CHAPTER TEN: Professional Fireworks.
1248 Words
The buzz in the Ashe & Locke design floor was different that morning—bigger, sharper. It wasn’t just another Monday scramble; it was something more electric, more urgent. A new client had signed on, one with prestige, budget, and global reach. The kind of campaign that didn’t just fill a portfolio—it changed careers.
The announcement had come down from the top floor like a thunderclap, echoing through the sleek hallways and glass meeting rooms. And with it came the most Damien Locke thing imaginable.
He’d split the project between two teams.
Two leaders.
Arielle was one of them.
The other?
Julianne Hart.
Brilliant. Charismatic. Competitive. And perpetually just a little too smooth. Her heels echoed like punctuation across the tiles as she walked into the briefing with that signature grin.
“Let’s see which team wins the pitch,” Julianne said when Damien announced the structure.
Her voice dripped with charm, but everyone in the room knew—this wasn’t just friendly competition.
Arielle just smiled. “Sure. You’ll need all the friendliness you can get.”
Laughter broke the tension, but under the surface, the fire was lit. The designers exchanged glances. Slack channels buzzed within seconds. Bets were probably already being placed.
This wasn’t just a job.
It was war.
---
ARIELLE
For the next few days, Arielle lived at the edge of intensity. Early mornings. Late nights. Meetings, revisions, pitch decks, visual drafts, user data. Her desk looked like a battlefield—scattered sketches, open laptops, sticky notes with circled keywords and half-finished ideas.
But she wasn’t running on desperation.
She didn’t want to win just to impress Damien.
She wanted to win because her team deserved it. Because the people she worked with were putting their hearts into something real. Because she believed in what they were building.
And belief? That was a fire all its own.
“You’re relentless,” Nina said one afternoon, perched on the corner of Arielle’s desk like she always belonged there. She was sipping coffee and observing the flurry of activity around her with an amused expression.
Arielle smirked without looking up. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Both,” Nina said with a shrug. “But seriously… your campaign’s got weight. Heart.”
That made Arielle pause. She glanced at her team across the room—bouncing ideas off each other, sketching frames on whiteboards, testing taglines on mock interfaces. They were excited. Engaged.
And seen.
Something Damien had—intentionally or not—allowed her the space to do.
“You really care about them,” Nina added, her voice softer now. “Not just the work. The people.”
“They deserve that,” Arielle said quietly, tapping her pen against the edge of her notebook. “A good job shouldn’t cost your soul.”
Nina smiled, leaning in with mischief in her eyes. “No wonder the Ice King watches you like you’re sunlight.”
Arielle blinked. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” Nina teased. “Everyone sees it. Damien doesn’t look at anyone like that.”
“There’s nothing,” Arielle said, brushing it off too quickly. “We barely get along.”
“Exactly. That’s why the tension screams.” Nina grinned. “But sure, keep pretending.”
---
DAMIEN
He stood at the glass railing above the design floor, watching the teams work below.
No. Not the teams.
Her.
Arielle wasn’t performing for praise. She wasn’t calculating her every move like Julianne often did, weaving charm into strategy like it was currency.
She worked.
She cared.
She challenged, created, led—and didn’t chase approval. Just excellence.
It irritated some. But not him.
Not anymore.
She was starting to make him question the way things had always been run. The way he measured success. The kind of leader he wanted in this company.
Even in silence, she made the room better.
He wasn’t blind to the attention she was getting, either. Or the way Julianne’s compliments sometimes landed too close to flirtation. But Arielle? She didn’t flinch, didn’t fawn. She stood steady.
The click of his pen that afternoon echoed like a metronome from the upper floor.
Louder than usual.
---
The closer the deadline came, the more intense the office felt. The floor crackled with ambition. You could feel it in the pace of footsteps, in the energy of brainstorms, in the way coffees were ordered double-shot without asking.
Julianne’s team played flashy—drone videos, viral stunts, celebrity mock-ups, augmented reality installations. They were betting on spectacle.
Arielle’s team played deep—real emotion, strong visuals, long-term brand impact. They told stories. They made things personal.
A quiet storm of substance.
In meetings, the comparison was constant. Subtle jabs flew like darts wrapped in professionalism.
“I’d go with style over sentiment,” Julianne quipped in one briefing, lips glossed, voice saccharine.
“Then you’ll miss what your audience actually cares about,” Arielle shot back, cool and calm.
Damien didn’t step in.
He watched.
And when Arielle presented a concept about real people overcoming personal battles using the client’s product—not polished actors, not scripted testimonials, but raw honesty—he leaned forward for the first time.
No words. No smile.
But she noticed.
---
After Hours
It was nearly 9 PM when Arielle finally closed her laptop. Her muscles ached. Her eyes burned. But the pitch was coming together—and it felt right.
The rest of the floor had emptied, but Nina was still lingering, scrolling through mockups and sipping a reheated latte.
“You need sleep,” Nina said, stretching her arms over her head. “You’re glowing with stress.”
“I’m fine,” Arielle replied automatically.
“You’re glowing and in denial.”
Arielle laughed under her breath, then glanced at the elevator.
Damien had left hours ago.
Or so she thought.
She turned, and there he was—sleeves rolled up, tie gone, standing silently outside the strategy room. Watching.
He nodded once at her.
Not commanding. Not cold.
Just… there.
A silent show of support.
Nina followed her gaze, one brow raised. “See?”
Arielle turned away quickly. “It’s just mutual respect.”
Nina snorted. “Sure. And I’m just here for the coffee.”
---
Later That Night
Arielle walked out into the chilled night, campaign notes clutched under one arm like a shield. Her breath puffed visibly in the air. Streetlights flickered down the long avenue, stretching out the city in amber shadows.
Damien was outside too.
Phone in one hand, jacket draped over the other arm like he hadn’t been planning to leave at all.
“You’re still here?” she asked, surprised.
“I never left.”
They stood there for a moment in silence, the city humming softly around them.
He looked at her.
“You’re doing something special.”
The compliment caught her off guard. She blinked. “You don’t say things like that.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
She stared at him, heartbeat uneven.
“Well,” she said, managing a small smile, “maybe you are capable of growth.”
His lips twitched. “Don’t tell anyone.”
She smiled back—and this time, it wasn’t cautious.
It was real.
And Damien realized, with a strange weight in his chest, that maybe—for the first time—he wanted to be seen.
By her.
- Writer
