CHAPTER NINE: Back To The City
1181 Words
The glass walls of Ashe & Locke gleamed under the morning sun like nothing had ever changed—but something had.
The building was just as she remembered it: towering and pristine, designed to intimidate and impress. Its polished floors reflected every sharp heel that clicked across them, and the scent of espresso mingled with the distant whir of printers and voices. Arielle stood just inside the revolving door for a moment, letting the familiarity of it all wash over her.
But it wasn’t the same.
Not really.
She stepped forward, her heels tapping lightly against the floor, the sound swallowed quickly by the rhythm of corporate life. A fresh bouquet sat on the front desk, a new receptionist answered phones with the same practiced smile—but Arielle felt different. There was a weight in her chest that hadn’t been there before the retreat. Or maybe it had always been there, and now, she could finally feel it.
Lighter in some ways, heavier in others.
There was a new awareness that followed her—especially when she passed Damien’s office.
The business trip had ended with calm skies, quiet laughter, and a version of Damien she hadn’t known existed. Someone who listened. Someone who almost smiled.
And now? Back under fluorescent lights and sharp suits, it felt like it could’ve been a dream.
Except—it wasn’t.
Because when she passed him that morning, he didn’t look through her.
He looked at her.
And for a split second, that cold, blue-eyed storm of a man looked like he might say something real again.
DAMIEN
He wasn’t used to wanting to talk to people.
Yet here he was—standing outside her office, coffee in one hand, courage in the other.
The cup was warm against his palm, but not nearly as warm as the memory of her laugh beside the fire. It had been three days since the retreat. Three days of remembering how her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Three days of replaying her voice saying *truce*—a word that sounded simple but had meant more than either of them admitted.
He knocked.
Inside, Arielle looked up from her desk. The early light slanted through the blinds, casting soft shadows across her desk. She blinked at him, caught somewhere between surprise and curiosity.
“I brought you this,” he said, holding out the coffee.
She raised a brow. “Is this your way of saying good morning?”
“It’s my way of saying I remembered you take it black with a dash of oat milk and cinnamon.”
A pause.
Then a slow smile curved across her lips. “Well, look at you. Learning.”
“Slowly,” he muttered, stepping inside.
The scent of the coffee drifted between them, warm and spiced. She took the cup from him, her fingers brushing his for the briefest second.
It burned.
Not the drink—the contact.
And he didn’t move for a moment longer than he should have.
Neither did she.
Then she turned back to her screen, cheeks slightly pink.
“Thanks,” she murmured.
He nodded once and walked out before he could say something stupid. Like how he’d bought a second cup just in case she didn’t like the first one.
Later That Afternoon
The day spiraled into chaos, as days often did.
One of Ashe & Locke’s top clients had called in a panic—a campaign needed a complete overhaul, and it had to be done yesterday. Arielle barely had time to think between meetings and message threads. Her office looked like a storm had blown through: mockups spread across every flat surface, notes scribbled on sticky tabs, and three empty coffee cups standing like trophies of a battle fought.
Despite it all, her team worked like a machine. They handled pressure like pros—no doubt because she led them with calm precision. She gave direction, solved problems, and somehow managed to encourage without ever losing control.
She was proud of them.
She was proud of herself.
Which made what happened next feel like a betrayal of that control.
Damien showed up behind her as she pinned another mockup on the board.
“You’re doing more than you should,” he said.
She turned, caught off guard. “I’m handling it.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying I shouldn’t be capable?”
“I’m saying…” He exhaled, looked away. “I’m saying you don’t have to carry everything. Not alone.”
That silenced her.
Because no one had ever said that before.
Not even her own family.
And the way he said it—like he meant it—tied something tight inside her chest.
“You say things like that,” she said softly, “and it makes it harder to remember that I’m supposed to hate you.”
He smiled, just a little. “Then I’ll say it again.”
And he did.
“You don’t have to carry everything, Arielle.”
And this time, he said her name like it was fragile. Like it mattered.
That Night
It was late.
Most of the office had cleared out. The once buzzing floors were quiet, the lights dimmed to half their usual strength. The campaign had been submitted—barely on time—and the team had gone home, proud and exhausted.
But Arielle stayed.
So did Damien.
She was packing up, sliding her laptop into her bag, when she noticed him standing in the doorway.
“You’re still here?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Couldn’t leave without making sure you did first.”
She tilted her head, arching an eyebrow. “Protective now?”
“Maybe.”
A breath passed between them.
The sound of the cleaning crew’s vacuum hummed somewhere in the distance, but it felt like they were in a bubble separate from the rest of the world.
“Want a ride?” he asked.
She hesitated.
Then—“Sure.”
Inside the Car
It was too quiet.
The hum of the engine blended with the faint jazz playing on the radio. The city lights flashed by the windows, painting their faces in gold and shadow.
Neither spoke at first.
Then—he broke the silence.
“I was wrong,” he said suddenly.
She glanced over, brows lifting slightly.
“I judged you too quickly. I thought you were just... another ambitious voice trying to climb too fast.”
“And now?” she asked, voice low.
“Now I see you’re the kind of woman who doesn’t climb. She builds.”
That shook her.
Deeply.
It felt like someone had cracked something open in her chest, exposed the blueprint she kept hidden behind sharp eyes and calm words.
She didn’t respond.
But her hand, resting beside his on the seat, didn’t move away when his pinky brushed against hers.
And neither of them said a word about it.
But they both felt it.
Something had shifted.
And it wasn’t going back.
- Writer
