Chapter Nine

The light crept in through the gaps in the blackout curtains, a soft grey glow casting shadows across the elegant hotel suite. Outside, the sky was still waking, painted in slow strokes of muted gold. Inside, the air hung heavy with something unspoken.

Alison stirred first. She sat up slowly, the sheets still warm from her body, her robe slightly on one shoulder. She sluggishly walked to the sitting room to the joined bathroom. She saw Ralph.

His door was opened.

Still sleeping. Shirtless, one arm flung across his eyes, the other resting beside him. His chest moved in steady rhythm, but there was a tension in his jaw, even in rest.

She looked away.

Her hands brushed the silk tie of her robe, pulling it tighter even though she didn't need to. 

In the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked too aware. Her fingers touched the spot just below her collarbone, where his hand had caught her last night—just before she nearly fell. Where everything almost changed.

She splashed water on her face. It didn't help.

When she returned to her room, he was awake.

Ralph sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his dark, sleep-mussed hair. His eyes met hers for a second—sharp, unreadable. Then he looked away, reaching for the suit jacket he'd tossed over the armrest last night.

"Morning," he said, his voice rough from sleep, his eyes fixed on nothing.

"Morning," she murmured.

That was it. No mention of the balcony. No mention of how his hand had gripped her waist. How her robe had slipped. How his eyes had… lingered.

She busied herself making tea. Anything to distract. The kettle hissed, and she kept her back to him as long as she could, listening to the quiet rustle of him dressing behind her.

A soft ding vibrated her phone.

Michelle: So how's the big boss treating you? Or should I ask—how was last night? 👀

Alison bit her lip, resisting the urge to throw the phone across the room. Instead, she typed back quickly.

Alison: Go to hell.

Michelle's response was instant.

Michelle: Ooooh. That good, huh?. She set the phone down face-first.

When she finally turned, Ralph was buttoning his shirt, his tie still loose around his neck. He looked… polished, detached, every bit the CEO again. The night was gone from his face. Or maybe it was just buried.

"I'll be downstairs in ten," he said. "The car's waiting."

She nodded, clutching her cup too tightly.

As he passed her to leave, she caught the faintest trace of his cologne—clean, musky, familiar. It pulled something deep in her stomach. She didn't move. Neither did he, for a moment.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

And she let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. 

The room was quiet again. Alison stood alone in front of the mirror, her untouched tea growing cold beside her. Her fingers lingered on the silk robe tied around her waist. Still damp hair fell around her shoulders. The memory of last night clung to her skin like heat that wouldn't leave.

She let the robe fall. It slipped past her shoulders, down her back, pooling at her feet like water. Naked now, in every sense that mattered, she took her time. Not for him. For her.

The dress lay across the bed—black satin, fitted like a whisper. A gown Michelle had all but shoved into her hands the day before with a wink and a dare. "In case you decide to be unforgettable."

She hadn't planned to wear it.

Now… she needed to.

She stepped into it slowly, dragging the fabric up her legs, over her hips, the silk hugging her like a secret. No bra. The gown didn't need one. It held her just right, shaped her, made her feel something close to beautiful again.

Her fingers reached behind her, fumbling with the zipper—then stopped. She turned, looking over her shoulder in the mirror. The curve of her back was bare, smooth, the gown dipping low enough to make her hesitate. Her hand shook a little.

For a second, she imagined him zipping it. His fingers grazing her spine. His breath near her neck. Her knees almost buckled at the thought.

She zipped it herself.

A touch of gloss. A flick of eyeliner. No jewelry. She didn't need any. The dress was the statement.

Then she stepped into her heels—sleek, black, impossibly high—and straightened.

The mirror stared back with someone she barely recognized. Strong. Composed. Irresistible.

And suddenly, she was ready.

Downstairs, Ralph stood near the elevator, jaw tight, arms crossed. He'd been waiting too long. His phone buzzed with reminders—calls to make, CEOs to greet. But his eyes kept darting to the numbers above the elevator, watching them tick.

1... 2... 3...

The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime, and Ralph turned instinctively, already growing impatient from waiting so long. But the moment his eyes caught sight of her, the breath stalled in his chest. Alison stepped out, gown flowing like melted midnight around her body, the slit licking up one smooth thigh, the neckline dipping just enough to tease without trying. Her curls framed her face, wild and soft, and she walked as if she didn't know the world was watching—especially him.

He didn't say anything at first. Couldn't. His mouth had gone dry.

She didn't look at him either, not at first. She glanced at her small silver clutch, adjusting the strap on her wrist, and then… her gaze lifted. Their eyes met. Heat. Silence. Awareness crackled between them like a whisper neither of them could say aloud.

"You're…" he finally murmured, but the rest of the sentence died on his tongue. Beautiful didn't even cover it. Dangerous? Divine? She tilted her head slightly, waiting. "You clean up well," he said eventually, low and rough, the compliment coming out like it hurt to admit. But he couldn't look away. His gaze dropped for a second—her neckline, the curve of her hips, the way her skin glowed against the dark silk. He swore under his breath and reached up to straighten his already-perfect collar.

"Thank you," she said simply, not bothering to hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "You're not so bad yourself, boss."

He held the elevator open, and she stepped inside, the air between them thick with whatever they weren't saying. Her perfume—jasmine and something darker—curled into his head. He could feel the heat radiating off her bare shoulder beside him, close enough to touch. And yet they didn't. Not yet.

Downstairs, the ballroom buzzed with music and laughter. CEOs, politicians, media faces. It was a world Ralph owned. But tonight, when they stepped in, it was her they looked at. Heads turned. A few murmurs rippled. Someone leaned in to whisper. Alison kept her gaze forward, poised, collected, unaware of the chaos she stirred.

"Damn, Ralph," one grey-haired executive chuckled as he clapped him on the shoulder, his gaze lingering on Alison. "Didn't know you had taste."

"She's my assistant," Ralph said flatly, eyes sharp.

"Oh?" the man grinned. "She doesn't look like one."

Alison heard it. Of course she did. But she didn't blink. Just took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to face Ralph, chin slightly lifted. "Shall we?" she asked, voice satin-smooth, daring him to treat her like anything less.

He offered his arm, jaw clenched, and she took it. As they walked further into the ballroom, she leaned in slightly, just enough for her lips to nearly brush his ear. "You're staring," she murmured.

He didn't respond. Couldn't. Because he was. And he didn't want to stop.

They were halfway across the ballroom when the laughter floated in—silvery, unmistakable. Ralph stiffened before Alison even turned. The woman was already walking toward them, champagne glass in hand, legs long and bare beneath a slit that didn't try to hide. Her red dress shimmered like blood under the chandeliers, her dark eyes locked on Ralph like he still belonged to her.

"Ralph Lauren," she purred, stopping inches too close. "God, I was hoping I'd run into you."

Alison stood tall beside him, calm but alert. Ralph's silence was the only clue that something was off. He didn't smile. Didn't move. Just looked at the woman with that unreadable expression that usually meant he was calculating something he didn't want to feel.

"I see you're… doing well," the woman said, eyes sliding deliberately to Alison, then back. "Is this your new assistant, or has your taste evolved into something… sweeter?"

Ralph's jaw tightened. "Alison, this is Elena. She—" he stopped, no words coming easily. "She works in investment."

"Oh, worked, darling. I moved on," Elena said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Then to Alison, "I hope you're not as boring as the last one. Ralph likes a challenge, don't you, love?"

Alison blinked once, her face still soft, unreadable—but her fingers curled slightly around the stem of her glass. She didn't say anything, just turned her head to Ralph, waiting.

And that silence said more than a thousand words.

Ralph cleared his throat. "Enjoy your evening, Elena."

She smirked and walked off, hips swaying like she was still performing for him. But Ralph didn't watch her go. He was too busy looking at Alison.

"You don't have to say anything," he said quietly.

"I wasn't going to," she replied, sipping her champagne slowly.

He hated how cool she sounded. How unaffected. It made something tight twist in his chest. "She means nothing. It was a long time ago."

Alison raised a brow. "I said I wasn't going to say anything, remember?"

And she walked away from him, straight into a cluster of other executives—one of whom immediately took her hand, kissed her knuckles, and started complimenting her accent, her dress, her poise. Ralph watched, stone-faced, as Alison smiled, leaned in slightly, and laughed at something the man said. Jealousy was a slow poison—he didn't realize how deep it had sunk until he saw another man looking at her like that.

He downed half his drink and stalked after her.

The party was still murmuring behind her, soft music trickling through the slightly ajar doors of the rooftop lounge, but Alison needed air. She stepped out onto the terrace alone, the cool night breeze lifting the hem of her long silk gown, brushing her skin like a memory. Her heels clicked softly against the marble as she moved to the far end of the space, resting her arms on the glass balustrade, looking down at the city lights shimmering below. She sighed, the kind that carried too many things unsaid.

She didn't hear him at first.

Didn't turn when he stepped out behind her. He stood there a moment, watching her back, the slope of her shoulders, the quiet rise and fall of her chest as she tried to collect herself. The soft glow from the sconces painted her in amber. He felt his throat tighten.

"Alison."

She stiffened. Her name on his lips wasn't cold this time. It was careful. Raw. She didn't face him.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said, walking a little closer, his voice lower now, the edge gone. "I just... needed air."

She didn't answer. Only nodded slightly, eyes still ahead.

They stood like that for a while, not speaking. The silence stretched, but it wasn't empty—it throbbed. Finally, she turned halfway toward him, arms crossed, jaw set. "You always show up when I'm trying to breathe," she said quietly.

He looked at her then, really looked. The way the city light caught her face. The way her earrings sparkled against her bare neck. The same neck he once kissed like a man starved. His voice was thick when he answered.

"I came to say I'm sorry."

Her brows lifted, just a little, but she stayed silent. He took another step.

"For everything," he said. "The way I've treated you… the way I looked at you after that night…"

Her breath caught.

"I was angry," he continued, "not at you—at myself. I told myself if I pushed you away, if I made you feel like you meant nothing, maybe I'd stop wanting you."

She swallowed.

"You made me feel like trash," she said, her voice low and calm. "Like I was just a body. A mistake you wanted to erase."

"I know," he said, stepping closer now, just inches between them. "And I regret it. More than I can explain."

Her arms dropped to her sides. His fingers itched to reach for her, but he didn't. Not yet.

"I didn't expect to want you this much," he said. "And it scared the hell out of me."

She laughed once, soft and bitter. "You? Scared?"

He gave a faint smile. "I'm still human."

A pause.

"Then act like it," she said.

He met her eyes. "I'm trying."

She looked down. Her hand rested on the railing. A moment later, his hand brushed hers—not intentional, just barely there, but it sent a jolt through both of them. She didn't move away. Neither did he. The space between their fingers pulsed.

The city glimmered beneath them, silent witness to the tension curling between their bodies. He looked at her mouth. Then at her eyes. And did nothing. Just stood there, soaking in the heat and ache of everything he hadn't said until now.

"Alison," he said again, quieter this time. "I'm sorry."

She nodded slowly. " It's okay".

And just like that, she turned back to the railing, letting the night take them both again. His hand was still close. Her arm brushed his now and then. And though they didn't kiss, didn't touch, didn't speak again—something changed in that silence. Something opened.

And neither of them would forget it