*Chapter One: Kiss Me Like You Hate Me*
699 Words
**Toronto – 11:34 AM**
Amara Okeke had never wanted to slap a man and kiss him in the same breath—until she stepped into the boardroom and saw **him**.
**Professor Damian Stone.**
Her ex-husband.
Her mistake.
Her *unresolved craving.*
He sat at the head of the conference table like a king on a modern-day throne—charcoal three-piece suit, fingers adorned with subtle rings of wealth, and an expression that hadn’t changed since the day she left him: cold, unreadable, and devastatingly arrogant.
She should’ve walked out.
She had every reason to.
But her legs didn’t listen.
Because the moment their eyes locked, the air grew thick. Hot. Heavy.
Like a match just waiting for someone to strike.
> “Miss Okeke,” he said smoothly. “You’re late.”
> “And you’re still cold,” she fired back, walking to the seat directly across from him. “Some things never change.”
> “Some do,” he murmured, eyes dropping briefly to her curves, hugged perfectly by the silk blouse and high-waisted slacks she’d worn to feel powerful. “Some change very nicely.”
Her pulse betrayed her. His voice still had the power to touch her in places she thought she’d locked away.
> “Don’t flirt with me,” she said, smoothing her skirt.
> “Who said I was flirting?” His tone deepened. “Maybe I’m just reminding you what you left behind.”
She looked up slowly. The ache between her thighs tightened at the sight of him—leaning back, fingers steepled beneath his chiseled jaw, like the ruler of her undoing.
> “What I left behind,” she said evenly, “was a man who touched my body like a contract and never once made me feel like I mattered.”
Silence.
For a breath.
Then two.
His jaw clenched. But his eyes—those intense, steel-colored eyes—burned.
> “And yet,” he said, rising from his chair and walking toward her, “you’re trembling now.”
She stood too.
> “Tell me something, Damian,” she whispered. “Is it hate I feel... or something hotter?”
> “Try me,” he growled.
> “I’m not your wife anymore.”
> “You’re still mine.”
The door creaked open. A junior associate stepped in.
> “I—sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
> “You didn’t,” Amara said, stepping back, breathing fast.
The girl disappeared quickly.
Damian chuckled, low and rich.
> “Still dramatic, I see.”
> “Still infuriating,” Amara hissed, gathering her file.
He leaned close, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn’t move.
> “I missed you.”
> “Liar.”
> “Then punish me for it,” he whispered. “But don’t pretend you don’t still want me.”
She hated how her knees weakened.
---
**Flashback: Lagos, One Year Ago**
The rain hit the glass windows like gunfire. Amara was pinned against Damian’s office desk, blouse half-open, his lips bruising hers.
> “Why do you always run?” he growled.
> “Because you never feel,” she moaned.
> “I feel everything.”
He slid inside her, slow and punishing. Her moan echoed off mahogany walls. They were fire and thunder.
But the next morning, she woke up alone.
Again.
---
**Back to Present Day**
> “This isn’t a reunion,” Amara said, her voice tight. “It’s business.”
> “Everything about you is personal to me.”
> “You lost the right to say that the day I miscarried your child and buried the pain by myself.”
Damian flinched. *That* he hadn’t known.
> “You... you were pregnant?”
Her eyes welled, but she blinked it away.
> “Too little. Too late.”
She walked out of the room without looking back.
He stood in the silence she left behind—shattered.
And aroused.
> “You’re still mine, Amara,” he whispered to the empty air. “Even if it kills me.”
---
**End of Chapter One**
- Writer
