The city had a way of chewing people up and spitting them out without apology. Ariana Blake felt that truth in the arch of her back, in the ache in her feet, in the coffee stain now blooming across the front of her blouse like a cruel joke.
She cursed softly, staring at the mess she'd made. A large, perfectly tailored overcoat—probably more expensive than her entire wardrobe—was now soaked in medium roast and oat milk.
The man she'd collided with didn't flinch. He simply looked down at the stain with a slow, measured blink. The kind of blink that said he wasn't surprised, only annoyed.
"I'm so sorry," Ariana said quickly, fumbling for a napkin from her bag, which had somehow managed to dump half its contents onto the concrete.
She crouched down, gathering papers, a rogue lipstick, and the cracked remains of her phone screen protector. Her sketch portfolio had popped open too—she scrambled to collect the loose pages before the wind did.
The man, still silent, bent down and picked up a page. He studied the sketch—a modern, minimal lobby design with warm woods and brass fixtures.
She stood, grabbing it from him. "That's mine, thank you."
His eyes flicked up to meet hers. Cool, sharp, and unreadable.
It hit her all at once—where she recognized him from.
The piercing gaze. The expensive suit. The way the sidewalk seemed to part for him without trying.
"Wait…" she said slowly, breath catching. "You're—you're Leonardo Cross."
"Correct." His voice was crisp, emotionless.
She immediately wished she'd just spilled coffee on a cab driver instead.
Leonardo Maddox Cross—trillionaire, tech baron, walking iceberg.
"Oh my God," she mumbled under her breath. "I dumped Starbucks on a human Fortune cover."
He arched an eyebrow. "Medium roast, from the smell. And not Starbucks."
She froze, blinking.
"You really can smell the difference?"
"I can afford better coffee."
Her lips parted in disbelief.
She finally took a breath. "I didn't mean to ruin your coat. I wasn't looking where I was going."
"That much is clear."
He sounded like he wasn't angry, just disappointed with the existence of humanity.
She glanced down at her stained blouse and then back at his dark coat. The coffee stain spread near the lapel, subtle but unmistakable against the luxury wool.
"Can I pay for the dry cleaning?" she asked weakly.
His expression didn't change. "No."
Of course not. The man could probably buy a coffee farm just to burn it out of spite.
She cleared her throat. "Okay, well… Sorry again. I'll just—go."
She turned quickly, cheeks burning, clutching her mangled portfolio to her chest.
"Ms. Blake."
She stopped mid-step.
Turned back.
"What?" she asked, wary.
Leo held up one of her portfolio pages, the corner still fluttering in the breeze. "You dropped this."
She took it with a cautious hand. "Thanks."
He didn't look away from her.
"What's your profession?" he asked.
"…Interior designer," she said, uncertain.
"Freelance?"
"For now."
"Interesting."
It wasn't a compliment. More like a filed note.
"Why?" she asked before she could stop herself.
But Leo didn't answer.
He turned and walked away.
Just like that.
No goodbye. No scolding. No attempt at small talk. Just vanished into the revolving door of the hotel, leaving her holding a damp sketch and her pride in tatters.
---
It wasn't until later, back at her apartment, that she realized something else.
One of the pages was missing.
Not the coffee-stained one. A different one. A lobby concept for a co-working space, one she was particularly proud of. It wasn't in her folder.
She flipped through everything twice, then again.
Gone.
"Dammit," she muttered. "Of course."
A knock at the door interrupted her irritation.
She opened it to find a uniformed courier standing stiffly.
"Ariana Blake?"
"Yeah?"
He handed her a sealed envelope. "From Cross International. Confidential."
Before she could respond, he was gone.
She ripped it open, heart pounding.
Inside was a single page.
Ms. Blake,
Apologies for the abrupt nature of our last meeting. I'd like to discuss a professional opportunity. Tomorrow. 9 a.m. Cross International Headquarters.
– Leonardo M. Cross
She stared at the page for a long minute.
What the hell was going on?
---
The next morning, she found herself outside Cross International again.
Deja vu came hard as she walked into the building—marble floors, high ceilings, polished glass that reflected every insecurity back at her.
She wore the same slacks as yesterday, freshly ironed. Her curls were tied back, but a few defiant ones framed her face. She wore her confidence like makeup—layered thick to hide the cracks.
Security waved her through without a word. The receptionist nodded and gestured toward the elevators.
Sixty-third floor.
The doors opened into silence.
Cassandra Hale was waiting again, just like the first time. Still terrifying in a heels-clicking, no-blinking kind of way.
"This way," she said with a clipped nod.
They walked through a narrow hallway into the same private conference room. A long mahogany table gleamed under pendant lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the Manhattan skyline.
Ariana kept her eyes forward.
Leo was already seated at the head of the table, fingers steepled under his chin, suit perfect, expression unreadable.
He didn't rise.
"Ms. Blake."
She nodded. "Mr. Cross."
He gestured for her to sit. "Thank you for coming."
"I didn't realize I had a choice," she said.
His eyes flicked to hers, amused. "You always have a choice. But you're here."
"I want my sketch back," she said flatly.
"You'll get it."
She folded her arms. "Why did you take it?"
"To see what you'd do."
Ariana blinked. "You stole from me."
"I borrowed. For evaluation purposes."
"Of what?"
He didn't answer. He simply turned a page in front of him and slid it toward her.
Her own sketch.
Perfectly intact, untouched.
"I wanted to see if you'd come for it," he said. "Or walk away."
"I don't play games, Mr. Cross."
"Neither do I," he replied.
The air between them thickened.
She reached out, took the page, and slipped it carefully into her portfolio.
He sat back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the tabletop. "I need someone who doesn't flinch."
"At what?"
"Pressure. Cameras. Cold business."
She stared at him. "Are you offering me a job?"
He leaned forward. "I'm offering you an arrangement."
Here it comes again.
That word.
Her breath hitched.
"Marriage," he said, quiet but firm. "Twelve months. Public. Legal. No strings. You help me secure my merger. I help you reset your life."
She almost laughed.
"You think you can just walk into a woman's life, spill coffee, and offer marriage like it's a handshake?"
"Not coffee," he corrected. "You spilled it."
"That's not the point."
He met her gaze, steady and cold. "You need stability. I need a clean partner. You want design exposure and financial freedom. I offer both. You'll be anonymous after the divorce. This isn't about feelings."
"Clearly."
"No intimacy. No expectations. Just a shared stage."
She stared at him, stunned.
"How do you even know I won't blow it up in the press?"
He tilted his head. "Because if you were that kind of person, you'd have threatened me yesterday."
She inhaled sharply.
He wasn't wrong.
"And if I say no?"
"Then you leave. No hard feelings."
She stood, unsure of how she was still standing at all.
"I'll think about it," she said. "And you'll get your answer. Tomorrow."
He nodded once. "I look forward to it."
---