The city lights reflected off the rain-slick streets, painting long streaks of gold and silver across the dark pavement. I walked beside him, my ally, silent for a few blocks before I finally spoke.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I admitted, voice low, almost afraid he might hear the doubt. "Working with someone I barely know… plotting revenge… it feels… wrong."
He glanced at me, dark eyes unreadable, a faint smirk on his lips. "Wrong or right doesn't matter. This is the only way you'll reclaim your life. And you're good at it… very good."
I felt a strange heat rise to my cheeks. The compliment, though professional, carried a weight I wasn't ready to acknowledge. My heart thudded faster, and I shook it off. Focus on the plan. Revenge comes first. Desire later.
That evening, as we reviewed documents and strategies in his sleek office, our proximity created a tension I couldn't ignore. Every brush of his hand as he pointed to data felt electric. Every glance carried unspoken words. I reminded myself to remain focused. He is an ally, nothing more.
But when he caught me staring at him, a faint grin tugging at his lips, I realized something dangerous: revenge was intoxicating, but so was him.