POV: Alexandra Vaughn
They say the truth sets you free.
But in my experience, the truth only sets you on fire and the people around you burn first.
After that night at Damian's penthouse, I told myself it was nothing. A flicker. A moment. A glitch in judgment that meant less than a heartbeat.
But lies have a rhythm. Once you tell one, your pulse starts to sync with it.
Monday morning came too bright, too normal. My office was buried in files, the hum of my assistants filling the air like white noise. But every time I looked at my phone, I half-expected his name to flash across the screen.
It didn't.
By noon, I hated that it didn't.
"Ms. Vaughn," Noah said, appearing at the door with his usual stack of case notes. "Mr. Cross called. He wants to schedule a meeting says it's urgent."
My pen froze mid-signature. "Did he say what it was about?"
"No, but he sounded… personal."
Personal. The word felt heavier than it should.
"Tell him I'm unavailable," I said. "And Noah? No calls from him outside business hours."
He blinked. "Understood."
When he left, I stared at the documents in front of me and realized I hadn't absorbed a single word in fifteen minutes. My focus, the one thing I'd built my empire on, was slipping, because of him.
That evening, Lydia called.
"Alex! You disappeared after the engagement party," she said, her voice bubbling with joy. "Damian told me you had to rush off for work ,you're hopeless."
My throat tightened. "Yes. Work."
She laughed. "Well, you'll make it up to me. Dinner this Friday, just us girls. I need your help with wedding plans."
"Of course," I said automatically and there it was.
The first lie, because the last thing I wanted to do was talk about her wedding to the man I couldn't stop thinking about.
Days blurred. Work meetings, case files, interviews : all mechanical, muted, meaningless. The only moments that felt real were the ones replaying in my head: the brush of his thumb against my wrist, the sound of his voice saying my name like a secret. I hated that I remembered it. I hated that I wanted more.
By Wednesday, I'd caved.
I opened my inbox and found his email: short, restrained, typed like a man trying not to feel.
Subject: Confidentiality Review
Message: I know you said no. But I'd appreciate five minutes of your expertise. No personal talk, I promise. – D.
Five minutes.
That was how the downfall of my life began: not with passion, not with betrayal, but with five minutes.
His office at CrossTech was all glass and precision. He greeted me with a professional smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "I'll be brief."
I set my bag down, trying to sound detached. "Five minutes. Start talking."
He leaned against his desk, watching me like I was another negotiation. "I can't stop thinking about you, Alexandra."
My stomach twisted. "This isn't appropriate."
"I know."
"Then stop."
He stepped closer. "I've tried. It's not working."
I swallowed. "You're marrying Lydia."
"I'm marrying safely," he said. "But you… you make me feel alive."
His words landed like a confession and a curse. I should have walked out and for one brief, sane second, I meant to.
But instead, I asked quietly, "Do you even love her?"
He didn't answer.
That silence told me everything.
Later that night, lying in bed, I replayed that silence over and over until it became a kind of music: soft, poisonous, addictive.
And I knew then that this wasn't going to end cleanly.
It would get messy, emotional, unforgivable.
But I didn't care.
Because for the first time in my life, losing control felt better than winning ever had.