Chapter 14 – Flashes of Something Real

Ariana Blake woke to sunlight spilling across her bed like gold. Her limbs felt heavy but rested, the fever having broken fully overnight. For the first time in days, her head didn't pound and her throat wasn't raw. She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face, blinking at the unexpected calm.

Then she saw it.

A sketchpad sat on the nightstand. Not hers.

It was leather-bound, pristine, expensive. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked it up. Tucked beneath the cover was a note, written in sharp, angular handwriting.

For your designs. Thought you could use something better than the back of mail flyers. — L

Ariana stared at it.

Her breath caught.

It wasn't just the gift—it was the thoughtfulness behind it. The recognition of her craft. Of her dreams. Of who she really was beneath the contract, beneath the façade.

She clutched the pad to her chest for a second, then opened it.

The first page was blank, waiting for her.

She smiled.

---

An hour later, Ariana wandered into the kitchen to find Leo Maddox Cross, 34 years old, 6'2, in a charcoal gray t-shirt and black slacks, sipping espresso while scanning the financial headlines on his tablet. His hair was damp from a shower, pushed back neatly. The light coming through the windows framed him like he belonged on the cover of a business magazine.

He looked up as she padded barefoot toward him.

"You're upright," he noted, voice clipped but quiet.

She held up the sketchpad. "This was you."

He didn't respond at first. Then: "You needed it."

"You remembered what I said?"

"I remember everything you say."

She paused, stunned by the honesty. "Thank you."

Leo poured another espresso and set it on the counter without asking. Ariana took it, letting the silence linger, warmer than it should've been.

"You slept in," he said after a moment.

"I needed it."

"You also needed soup, medication, and sleep three days ago. You didn't ask for any of that either."

She arched a brow. "So you're keeping a running tally?"

He gave a rare smile. "You're difficult. I'm just keeping score."

"Noted." She sipped. "Is there a prize if I win?"

"Depends what you want."

The air tightened around them for a beat.

She turned away first.

---

They ended up walking through the penthouse later that day—an unspoken truce between them. Leo gave her a tour of rooms she hadn't explored yet. The entire eastern wing was his workspace: a stark, clean office overlooking Manhattan, a private conference room, and a library.

"I didn't know you read," Ariana said, trailing her fingers along the dark walnut shelves.

"I don't read fiction."

"Of course you don't."

"I read people."

"That's not the same."

"It is when it's profitable."

She turned toward him, amused. "Do you ever turn it off?"

Leo crossed his arms, watching her. "Turn what off?"

"The constant calculation. The control."

His mouth tightened. "Not often."

She studied him a moment, then reached for a book. "Then maybe you should try."

It was an old hardcover—The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand.

Leo smirked. "That's a bit on the nose, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "Ego and architecture. We all have our clichés."

"I'm not sure if you just insulted me or yourself."

"Both."

She put the book back.

They shared a look. This time, neither looked away.

---

Later that evening, Ariana retreated to the guest room she'd converted into a mini studio. The sketchpad called to her, its pages whispering promises of new beginnings.

She flipped to the first page and started drawing.

A new concept for a boutique—curved walls, modern lighting, a color palette inspired by concrete and ocean foam. Something feminine and bold.

She lost herself in the flow.

So much so, she didn't hear Leo enter.

He stood in the doorway, quiet for a long time, watching her in her element.

"You disappear when you do that," he said finally.

She turned, surprised. "Didn't hear you."

"I noticed."

He stepped inside, hands in his pockets. "That yours?" He nodded at the concept on the page.

She nodded. "Just an idea. Haven't had a client in months."

Leo studied it. "You're good."

Her eyes narrowed. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It was."

She blinked.

He added, "Don't let it go to your head."

A laugh escaped her lips.

Something in Leo's chest shifted.

He hadn't heard her laugh like that before—bright, uninhibited.

And he liked it. Too much.

---

After dinner—takeout sushi and polite silence—Ariana wandered into the solarium again. She found Leo already there, leaning against the glass wall, city lights dancing behind him like fireflies.

"You always end up here," she said.

"I like quiet places."

"And yet you live in New York."

He didn't answer. Just looked at her.

"Do you ever miss… not being watched?" she asked.

Leo considered it. "No."

She arched a brow.

"I control the narrative," he explained. "Being seen isn't the same as being known."

"Is that why you built walls around yourself?"

He gave her a sharp look, but there was no edge in it. Just surprise. Maybe curiosity.

"Are you trying to analyze me now?" he asked.

"Maybe."

He stepped closer. "What do you see?"

Ariana didn't flinch. "A man who thinks power will protect him from pain."

He stilled.

"But it doesn't," she added softly.

They stood there, suspended.

Then Leo turned away, as if that tiny truth had shaken something loose in him.

"I didn't plan for you," he said, voice low.

"I didn't plan for any of this either."

Another silence. This one heavier.

Leo reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object.

A key.

He held it out to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Your own studio. Downtown. I bought the space this morning."

Her breath hitched.

"You didn't—"

"It's yours. No strings."

She stared at him.

He wasn't doing this to impress her. Or manipulate her. His expression was too open, too raw.

He was trying to give her something real.

Something she hadn't had in a long time.

Ariana stepped forward and took the key, her fingers brushing his.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Leo said nothing.

But something flickered in his eyes.

Hope.

---

That night, she couldn't sleep.

She wandered the penthouse again, barefoot, restless. Her body felt fine. It was her heart that was off-kilter.

The studio. The sketchpad. The soup.

None of it fit the man she thought he was.

She padded into the living room and paused.

Leo was there, sitting on the couch in the dark, staring out over the skyline.

She crossed the room and sat beside him.

He didn't look at her. Just said, "You should be asleep."

"So should you."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Ariana turned to him. "Why me?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Out of everyone you could've chosen—why me?"

Leo exhaled slowly.

"You weren't part of my world," he said. "You weren't tangled in the games or the money. You didn't want anything from me."

"I still don't."

"I know."

He looked at her then.

Really looked.

"You grounded me," he said.

And in that moment, she knew.

He didn't just need a wife for a merger.

He needed an anchor.

And somehow, impossibly, she'd become that.

---