The rooftop was silent except for the hum of the city below and the wind whispering between the steel beams.
Emery shouldn't have been there.
It was 10:42 p.m., the office long since cleared out, and yet her feet had found the elevator to the penthouse level on instinct. She needed air, space. She needed to stop feeling things she shouldn't be feeling.
Nicholas Ashford had touched her.
Not professionally. Not in passing. Not even inappropriately, exactly.
It was worse.
He touched her like he meant to leave something behind. A fingerprint on her skin. A thought in her bloodstream.
And she couldn't get rid of it.
Emery stood at the edge of the rooftop, heels off, toes curling against the cold concrete as she stared at the glittering sprawl of Manhattan. A city full of lights that never looked lonelier.
She didn't hear the door open behind her.
"Of all the people I expected to find barefoot on my roof," Nicholas said, voice low, "you weren't one of them."
She turned slightly, arms folded over her chest. "Didn't realize you owned the sky, too."
He didn't smile, but he looked at her differently now. Like someone reading a second draft of a book he thought he already understood.
"You couldn't sleep," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"No," she admitted. "You?"
"Rarely."
A pause. Then—
"You didn't come up here for the air, Emery."
She didn't deny it.
He stepped closer. His jacket was off again, shirt sleeves rolled, tie gone. He always looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine and in the middle of a storm at the same time.
"You scare people," she said suddenly.
"I know."
"You walk into a room and every man adjusts his tie. Every woman adjusts her posture. They either want to be you, beat you, or..."
"F**k me," he finished, eyes locked on hers.
She didn't flinch. "Yes."
Silence crackled between them like static.
"You didn't finish the sentence," he said softly.
"Because I wasn't sure where I fit," she replied.
This time, his smile was real. Dangerous. Not cold.
"You don't fit," he said. "You stand."
They were too close again.
The wind played with her hair, strands catching across her face. Nicholas reached out—slow, deliberate—and tucked one behind her ear. It was such a simple gesture, but it short-circuited something in her chest.
"You wear armor," he said.
"So do you."
He nodded. "The difference is, I know when mine's slipping."
"Do you?" she whispered.
His hand lingered against her cheek. Not possessive. Just there. Like he wasn't ready to pull away.
"No," he said finally. "Not with you."
The air between them shifted—thicker, hotter, dangerous.
And then, just as her breath caught—
He stepped back.
The next morning, she felt the shift before she saw it.
Nicholas didn't greet her when he entered. He was cool again, mask back on, his suit flawless, his stride sharp. Whatever moment they'd shared on the rooftop was buried under layers of denial and silk.
He didn't speak to her until 9:12 a.m.
"Conference room. Now."
Emery blinked but followed, her heels echoing down the corridor as they passed a stunned Olivia and a confused VP.
The glass-walled boardroom was already occupied.
Lucas Vale.
If Nicholas was a storm, Lucas was a fire. Red tie. Gold cufflinks. Smile too sharp. Eyes too knowing.
"Miss Clarke," he said smoothly, standing as they entered. "I've heard so much about you."
She glanced at Nicholas. His jaw ticked.
"Vale," Nicholas said. "Keep your eyes on the business proposal. Not my staff."
"But your staff is so... interesting," Lucas replied, gaze never leaving Emery.
She sat without waiting to be invited, flipping open the file folder Nicholas had handed her earlier. The numbers were a mess. Lucas wasn't here to negotiate—he was here to distract, to probe, to flirt.
Nicholas didn't like it.
Emery didn't either—but for different reasons.
"Your valuation is inflated," she said suddenly, cutting into Lucas's rehearsed monologue.
He raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"By at least twenty percent," she said, not looking up. "Unless you've discovered a revolutionary new algorithm overnight."
Nicholas smiled. Just barely. "She's not wrong."
Lucas narrowed his eyes. "I underestimated your new hire."
Nicholas's voice was ice. "Don't make that mistake again."
After the meeting, Nicholas didn't speak.
Not until they were alone again in his office, door closed, blinds drawn.
He poured whiskey. Pushed a glass toward her. She didn't touch it.
"Why didn't you correct him when he called you 'my staff'?" she asked.
He met her eyes. "Would it have made a difference?"
"It might have."
Nicholas leaned against the edge of his desk, fingers curling around the rim of his glass. "You handled him well. Better than I expected."
"Because you think I'm soft?"
"No," he said. "Because I'm still trying to decide if I want you to be."
That pulled the air from her lungs.
"Nicholas—"
He pushed off the desk and crossed the room, sudden and slow all at once. His hand cupped her chin gently, tilting her face up toward his.
"I told you I don't sleep with employees," he murmured.
She swallowed. "I remember."
"But you're not just an employee anymore."
Her breath hitched. "Then what am I?"
His eyes were fire. "A problem."
Then he kissed her.
The kiss wasn't sweet. It wasn't hesitant. It was a collision.
Mouths, breath, heat. His hands buried in her hair. Hers clutching the lapels of his suit jacket like they were the only thing anchoring her to the floor.
He tasted like heat and whiskey and something darker.
He kissed her like he'd been starving.
And she kissed him back like she'd forgotten how not to.
But then it ended. Abrupt. Sharp.
Nicholas pulled back first, breath ragged, eyes storm-dark.
His hand dropped from her face like it had burned him.
"This can't happen again," he said, voice raw.
Emery stepped back, heart pounding so loud it hurt. "Then why did you do it?"
"Because I wanted to know what losing control felt like."
She stared at him. "And?"
He looked away.
"Terrifying," he whispered.
She left his office without another word.
But that night, she lay awake with the taste of him still on her lips—and the echo of something far more dangerous unfolding between them.
Not just chemistry. Not just tension.
Fate.
And neither of them was ready for it.