Chapter Five – A Dangerous Invitation

Elena’s POV

I stayed rooted to the cool hallway wall, chest rising and falling too fast, as if my ribs couldn’t keep pace with the memory of that voice. The man was gone, his footsteps long since faded down the marble corridor, yet the sharp fragrance he carried—mint laced with cedar—still clung to the air like smoke after a fire.

“That scent… that voice…” I murmured, barely aware that I’d spoken aloud.

“Elena!”

My father’s voice cracked like a whip, snapping the daze in two. I flinched and spun toward the sound. “Y-Yes?”

He strode toward me, his dark suit cutting a severe line, irritation carved deep into every movement. “Do you have any idea what you just missed?”

My throat went dry. “I— I was about to walk in but—”

“But you didn’t.” His interruption sliced through the corridor. “You embarrassed me.”

Heat crawled up the side of my neck. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Do you even know who that man was?” He jabbed a finger toward the empty stretch of hallway where the scent still lingered.

I swallowed, the name catching in my chest. “…Mr. Blackwood ?”

“That,” he snapped, “was Adrian Blackwood. Adrian Blackwood .Do you understand what kind of opportunity this is for our company?”

My voice came out smaller than intended. “He didn’t… sound like someone who tolerates mistakes.”

“Of course he doesn’t!” Father barked, the words echoing sharply off polished stone. He dragged a hand down his face in a long, frustrated sweep. “He’s ruthless. Men like him don’t wait. One wrong step and we lose everything. You think I built this company so you could come strolling in late?”

I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging half-moons into my palms. “I said I wasn’t trying to—”

“Tomorrow,” he cut me off again, voice like a gavel, “there’s a dinner at the Plaza. Mr. Blackwood will be there with his board. You will accompany me.”

I blinked, the word landing like a stone in still water. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner.” His glare sharpened until it felt like a physical shove. “You will smile, you will behave, and you will not embarrass me again. Do you understand?”

I bit my lip, forcing the breath that wanted to turn into a retort back down my throat. “…Understood.”

Inside, my heart hammered in wild protest. Dinner. Tomorrow. No escaping him then.

Hours later, I lay sprawled across my bed, the city’s muted traffic a low hum through the half-open window. My phone rested in my palm, its glow dim against the dark room, but my thumb hovered uselessly above the screen. I couldn’t even decide whom I might call.

“He was there,” I whispered into the hush, as if the walls might understand. “It was him.”

The memory of last night burned behind my eyelids: the heat of his hands at my waist, the press of his mouth against mine, the rough growl in his voice when he’d said my name. Adrian. Then today—that same voice, chilled and commanding, cutting through a boardroom.

A groan escaped me as I dragged a pillow over my face. “God, what am I supposed to do?”

The question had no answer, only the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

The Next Evening – Plaza Hotel

The Plaza’s grand lobby glittered like a chandelier caught in perpetual sunrise. Crystal fixtures scattered light across marble floors and velvet drapes, the air perfumed with roses and expensive perfume. My father’s hand clamped around my arm as we crossed the polished entrance, his grip a reminder that tonight wasn’t mine to ruin.

“Remember what I told you,” he hissed, leaning in close.

I tugged my arm free, smoothing the sleeve of my dress. “I remember. Smile, be polite, don’t speak.”

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” he corrected sharply, every syllable clipped.

I muttered under my breath, “Like I’m some kind of doll.”

He halted mid-stride, narrowing his eyes until the glittering hallway seemed to shrink. “This deal is bigger than you, Elena. Bigger than me. If this goes through, our company changes forever. Don’t ruin it.”

I bit back the retort that flared to life—something about dignity, about being more than a bargaining chip—and turned my face away, swallowing words that would only feed his anger.

His expression softened only slightly, but his voice lowered to a conspiratorial murmur. “He’s here.”

My stomach lurched. “What?”

Across the room, a cluster of suited men entered like a dark tide. My father straightened instantly, posture snapping into something almost military. “Adrian Blackwood,” he said under his breath, the name itself a command.

My hands went cold, fingers numb against the satin of my clutch.

“Come,” Father ordered, tugging me forward.

I followed, each step heavier than the last, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of our shoes but not the thudding of my heart.

We reached the long dining table just as Adrian’s assistant leaned toward him, speaking in a low, urgent voice.

“Sir,” the assistant murmured, “your call from New York is on the line. They’re waiting.”

Adrian’s reply was curt, carrying effortlessly over the ambient music. “Handle the introductions. I’ll join shortly.”

Before my father could speak, Adrian turned his phone already in his ear, striding toward the balcony with a purposeful grace that ignored everyone in his path. Not a glance in my direction. Not even a flicker of recognition.

I froze, lips parting in a soundless breath.

My father gave a quick, nervous laugh, as though the abrupt departure required explanation. “Mr. Blackwood is a very busy man,” he said to the board members who remained, his voice too eager. “He’ll return shortly, of course.”

One of the men nodded knowingly. “That’s how he is. Efficient. To the point.”

“Yes, yes,” my father agreed, shaking their hands one after another, the perfect host scrambling to fill the void.

I lowered myself into the chair beside him, clutching my small clutch bag beneath the table like it might anchor me. Mint and cedar teased the air, faint yet unmistakable, a whisper only I seemed to hear.

My chest tightened. How long before he realizes it’s me?

When Adrian returned, the room shifted. Conversations dipped and softened as his stride cut through the quiet like a blade. The tailored charcoal suit, the dark tie—everything about him radiated a power that didn’t need announcement.

His voice rolled across the table, low and commanding. “Shall we begin?”

Every eye followed him as he moved to the head of the table. My father scrambled up, eager to please. “Mr. Blackwood, right here—please.”

Adrian took the seat directly beside him.

Which left him only inches from me.

I stiffened, pulse hammering, the scent of mint and cedar stronger now, filling my senses until it was all I could taste in the back of my throat. The memory of that night—his mouth on my skin, the heat of his breath—flared so vividly I nearly swayed.

But his gaze never touched me. Not once.

He opened a leather folder with quiet efficiency, expression unreadable, as if I were merely another decorative fixture in a glittering hotel.

And yet every nerve in my body screamed the truth.

He was right there.

The man from last night.

The stranger who wasn’t a stranger at all.

Adrian Blackwood.

And he was sitting close enough for me to feel the warmth of his sleeve against mine.