Chapter 3

Kiana Perkins POV:

My hand paused on Cristian' s office door, the heavy oak cool beneath my trembling fingers. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I couldn't go in there. Not like this.

I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over his contact. I had to fix this, at least enough to survive the next ten minutes. Swallowing the lump of panic in my throat, I typed a message.

Me: I' m sorry. I overreacted. I was scared. Let' s not end it. But please, no more talk of meeting. Not yet.

The reply was instantaneous, as if he' d been staring at his phone, waiting.

C.L.: Thank God. Kiana, I was so scared. I thought I' d lost you. I' m so sorry. I' ll never push you again. I promise. Anything you want. Just don' t leave me.

Relief washed over me, so potent it made my knees weak. The crisis was averted, at least for now. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I knocked twice on the door.

A muffled, gruff "Come in," answered.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city. Books lined every wall. In the center of the room, Cristian Lancaster stood with his back to me, staring out the window.

He turned slowly as I closed the door behind me. My breath caught. The photos didn't do him justice. In person, his presence was overwhelming. He was taller than I' d imagined, broad-shouldered in a simple black sweater. The stormy grey eyes I knew from pictures were red-rimmed, his handsome face etched with misery.

He' d been crying.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The powerful, intimidating author had been crying because of me. Because he thought the anonymous girl on the internet had left him.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat, a faint flush rising on his cheeks as if embarrassed to be caught in such a state.

I couldn' t find my voice. I just stood there, clutching the folder to my chest like a shield.

"The campaign proofs," I finally managed to squeak out, my voice sounding foreign and small in the cavernous office. "Genevieve sent me for your approval."

He blinked, his expression unreadable. "Fine. Put them on the desk."

I scurried over to the massive mahogany desk, placing the folder down as if it were a bomb. I could feel his eyes on me, and the scrutiny made my skin crawl. I just wanted to disappear.

"You can go," he said dismissively, turning back to the window.

I practically ran from the room, my heart pounding in my ears. As I fled down the hallway, I felt a strange sense of relief. He hadn't recognized me. My secret was safe. His mood, which had been 'poison' according to Genevieve, seemed to have lifted ever so slightly after my message. The irony was suffocating.

My relief, however, was short-lived. An hour later, Genevieve appeared at my desk, tossing the folder back down with a clatter.

"He rejected them," she said, her voice tight with annoyance. "Vague notes. 'Color palette is too cold.' 'Typography is uninspired.' Redo them. And I need them by morning."

I stared at the pages covered in red ink. His handwriting was as sharp and precise as his prose. It was a complete overhaul. This would take all night.

I worked while the office slowly emptied. Cristian left at six o' clock on the dot, striding past my desk without a second glance. The rest of the design team followed soon after, offering sympathetic looks I couldn' t bring myself to return.

Soon, the entire floor was silent, save for the hum of the computers and the frantic clicking of my mouse. The receptionist, a kind girl named Chloe, poked her head into my cubicle around nine.

"You' re still here? Don' t you ever go home?"

"Deadlines," I mumbled, not looking up from my screen.

"Well, I' m heading out. Don' t forget to lock up."

"I will. Goodnight, Chloe."

The hours blurred together. My eyes burned, and a dull ache settled at the base of my skull. I was so engrossed in aligning text boxes that I didn't hear the main office door open. I didn't hear the soft footsteps on the carpet.

I only realized I wasn't alone when a shadow fell over my desk.

I yelped, spinning around in my chair so fast I almost fell out of it.

Cristian Lancaster stood there, holding a takeout bag, looking just as startled as I was.

"I' m so sorry," he said, taking a step back. "I didn' t mean to frighten you. I left my notebook. I didn' t realize anyone was still here."

My heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. "It' s... it' s fine."

He frowned, his gaze falling on my screen, which was filled with the proofs he had so thoroughly eviscerated earlier. "You' re still working on these?"

I wanted to scream, Yes, because you hated them! Instead, I just nodded meekly. "They need to be ready for the morning."

"The color palette is still off," he said, stepping closer. "It needs to evoke a sense of quiet dread, not just... blue."

My mind went into overdrive. My personal chat with C.L. was still open in a tab, minimized at the bottom of the screen. Our conversation, filled with heart emojis and promises to never leave each other, was one accidental click away from being exposed.

"Let me show you," he said, reaching for my mouse.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. "No!" I yelped, my hand flying out to cover the mouse, my body instinctively shielding the screen. I practically threw myself across my desk to block his view.

The action was so sudden, so bizarre, that it stopped him cold. He froze, his hand hovering in the air, a look of profound bewilderment on his face.

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