

I should have apologized. I should have begged, offered to pay for dry cleaning, run away in embarrassment. That's what the old Ella would have done.

But something about his coldness, his arrogance, it lit a fire in me. I was tired of cold men. I was tired of being scared.

"I'm sure you'll survive," I said, crossing my arms. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "It's just a shirt. It's not like I killed your firstborn."

His friend behind him actually gasped. Then let out a choked laugh. "Oh shit."

The CEO's eyes narrowed. Slowly, very slowly, a smirk touched his perfect lips. It wasn't a kind smirk. It was dangerous.

"Just a shirt?" he repeated. "This 'just a shirt' costs more than your entire outfit, your purse, and your rent combined, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. He said it like an insult.

My cheeks burned. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," he said, stepping closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne — expensive, dark, intoxicating. "I know you don't belong here. This is a launch party for Knight Technologies. Invite only. Who did you come with? Let me guess, you followed some guy here hoping to find a rich husband?"

My mouth dropped open. The audacity!

"I did NOT! I was invited by—"

"Ella! Oh my God, there you are!"

Sarah appeared, grabbing my arm, her eyes wide when she saw who I was talking to. Her face went pale.

"Mr. Knight! I — I am so sorry. This is my friend, Ella. She — we work at—"

Knight. Mr. Knight.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

My blood ran cold. Adrian Knight. The CEO of Knight Technologies. The man on the cover of Forbes last month. The most eligible bachelor in New York who never smiles. The man who just bought the entire company I work for as a junior designer.

My boss's boss.

And I had just told him to move me.

Adrian Knight didn't look at Sarah. His cold grey eyes never left mine.

"Your friend," he said softly, but every word was a threat, "owes me a new shirt. And an apology."

"I am not apologizing to you," I whispered, but my voice shook.

"You should," he said. "Because starting Monday, I own the firm you work for. And I have a very good memory for faces that annoy me."

Sarah tugged me hard. "Ella, please. Let's just go. Please."

I wanted to stand my ground. I wanted to be the strong girl who was done with powerful men who thought they could control me. But the mention of my job — the only thing I had left that was stable — made my knees weak.

He had won.

I looked away first.

"Fine. I'm sorry," I muttered, hating how small my voice sounded. "For the shirt."

He stared at me for a long second. Then he did something that shocked me. He took off his ruined shirt.

Right there. At the bar. In front of everyone.

Underneath he had a black undershirt that clung to every muscle. Gasps went around us. Sarah literally squeezed my arm to death.

He held the stained white shirt out to me.

"Keep it," he said. "Wash it. Bring it back to my office on Monday. In person. Let's see if you can do at least one thing right."

And then he walked away, his friend following him, leaving me standing there holding his expensive, wine-stained, still-warm shirt, with the whole party staring at me like I was either the luckiest or the dumbest girl alive.

I looked down at the shirt in my hands.

It smelled like him.

Monday. His office. In person.

My nightmare was just beginning.

Until it was you — the man I was supposed to hate.

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