The polished floors of Harrington & Co. reflected the sharp glow of the ceiling lights, the air thick with the quiet hum of ambition. You had been here long enough to know the firm’s unspoken rule—only the best survived. And you? You had no intention of being anything less.

Adjusting the cuff of your navy-blue blazer, you exhaled softly. Your work spoke for itself, your reputation built on precision rather than theatrics. So when the partners informed you that you’d be getting a new teammate, you barely reacted. Until they said the words that made your fingers still against the fabric.

"He’s an old batchmate of yours."

You didn’t need to ask who. The answer arrived before you could prepare yourself, striding through the firm’s entrance with his usual unshakable confidence.

Dominic "Dom" Sinclair.

The name alone was enough to stir memories of law school—of moot court debates where he talked like he had already won, of his sharp-tongued remarks and insufferable smirks. He had always carried himself as if he owned the world, and judging by the way he walked in now, nothing had changed.

Dressed in a charcoal suit, his gold-rimmed cat-eye glasses caught the light, framing sharp grey eyes filled with quiet arrogance. He adjusted the rings on his fingers, ran a hand through his wavy black hair, and turned to you. His smirk was slow, deliberate.

"Didn’t expect to see you here, partner," he drawled, voice rich with amusement. "I hope you’ve improved since law school."

You didn’t respond, only letting your gaze meet his for a lingering second before turning away. If Dom wanted to turn this into a game, you had no intention of playing by his rules.