Justin's POV
The silence in my penthouse was a living thing. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a mind at rest, but the heavy, humming stillness of a engine idling at redline, going nowhere. I could still feel the phantom pressure of Prudence's gaze on me, a blend of frost and fire that had seared itself into my nervous system.
The strategic session had been a gamble that had paid off in a currency I hadn't expected: respect, and a deeper, more unsettling fascination.
I poured two fingers of a peaty Islay scotch, the smoky aroma doing little to cut through the scent of her perfume that seemed to have imprinted on my clothes, my skin. Sovereign, she'd called it. A scent for a queen. It was the perfect name. It was untouchable, regal, and utterly intoxicating.
I replayed the moment in the conference room over and over, the moment I'd pushed her. "You built Provida on understanding that desire. That yearning. Don't tell me you've become so removed from your own brand that you can't see it anymore."
It had been a brutal thing to say. A calculated risk. I'd seen the flash of pain in her eyes, the brief, stunning vulnerability before the iron will slammed back into place. I had wanted to shake her, to break through the polished exterior of Prudence Smith, CEO, and reach the woman I knew was in there. The one who understood yearning because her entire empire was a monument to it.
And she hadn't broken. She'd absorbed the blow, metabolized it, and used it as fuel. Her response had been a masterstroke. She hadn't conceded; she'd evolved. She'd taken my challenge and made it her own. "It needs teeth. It needs to feel real."
God, she was magnificent.
My usual type; the Evas of the world were beautiful accessories. They were predictable, their motivations transparent as glass. They wanted status, security, a piece of the Steele fortune. They were a pleasant, undemanding distraction, a way to maintain the public image of a man who had a "life" outside his work. But they were echoes. Prudence was a voice.
And her voice was telling me to get lost.
The memory of her at the gala, the shutters slamming down in her eyes as I walked away with Eva, was a persistent ache. I'd done that. My own ingrained defenses, my fear of the very vulnerability I was trying to unearth in her, had caused the damage. I'd treated her like another corporate adversary, employing a tactical retreat, and in doing so, I'd confirmed every bitter belief she held about men.
I was no better than the "dogs" she so dismissively referred to.
The thought was a gut-punch. I'd spent my entire adult life building a persona that was the complete opposite of the weak, greedy, predatory men who had stolen my inheritance. I was Justin Steele, the man made by GOD, the man of integrity who rebuilt his legacy from ashes. And yet, with Prudence, I'd fallen back on the oldest, cheapest play in the book: playing with a woman's feelings to maintain the upper hand.
I tossed back the rest of the scotch, the burn a pale imitation of the self-disgust heating my veins.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from my COO, Mark, about the Q3 projections. I ignored it. The numbers, usually my sanctuary, my universal language, felt meaningless. All I could see was the defiant set of Prudence's shoulders in that red suit, the intelligent flash in her eyes as she parried every one of my team's arguments.
She was the first person in years who made me feel like I was in a real fight. Not a corporate takeover, not a negotiation, but a fundamental clash of wills and… souls The word felt foreign, sentimental, but nothing else fit.
I thought of my father. Not the tragic end, but the man in his prime. He'd loved my mother with a fierce, uncomplicated devotion that had been the bedrock of our family. He'd come home from a long day, his hands grimy, his mind buzzing with stress, and the moment he saw her, his whole face would light up. "There's my girl," he'd say, and he'd sweep her into a hug, not caring if he got grease on her dress.
That was love. Not a transaction. Not a power play. A sanctuary.
I had never allowed myself to want that. After the betrayal by my family, after the failure of my first company, I'd built my life around the principle that reliance was weakness. Love was the ultimate vulnerability, a systemic risk I couldn't afford. My empire was my companion, my legacy my child.
But standing in that conference room, watching Prudence command the space with a brilliance that mirrored my own, a hollow space inside me, one I'd been ignoring for fifteen years, suddenly made its presence known. It was a yearning for a connection that wasn't based on balance sheets or market share. A yearning to be known, not just as Justin Steele, Titan, but as Justin. The boy who lost his father. The man who was still trying to make him proud.
And the terrifying, undeniable truth was that the only person I could imagine seeing that man was Prudence.
Because she wouldn't pity him. She would understand him. She had, I was certain, her own version of that story.
This wasn't just attraction. This wasn't just the thrill of the chase. This was a fundamental recognition. Two fractured pieces recognizing their jagged edges in each other.
I couldn't let this end with a terse email chain about marketing budgets. I couldn't let her believe I was just another "dog" who'd tried to piss on her territory and moved on.
I had to show her I was different. I had to show her me.
But how? Flowers? Champagne? A piece of jewelry? She'd laugh in my face, and she'd be right to. Those were the tools for the Eva's of the world. They were offerings to a queen who already owned the mine.
No. For Prudence, it had to be something that acknowledged her strength, her intellect, and her pain. It had to be a gesture that spoke to the founder, not the figurehead. It had to be real. It had to have teeth.
An idea began to form, fragile at first, then solidifying with a certainty that felt like destiny. It was audacious. It was personal. It bypassed every corporate protocol and plunged straight into the heart of the matter. It was a risk that made the failure of my first start-up look like a stubbed toe.
If it backfired, it would likely sink the merger and turn the most fascinating woman I'd ever met into a permanent enemy.
But if it worked…
I stood up, the restless energy that had been coiling inside me finally finding a direction. I went to my desk, but I didn't open my laptop. I took out a sheet of thick, cream-colored stationery and a fountain pen which i used to impress perhaps, but ones I enjoyed. The scratch of the nib on the paper was a sound of intention, of thought given physical form.
I didn't write a long letter. I didn't plead or explain. She would despise that. Instead, I wrote a single sentence. A proposition. An invitation to a different kind of battlefield.
I read it over. It was perfect. It was insane.
I sealed it in a plain, high-quality envelope. I didn't address it to her office. I addressed it to her penthouse. I'd had Anya's routing information for weeks; due diligence was a habit I couldn't break.
Then, I did something I hadn't done since I was a teenager. I bypassed all assistants, all couriers, all layers of insulation. I pulled on a jacket, left my penthouse, and walked the twelve blocks through the cooling night air to her building.
It was a towering glass spear, just like mine. Her castle. I stood across the street, looking up at the lit windows on the top floor. Was she up there? Was she staring at her city, just as I did, feeling the weight of a crown that was also a cage?
I felt a fool. A romantic, impulsive fool. This wasn't me. I was the strategist, the planner, the man who thought ten moves ahead.
But with Prudence, thinking hadn't gotten me anywhere. It was feeling that had broken through. My feeling for her. Her feeling, however buried, for me.
I walked to the sleek, marble-clad lobby. A doorman in a impeccable uniform stood guard. I approached him.
"I have a delivery for Ms. Smith," I said, my voice calm, belying the hammering of my heart. "It's urgent."
He looked at me, recognition dawning in his eyes. My face was in the business section often enough. "Mr. Steele? I… I can have it sent up."
"I'll wait for a response," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. I handed him the envelope.
He looked uneasy, but he took it and went to the security panel. He spoke softly into the intercom. I couldn't hear the words. I just stood there, my hands in my pockets, feeling more exposed than I had in any boardroom.
This was it. No corporate armor. No team of lawyers. Just a man and a message.
Minutes ticked by. Each one felt like an hour. I imagined her reading it. That cool, analytical mind dissecting the words. I imagined her lip curling in disdain, tearing the paper in two, and telling the doorman to have me removed.
Then, the doorman turned back to me. He looked stunned. "Ms. Smith… she asks if you would care to deliver your message in person."
The air left my lungs in a quiet rush. She was calling my bluff. Raising the stakes.
I nodded, my throat tight. "I would."
The elevator ride to the penthouse was the longest of my life. The doors opened not into a hallway, but directly into her living space. It was breathtaking. Minimalist, severe, and stunningly beautiful. It was her, in architectural form. And there she was.
She stood by the window, just as she had the first time I'd imagined her. She was out of her CEO armor, dressed in simple, dark linen trousers and a silk tank top. Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She looked younger. Softer. And more dangerous than ever.
She turned, the note held loosely in her hand. Her eyes were unreadable.
"Justin," she said. Her voice was quiet, stripped of its professional polish. "This is highly unorthodox."
"I find orthodoxy is overrated," I replied, stepping out of the elevator. The doors slid shut behind me, sealing me in her world.
She lifted the piece of paper. On it, I had written:
I'm not here for a merger. I'm here for a truce. Meet me at the corner of 5th and Main tomorrow at noon. Come alone.
"A truce," she repeated, her tone flat. "And what, precisely, are the terms of this truce?"
I took a step closer. I could smell her scent, Sovereign, in its natural habitat. It was even more potent here. "The terms are simple. For one hour, we don't talk about Provida. We don't talk about Titan. We don't talk about market share or the merging potential."
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "What would we talk about?"
"That's the point, Prudence," I said, my voice low. "We'd figure it out. Or we'd stand in silence. But it would be real. No agendas. No armor. Just… a truce."
She looked from me to the note and back again. The war in her eyes was a visible thing. The desire to trust warring with a lifetime of evidence telling her not to. The yearning for something real battling the terror of what it might cost.
I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just let her see the sincerity in my eyes. I let her see the man, not the Titan.
Finally, she let out a slow breath. She didn't smile. But the ice in her gaze thawed, just a degree.
"5th and Main is a construction site," she stated.
A faint smile touched my lips. "I know."
A long, charged silence stretched between us. Then, she gave a single, sharp nod.
"Alright, Steele," she said, a hint of that old defiance returning. "A truce. Noon. Don't be late."
It wasn't a surrender. It was a capitulation to mutual curiosity. It was everything.
I nodded, turned, and pressed the button for the elevator. As the doors opened, I looked back at her. She was still watching me, the note crumpled in her fist, her expression a turbulent sea of conflicting emotions.
I stepped into the elevator, and as the doors closed, I allowed myself a real, unguarded smile.
The reckoning had begun. Deep down in my heart, I was happy she accepted.