Chapter Ten: Dinner with Mr smith
1558 Words
Aria’s POV
I swallow nervously, my throat suddenly becoming dry.
“I just saved your merger. You’re welcome.”
The words come out steadier than I feel.
His eyes don’t leave mine cold and calculating.
I wait. One second. Two. The study is so quiet I could hear the clock behind his desk.
“You didn’t save anything, ” His voice is ice. “You handed me a bigger problem. Malakai Smith crucifies dishonesty. He makes examples out of liars.”
My stomach drops.
“Then we make him believe it’s true,” I say. Fast. Before I lose nerve. “For now.”
He stares. One full minute. Like he’s running valuations in his head.
“And then what?”
I force my chin up. “We break up. After the project closes, the tabloids will eat that up.”
I’m selling him a PR strategy to cover my ass. And his.
“Get out.”
I don’t wait to be told twice. I turn before he sees my hands shake.
I make it to my room before my knees give in.
I hit the bed face-first. And somehow, sleep takes me.
---
The alarm screams at 5:00 AM.
Two hours. That’s all the Smith meeting bought me.
Still, I drag myself up and take a cold shower.
I pull on an oversized tee and cotton shorts.
I head towards the kitchen. So as to be of help this time.
I place my Headphones on.
I c***k eggs. Whisk. Pancake batter hits the pan with a hiss. I sway without thinking — old habit. Beat drops, hips move.
*CRASH*
The sound of plates falling down.
I spin, heart in my throat, yanking my headphones down.
Elias stands in the doorway. Barefoot. Sweatpants. Hair like he just rolled out of sin. He’s holding the remains of a coffee mug.
We stare.
Of the three Kane brothers, I find Elias the hardest to understand. He buries his emotions so deeply.
“You scared me,” I say.
He says nothing. Just watches me.
I spot the broom. Reach for the dustpan.
His hand shoots out and covers mine.
“What — I’m just trying to help,” I say.
“I can handle it.” Voice low.
I pull my hand back. Ignore him. Sweep anyway. Ceramic pings into the pan.
He grunts. Might be “thanks.” I don’t dignify it with a response.
I turn back to the stove and flip the pancake. He doesn’t leave.
He just stands there. Leaning against the doorframe. Watching.
“Do you want anything?” I ask.
Silence.
I should find it weird that he stands there just staring, but it gives me this fluttering feeling inside.
I plate the food. The second I set the spatula down—
“What smells so good?” Luca’s voice hits before his body does. Loud. Everywhere. “Don’t tell me Elias is the one cooking.”
Damian enters first.
Charcoal suit. No tie. Already at war. Luca and Noah trail behind in sleep pants.
Luca beams at the plates. “Ari, you’re making us breakfast?” Like it’s Christmas. “You shouldn’t have.”
He hurries to get a plate.
Ari. Heat crawls up my neck. No one’s called me that in a long time.
Then Damian speaks.
“Mr. Smith will be in town today.”
All air leaves my lungs.
“I thought he said next week.”
His eyes cut to mine.
“He said he couldn’t wait to meet my ‘dearest fiancée’.”
His words, have this spite to it.
Panic climbs my throat. Lunch with Damian. f**k
“Fiancée?” Noah asks Damian. Not me. Eyebrows up. Waiting.
Damian shuts it down. “It’s a long story.”
Noah nods. Not pushing any further.
Damian’s gaze pins me. “My office. Ten minutes. We need to align our stories before Smith lands.”
Shit
“And he’s bringing his wife.”
Double s**t.
---
We step through the brass doors.
Damian hasn’t said a word since the car.
I look at the beautiful silk dress he got me. It costs more than I make in a year. I still feel cheap though.
“Reservation for Kane,” Damian tells the maître d’.
Kane, the name that owns half of Manhattan.
The man checks his tablet. “Of course, Mr. Kane. Right this way, sir.”
We follow him down a quiet hall. My heels are silent on carpet thick enough to bury bodies in.
I try to catch up. The walls are lined with art I should recognize but don’t. Oil paintings. Gold frames. None of it matters.
We enter the private room.
It has a crystal chandelier, with beautiful linen on the table.
Malakai Smith stands in his tailored navy suit, with a Smile like a shark.
Beside him, a beautiful woman, elegant and blonde.
Probably his wife.
Damian’s hand lands on my lower back. Light. Possessive. A signal, not a touch.
“Malakai,” Damian says. Smooth. Lethal. “Meet my fiancée. Miss Aria Sinclair.”
Smith shakes his hand. We sit and make small talk.
Our orders get taken and wine is poured. It all feels so fancy.
Then Mrs. Smith tilts her head. “So how did you two meet?”
I open my mouth, but Damian beats me to it. “Work. Nothing interesting.”
Flat and dismissive.
Mrs. Smith blinks. Stunned by the wall he just built between her and me.
Smith watches me, his eyes assessing me. I can’t read into it, but it’s making my skin crawl.
“Damian,” he says, voice oiled. “You won the lottery with this one. Beautiful.”
Damian shifts. His arm slides across the back of my chair in a possessive hold.
The food arrives thankfully. Damian and Smith talk mergers, markets, and meaningless numbers.
Then I feel Something moving against my calf, under the table.
A foot sliding up very slowly.
Smith’s face doesn’t change. He’s still talking with Damian like his leg isn’t crossing a line.
My fork clatters to the plate.
Damian’s head snaps to me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just—” My voice betrays me. “Restroom.”
I stand so fast my chair scrapes, I don’t look back.
I ask the maître d’. For directions and enter the restroom.
Breathe.
What the hell was that?
The main door opens.
“It’s occupied,” I call, sharper than I intend.
“I know.”
Smith’s voice.
He steps inside the women’s restroom.
“What are you doing in here?” I keep my tone level.
He holds up both hands. Mock surrender. “Apologies. Wanted to clear the air about the table. I crossed a line.”
He steps closer. I step back. My hips hit the sink.
“It’s fine,” I say. “No need—”
“You’re very beautiful, Miss Vale.” His eyes drop to my cleavage. “Damian’s a lucky man.”
He reaches for the counter beside my hip. Caging me in.
“I think you should leave,” I say. Louder.
“Relax. Your fiancé doesn’t have to know about a friendly conversation.” His breath smells like scotch and power. He starts kissing my neck, pressing me against the counter trying to yank his zip open.
“Stop,” I yell
The door slams open.
Damian.
He moves in with so much force.
One second Smith is in front of me. The next he’s against the opposite wall, Damian’s forearm across his throat.
“You don’t touch her,” Damian says.
Smith chokes. Claws at Damian’s arm.
“You don’t look at her. You don’t breathe near her. Do you understand me?”
Smith’s face purples. He wheezes, “You’ll regret this. I’m pulling out. The whole project. Gone.”
Damian doesn’t blink. “Do it.”
He leans in, voice barely a whisper. “Touch what’s mine again, and I’ll make sure ‘pulling out’ is the only thing your company does for the next decade.”
He drops him.
Smith crumples, gasping, clutching his throat.
Damian turns to me. His eyes run from my head to toe. Checking for damages
He sees none. His jaw unclenches a fraction.
He holds out his hand. “We’re leaving.”
I take it.
We head to the parking lot, and I can feel Damian’s eyes on me.
“I’m okay,” I tell him, “But you just threw away a nine-figure deal over—”
“It was worth it.” He interrupts me
Something in my chest cracks.
I don’t know what it is, but I move.
My hands fist his shirt and I kiss him.
He freezes.
For one heartbeat, he’s stone.
Then his hand slams into my lower back, hauling me against him. The kiss isn’t soft. It’s furious. It’s punishment. It’s him trying to take back control with teeth and tongue.
And then he rips away.
He pants trying to regain composure.
He stares at me like I just rewrote his entire business plan.
“Get in the car.”
He says not wanting to dwell on the kiss.
He doesn’t wait doesn’t wait for me he just walks into the car. I stand there frozen, wondering why I just did that.
- Writer
