POV: Alexandra Vaughn
Love was never supposed to be part of my story.
I'd seen what it did to people, how it stripped away judgment, logic, and dignity. I'd watched women with promising futures crumble because of it, and men trade empires for illusions.
But the truth? The truth is that love doesn't knock. It slips through the cracks when you're too sure of yourself to build walls.
And Damian Cross was the crack in mine. It started with a text.
Damian: Need your legal eyes on something urgent. Can you stop by the penthouse tonight? Lydia's away at a charity event.
I stared at the message longer than I should have. My first instinct was to refuse, professionalism demanded it, but curiosity, or maybe something darker, said yes before I could stop it.
Me: Send the address.
When I arrived, the city was already drowned in rain. His penthouse was glass and steel, sharp lines softened by soft light. He opened the door wearing no tie, sleeves rolled up, barefoot.
"Alex," he said, voice rougher than usual. "Sorry about the hour."
"It's fine," I lied. "You said it was urgent."
He led me inside. Papers were spread across the marble counter: contracts, acquisition drafts, and nondisclosure forms. But beneath all of that, there was tension. Something wordless hanging between us.
He poured me a glass of wine. "You always take yours dry, right?"
I blinked. "You remember that?"
"I remember details," he said. "Especially about people who challenge me."
That shouldn't have meant anything. It shouldn't have felt like anything. But as I took the glass, my pulse betrayed me again. We worked for hours, side by side. I pointed out a loophole in one of the clauses; he smiled, impressed. "You're brilliant, you know that?"
"Don't flatter me," I said.
"I'm not. You make me think sharper. Lydia says you do that to everyone."
Her name was a reminder, a chain around my conscience.
"She's a lucky woman," I said softly.
He studied me for a moment, then said, "I'm the lucky one."
But the way he looked at me when he said it, steady, unblinking, full of something I couldn't name; made the air turn thick.
It happened suddenly. The lights flickered, thunder cracked outside, and I startled, spilling a bit of wine onto the document between us.
He reached to help, our hands colliding again, too familiar this time, too electric to dismiss as coincidence.
Neither of us moved.
His thumb brushed against my wrist, slow, deliberate.
"Alexandra," he said quietly, "you're shaking."
"I'm not," I whispered. But I was.
He leaned closer. "Tell me you don't feel this."
"Damian…" I stepped back, but the room was too small, the silence too loud. "You're engaged to my best friend."
"I know," he said. "And I wish that changed what this is."
My breath hitched. "There is nothing. You and I, this is work."
He smiled sadly. "You don't lie very well when you're trembling."
Before I could respond, his phone rang; Lydia's name lighting up the screen like a verdict.
Reality slammed back into place.
I grabbed my bag. "This was a mistake."
He didn't stop me. He just said, quietly, "Maybe. But you'll think about it tonight. And you'll know it's not." I left into the rain, heart pounding like a gavel.
Back home, I stood in front of the mirror, soaked and breathless. The woman staring back looked nothing like the one who prided herself on control.
I wanted to hate him and maybe I did. But beneath the hate was something more dangerous. Desire, curiosity and longing.
And in that moment, I realized something that terrified me.
It wasn't just attraction anymore.
I loved him.
Not in the way you're supposed to love someone unattainable: distantly, quietly, safely. No. I loved him in a way that made me want to rewrite the rules I'd lived by.
And that was the beginning of the end.