The Monday after my breakup, I stepped into the office wearing war paint disguised as lipstick. Ruby red. Bold. Dangerous.
I wasn't healed. Not even close. But I refused to look like someone still bleeding from a boy who couldn't even look me in the eye when I left.
People talk about the glow-up like it's a miracle that happens overnight. It's not. It's gritty. It's waking up with puffy eyes and still choosing to put on heels. It's putting one foot in front of the other when your soul feels like wet paper.
And it's walking into the one place you hate… because the enemy works there too.
Dorian Wolfe.
Arrogant. Ice-cold. Intimidating. He'd been my rival in the company since the day I joined.
He was brilliant in the most irritating way — never missed a pitch, never fumbled a deadline, and always had some smug comment locked and loaded for me during meetings.
I hated him.
But more than that, I hated how the elevator felt smaller when we were in it alone.
And today, as luck would have it, we were.
The silver doors closed, trapping me with him and the faint scent of his expensive cologne — something dark and spiced, like he'd bottled ego and seduction.
He didn't even glance at me. Just tapped his phone, brows furrowed.
I took a step away, because even his presence felt like an insult.
"You look different," he said, not looking up.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
He finally lifted his gaze, eyes cool and unreadable. "You look like someone who decided not to play nice anymore."
Was that… a compliment?
"Maybe I'm tired of being nice to people who don't deserve it."
His lip twitched. A smile? Or a smirk? "Good. Took you long enough."
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. He walked out without waiting, leaving me stunned.
What the hell was that?
By noon, the shine from my lipstick had worn off — emotionally and literally. I sat at my desk, scrolling through a spreadsheet that refused to make sense, while my mind circled back to Logan like a vulture to carrion.
I hadn't texted him. Not even once.
But God, I wanted to.
My fingers hovered over my phone screen.
Logan:
I just want to talk.
I miss you.
Why wasn't I enough?
No. Delete. Delete. Delete.
I dropped the phone face down on the desk like it burned me.
And then, like fate had a sense of humor, a real text appeared — but not from Logan.
Dorian Wolfe:
Check your email. You're being added to my campaign team.
My blood turned to ice. What?
By 4 PM, I was seated in a glass-walled conference room with Dorian at the head and a small team of analysts and designers scattered across the table. His voice was smooth, clipped, direct.
"Kayla will be taking point on the client engagement. Any questions?" he said, barely glancing at me.
One of the analysts frowned. "Is that...a good idea?"
Dorian's tone was sharp. "If you doubt her skills, speak now. Or stay quiet forever."
The room went silent.
I didn't know whether to be flattered or suspicious.
When the meeting ended, I caught up to him outside the conference room.
"Why me?" I demanded.
He paused. "You're smart. You just let the wrong people dull your edges."
That landed hard.
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. "Whatever it is you're going through — use it. People underestimate women when they're hurting. Prove them wrong."
Then he was gone. Again.
Why was he saying the exact things I didn't know I needed to hear?
That night, I dreamt of Logan.
He stood at our favorite coffee shop, waiting at a table with two cups. He smiled at me, the version of him I loved — warm, familiar, safe.
But when I sat down, his face changed. Blank. Distant. He reached across the table and handed me a mirror.
"Look," he said.
I did.
In the reflection, I was invisible.
I woke up gasping, tangled in sweat-drenched sheets, the clock blinking 3:14 AM. My throat burned. My chest ached.
And my phone buzzed.
Dorian Wolfe:
Couldn't sleep. Just sent the revised mock-ups.
Also... don't let the past steal your present.
How did he know?
I stared at the screen, then typed without thinking:
Why do you care?
Three dots appeared.
Because I see fire in you. And I want to see what happens when you stop holding back.
The next few weeks moved like storms and sunshine — unpredictable but alive.
Dorian challenged me in ways no one else had. Not cruelly — intensely. He pushed, I pushed back. He questioned, I snapped. But underneath it all was this unbearable tension that buzzed like static every time our eyes met.
Then came the plot twist I never saw coming.
I was invited to a black-tie gala for the launch of the campaign we co-led. I wore a black silk gown and heels sharp enough to cut glass. For the first time in months, I felt dangerous again.
Dorian arrived late.
But when he walked in, the room stopped.
His eyes found me across the crowd. And he didn't blink. He didn't hesitate. He came straight for me.
And said the unthinkable:
"I was the one who told HR to hire you."
I froze. "What?"
He leaned in, voice low. "I read your application before anyone else. You didn't get the job. I made sure they reconsidered. I've known who you are since day one, Kayla."
My world tilted.
"I hated you," I whispered.
His gaze was fire and frost. "I needed to. Because I couldn't want you. Not when you were his."
"How did you—?"
"I saw him pick you up once. Logan. He laughed like your love was disposable. I knew then… he was going to break you."
Tears stung my eyes.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
He smiled — not cruel, not arrogant. Soft. Regretful.
"Because you weren't ready to be loved right back then. But you are now."
He held out his hand.
And without knowing why, without thinking about Logan, or pain, or pride… I took it.