For someone who swore off attachments, Grant Kingston had an uncanny habit of replaying moments.

That night, alone in his penthouse with nothing but the regular melody of the city beneath him, he found his gaze drawn repeatedly to the abstract memory of her, Cassie Hartley. Wild-eyed. Defiant. A woman who didn’t blink under pressure or cower beneath wealth.

He didn’t like the way her voice stayed in his head.

Or worse; the feeling it stirred in his chest.

He pulled open his liquor cabinet and poured a slow two fingers of Glenlivet 25. Even that didn’t burn enough.

---–----------–--------------–-----------–-------–------------–-----------------–-------

Three days later, Cassie sat hunched in the back of a city bus, sketchbook balanced on her knees. She had declined a Lyft ride to clear her head and feel normal... real. Something about that penthouse floor, Grant’s unnerving calm, had thrown her off balance.

And then there was the call she had just gotten from Halden.

“We got a request from Kingston’s office,” he had said. “They want you to consult on a full corporate acquisition art package. Multiple pieces. You would lead the team.”

Cassie blinked at the memory.

WHAT???

She hadn’t even submitted a portfolio for anything like that. Kingston clearly had influence, and apparently, he had used it; to drag her closer.

Why?

---–---------–---------------–----------------–---–------------–------------------–------

At Kingston International, Elle Monroe raised an eyebrow as Cassie stepped into the executive suite again.

“Back so soon?” she teased. “He usually waits at least a week before drawing people into his world.”

Cassie offered a tight smile. “Must be a record.”

Elle leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Word of warning; the deeper in you go, the harder it is to climb out.”

Cassie gave her a look. “Are we still talking about the company?”

“Oh, honey,” Elle smirked. “We never were.”

Before Cassie could respond, Grant’s voice rang out from his office.

“Send her in.”

No door knock. No pause. Just a command.

Cassie walked in.

The office was vast and unreasonably still. A cathedral of glass and concrete.

Grant stood at the far wall, hands tucked behind his back, staring out at the skyline like it had wronged him. He didn’t turn when she entered.

“You requested me,” she said.

“I did.”

“Why?”

Now he turned. “Because the boardroom piece stayed with me.”

“Meaning?”

“It made me angry. Unsettled.” He paused. “That’s rare. I want more.”

Cassie crossed her arms. “So, this is about you hiring me to make you feel things?”

“It’s about authenticity.” His voice was cool, but there was a tension beneath it. “Too many people lie to me. You didn’t. That makes you useful.”

“I’m not a tool, Mr. Kingston.”

“I never said you were.” His gaze dropped, briefly an uncharacteristic flicker of vulnerability? “But I am offering an opportunity.”

She stayed quiet.

“I want to commission a ten-piece series for the upper floors. Each one has to say something real. No curated nonsense.”

“And I get full creative direction?”

“You get as much freedom as I can afford.”

Cassie quirked a brow. “You mean until the board freaks out.”

He actually smiled at that. Barely.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked.

She didn’t answer immediately. She stared at him, then out the window, then back again. Something about this moment felt like the edge of something. A choice not just about work, but about stepping into a game she wasn’t sure she understood yet.

Finally, she nodded. “Fine. But I choose my team.”

“Of course.”

“And I don’t work weekends.”

His smirk widened. “You will.”

---–-----------–----–----------------–------–----–------------–------------------–------

Later that evening, in a Brooklyn loft studio splattered with dried paint and surrounded by the hum of low indie jazz, Cassie sat across from her closest friend, Leo.

“You said yes?” he gaped, nearly dropping the brush in his hand.

“I did.”

“Cass, the man’s a human glacier. And last week, you called him a ‘monetized emotional void.’”

“I stand by it,” she said. “But the challenge is... interesting.”

“Is that what we’re calling tall, dark, and emotionally unavailable now?”

She threw a paint rag at him. “He’s not the point.”

“Oh, no?” Leo teased. “Because from what I hear, the point showed up in a tailored Armani suit, gave you eyes, and commissioned your life.”

Cassie rolled her own eyes, laughing. “Shut up.”

But part of her wasn’t sure he was the point. Or maybe too much of the point.

---–----------–---------–-------------–----------–------------–------------------–------

Meanwhile, across the city, Grant sat in a private booth at a power broker’s dinner he hadn’t wanted to attend. His father’s voice buzzed in his ear, full of condescension.

“Art installations? What is this: some bleeding heart PR move?”

“It’s business strategy,” Grant replied dryly. “Humanizing the space.”

“Since when do you care about humanizing anything?”

Grant’s grip tightened on his scotch glass. He didn’t answer.

His father leaned closer. “Women and feelings are weaknesses, Grant. Always remember that.”

Grant smiled, cold and calculated. “That must explain why Mother left.”

The silence that followed was nuclear.

His father stood abruptly and stormed off.

Grant stayed seated. Alone. Glass still in hand. But his thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in color and canvas, wild hair and honest rage.

Cassie Hartley was under his skin.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if that was a threat; or a promise.