The press called it a rivalry for the ages. Two powerhouses. Two empires. You — the most successful attorney with three firms. Him — the ruthless CEO of Castillo International along with other businesses.
Both billionaires.
And the public? They ate it up.
Every glare across a boardroom. Every tense comment at a gala. Every time you were seated at opposite ends of a corporate table. They thought you hated each other.
And that’s exactly how you wanted it.
Because if they knew the truth—the late-night hotel rooms, the way he pulled you into supply closets during events, the fact that he knew exactly how you liked your espresso and your thighs shaken—
They’d lose their minds.
So the act continued.
You showed up to charity galas with venom in your stare and sarcasm in your tone.
“You again,” you’d snap across champagne flutes.
“Unfortunately,” he’d mutter, eyes trailing the hem of your dress like a secret.
Your teams exchanged cold emails. Your companies refused joint ventures. Your assistants bribed the seating charts just to keep you apart.
But when the lights dimmed, when the crowd cleared, and when you were alone?
He was everything but distant.
It was always risky. Always one step away from exposure.
Like tonight.
You were at a corporate awards gala, dressed in black velvet and diamonds, sipping something expensive with your firm’s top clients.
Across the ballroom, Xavier stood with his board. Dark suit, open collar, a glass of bourbon in hand.
He hadn't looked your way once. Not once. Which meant something was up.
Your phone buzzed.
XAVIER: North hallway. 3 minutes. Come alone.
You glanced at your team, made up some excuse about a call, and slipped away through the crowd.
The hallway was dim, quieter. Empty. And when you turned the corner—
He was already there. Waiting.
His back hit the wall as you reached him, expression unreadable.
“I said no stunts tonight,” you hissed, voice low.
Xavier’s eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Not a stunt. I missed you.”
You hated the way that made your stomach twist.
“And I didn’t like watching some finance exec drool over you for twenty minutes.”
You stepped closer, gaze sharp. “That’s not your business.”
His hand slid to your waist. “Isn’t it?”
You shouldn’t let him. Shouldn’t want this. But his lips were already brushing yours—soft at first, then rougher, deeper, like he needed the reminder that only you could give.
“You’re going to ruin us,” you whispered against his mouth.
“Only if we get caught,” he murmured back.
And that was always the thrill of it, wasn’t it?