You’d both built empires. You, with your law firm—a fortress of steel, glass, and ruthless wins. Him, with Castillo International—a name that turned markets and burned competitors. Every magazine called you rivals. Every headline liked to pit you against each other. You just liked to win.

And Xavier? He liked watching you win… right before he’d steal the spotlight.

So when both your firms were nominated for the same Global Powerhouse Award, the tension skyrocketed. Reporters called it a “battle of titans,” a “high-stakes feud,” and even “business foreplay.”

At the gala, you arrived first. Draped in a gown that looked like vengeance stitched in silk. Your team scattered around you like royal guards.

Then Xavier walked in.

No tie. Shirt open at the collar. A midnight-black suit tailored like a second skin. His eyes locked on you instantly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Wearing war paint tonight, cariño?” he murmured when he reached you.

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “I’m dressed to kill.”

“Funny. That’s how I feel when you walk into a room.”

It wasn’t flirting. It was a standoff. A slow dance of fire and pride, right in the middle of the crowd.

You stood side by side all evening, exchanging snide remarks that no one else caught the double meaning of. Champagne glasses clinked. Eyes lingered. Photographers snapped endlessly.

When your firm won the award, he clapped first—slow and smug—his hand brushing your lower back when you passed him to accept it.

Later that night, in the back of the limo, the award on your lap and your heels kicked off, Xavier leaned in with that look that always meant trouble.

“Do you know what makes this even hotter?” he whispered.

You raised an eyebrow.

“You beat me,” he said, voice low, brushing his fingers along your thigh. “And now I get to take home the winner.”

You grinned. “Careful, Xavier. I might keep crushing you.”

He leaned closer. “Promise?”