It starts with a deal. A high-profile acquisition. Two corporations. Four teams. One prize. You’re lead counsel on the seller side. He’s the buyer.
And of course — of course — the buyer is Xavier Castillo.
He sees you before you see him. The moment you walk into the meeting, heels sharp, eyes sharper, folder tucked under your arm like it’s a blade.
His lips twitch.
“Tell me this is a mistake,” he murmurs to his CFO.
It’s not.
You take your seat across from him — completely calm, fully aware of the ripple that just moved through the room. You meet his gaze with a slow smile.
“Let’s keep it civil, Castillo,” you say. “No pouting when you lose.”
He tilts his head. “You assume I lose.”
You cross your legs. “To me? I know you do.”
The table falls quiet. Everyone knows this just became a two-person game.
And that neither of you plays fair.
--
You go after each other hard.
Your redlines cut straight through his proposed terms. His counters are vicious. Precise. Surgical.
Somewhere around day four, your team groans as another email from Xavier's legal group rolls in — twenty-six comments, every one of them strategic.
You don’t blink.
You respond in thirty.
At 2:11am.
With a voice note attached: “Try again, CEO.”
You know he listens to it three times. He always does.
--
On day seven, he sends coffee to your office — no note. Just the exact oat milk latte you always order, hand-delivered and hot.
You send it back.
But later, you drink one just like it. And when he sees the cup on your desk during the next call, he smiles.
Small. Infuriating. Dangerous.
--
The deal closes.
Xavier wins the acquisition.
You win everything else.
Because when he pulls you aside after the final meeting, voice low in your ear, it’s not about contracts anymore.
“You’re dangerous,” he says.
“So are you.”
“I wanted this deal.”
“I wanted you to want it.”
He exhales, sharp and soft all at once. “You always get under my skin.”
You tilt your head, whisper against his jaw.
“And you always let me.”
--
That night, you end up in his penthouse.
You don’t plan it.
But you show up at his door, and he opens it like he was waiting.
No tie. No pretense. Just quiet, heavy air and the sound of your heels echoing across Italian stone floors.
“I still won,” you murmur, shrugging off your coat.
He steps closer, hands barely grazing your waist. “You let me sign the deal.”
You raise a brow. “And you let me walk away first.”
A pause.
Then — something between a smile and a confession:
“You win too often.”
You lean in, lips brushing his.
“That’s what makes it fun.”
And when his mouth finally claims yours — rough, reverent, reluctantly obsessed — there’s no winning anymore.
Just you. Just him. And the fire that only ever lights when you’re on opposite sides of the same war.