Space Invaded by Him
1459 Words
Vivienne's POV
Since that unpleasant fallout at the Sinclair Headquarters, I hadn’t contacted Alexander since.
His attitude made me realize one thing. This engagement with the Knight was inevitable.
So instead of frustrating about the dinner, I carried on with my routine—going to work, returning to my apartment, staying offline, ignoring messages.
The only company I allowed myself was my dog, Pearl.
The internet was flooded with speculation about my breakup with Adrian.
Some claimed I had fallen for another man. Others said he had cheated on me.
Just as I finiahed another meeting, my phone rang.
[Miss Sinclair,
Mr. Knight asked me to remind you not to forget about tonight’s date. Be careful driving. Parking space No. 028 has been reserved for you. —Cora]
Date.
Two people who had barely spoken, much less met—what kind of “date” could this possibly be?
...
For the rest of the day, I tried to ignore the growing unease about my upcoming dinner with Chuck Knight, burying myself in back-to-back meetings.
Lately, my primary focus had been on the anniversary gala and the high jewelry fashion show for Sinclair & Co. The events required meticulous planning—finalizing the gala schedule, designing the venue layout, coordinating guest invitations, etc.
Every detail demanded my full attention and approval.
After a particularly long meeting, Tiffany, the head of PR, hesitated as she followed me back to my office.
“If you have something to say, say it quickly. I have dinner plans,” I said, casting a glance at her as she lingered, reluctant to speak.
She pressed her lips together. “President Sinclair, it’s about inviting the brand ambassadors.”
“What about them?” My heels clicked sharply against the marble floor as I kept walking.
“This event requires all brand-certified ambassadors to attend, and we need to shoot promotional materials in advance. So, so…” Tiffany trailed off.
I frowned slightly and shot her a sidelong glance. She lowered her eyes as if bracing for impact before quickly blurting out, “Adrian is also one of our global ambassadors for the high jewelry collection. Should we invite him? If we don’t, his fans will cause an uproar. But if we do…”
It would cause an uproar, too.
It would be our first public appearance together since the breakup, and at such a crucial event—too many uncontrollable factors.
Everyone knew that shortly after Adrian and I started dating, his ambassadorship with Sinclair & Co. had been announced. It took only a month. People assumed I had handed him the opportunity on a silver platter, launching him as the most promising rising actor in the industry.
And representing a top luxury jewelry brand did skyrocket Adrian’s value overnight.
But it wasn’t the brand’s devotion—it was mine, alone.
When I loved someone, I gave them everything.
I knew it was naive. Too naive.
But I had benefited from Adrian’s reputation as well. Our relationship had put Sinclair & Co. in the spotlight like never before. Sales of our classic collection had surged by 600%, and the Couple’s Love rings—designed to symbolize romance—had sold out worldwide.
A wealthy heiress and a rising star—the perfect synergy. A textbook case of mutual success.
Yet, the attention I once reveled in had turned into backlash after our breakup, even tarnishing the brand’s image. Fans had mocked that the Love series should be renamed Broken Hearts.
That was why the upcoming centennial event in New York was so crucial. No mistakes could be made.
My steps faltered for a split second.
Fire Adrian now? I wanted to. I really wanted to. But I still had the brand to consider. He wasn’t a rookie anymore—he had a massive global fanbase.
And Sinclair & Co., unlike me, deserved a pristine reputation.
I could be the bigger person and let Adrian finish his contract. I could do it, right? Be professional, rise above it, and let that cheating scumbag slide just this once.
Tiffany stole a glance at me, searching for a reaction. “President Sinclair, we really need your decision on this. Now.”
My voice remained composed. “All ambassadors must be invited. Continue with what we normally would do.”
“Understood, President Sinclair.” Tiffany turned and practically fled.
I stepped into the elevator. Once alone, I leaned against the wall and took a slow, steady breath.
My mind was a tangled mess. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my reflection in the mirror.
The makeup was flawless, every detail meticulously in place. But the mask I wore was slipping—just slightly. And through the cracks, vulnerability seeped in.
I didn’t like this version of myself.
I was a Sinclair. I couldn’t afford to be fragile.
...
Back in my office, I changed into an evening dress and swapped my work tote for an elegant chain shoulder bag. A glance at the clock—5:40 PM. If I didn’t leave now, I’d be late.
At that moment, Pearl, lounging lazily on the carpet, perked up and trotted over with a soft whine.
I reapplied my lipstick. “Baby, I can’t take you. Stay here and be good. I won’t be long.”
She circled me anxiously before scurrying off. A second later, she returned, leash in her mouth, and dropped it at my feet.
A brief stare-down ensued.
I sighed. “Fine.”
I clipped the leash onto her collar and swapped my purse for a larger Birkin bag, tucking the little troublemaker inside.
Pearl poked her head out, blinking up at me.
“No licking strangers. No wagging your tail at anyone but me. Absolutely no jumping into anyone’s lap for food. And lastly—”
“No barking at people.”
“Woof!” Pearl barked in response.
With that, I headed downstairs. It was time for dinner with that perfect bachelor.
...
I arrived at La Notte Nera fifteen minutes later. Before stepping inside, I checked my watch—5:58 PM.
I wasn’t late.
A quick smooth of my dress, one last glance at my makeup, and I walked in.
The restaurant had been booked out exclusively. In the lavish yet empty lobby, a pianist played a lively waltz.
As I moved deeper inside, I spotted a man sitting with his back to me. Dressed in a pitch-black suit, he exuded an undeniable presence. Even from behind, his aura was powerful.
He hadn’t noticed my arrival. He was occupied with a phone call.
“Mr. Knight?” The words escaped my lips before I could stop them.
He ended the call and turned.
And that was when I truly saw him.
His eyes were sharp and assessing, a flicker of dark amusement glinting within them as they met mine. The dim lighting of the restaurant softened the harsh angles of his face, but nothing could dull the intensity in his gaze.
He rose from his seat. “Nice to meet you, Miss Sinclair.”
Chuck Knight was every bit the enigma I had imagined—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding effortless dominance.
His black shirt, tailored to perfection, was neatly tucked into his trousers, accentuating his lean yet powerful frame. His arm tensed slightly, the muscle taut beneath the fine leather cuff encircling his wrist, hinting at restrained strength.
His voice was low, unhurried, the kind that compelled you to listen.
He wasn’t doing anything—just standing there with effortless composure—yet the air around him felt charged.
He was striking—handsome in a way that almost no one could compete him for it.
But it wasn’t just his looks. There was something more. Something beyond mere his handsome appearance, beyond his striking charm.
He was nothing like Alexander or any other man I had met—different in background, in looks, in aura, and in the quiet intensity that lingered beneath his polished exterior.
Then I remembered—I had seen Chuck once before, at a social event, but only from a distance. Never this close.
As he took a measured step toward me, then another, I felt the space around me being invaded by him, inch by inch, until he was right in front of me.
He extended a hand. I hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before slipping mine into his grasp.
His grip was firm, his skin warm against mine. And as he pulled out a chair for me with the same practiced ease, I realized something now.
Every move Chuck made was deliberate. Controlled. Calculated.
Chuck Knight was a man acted only on his intention, never on impulse.
- Writer
