C6 Step one

SYDNEY

I’ve done runways in Milan, Paris, Tokyo. I’ve worn couture so tight I couldn’t breathe. I’ve smiled through the most humiliating interviews.

But nothing—nothing—prepared me for Alaric Blackthorne.

The man was maddening.

Every time I tried to charm him with a toss of my hair, a smile, a light brush of my fingers, he stared at me like I was a mosquito buzzing around his ear. The fact that he’d rejected me once only fueled my obsession. No one rejected Sydney Stallone. No one.

So I decided on my next move. Bold. Dangerous. Perfect.

I was going to make him my secretary.

---

The morning I announced it, the entire office nearly had a collective stroke.

The board whispered. The employees gawked. Paige nearly dropped her coffee. And Alaric? His jaw clenched so tight I swore I heard his teeth crack.

“You can’t be serious,” he said under his breath, cornering me outside the conference room.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” I said sweetly, adjusting the diamond studs in my ears. “You’ll be my secretary. My right hand. I can't let Paige handle all the work.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t take orders from spoiled children.”

I gasped theatrically. “Spoiled? I’ll have you know I worked my way to the top of the modeling industry—”

“With Daddy’s money,” he cut in, voice like steel.

I opened my mouth, ready to unleash hell, but Paige’s nervous cough interrupted us. “Um, Ms. Stallone, your next meeting is in ten minutes—”

“Thank you, Paige,” I said, plastering on a smile. Then I leaned closer to Alaric, so close I could smell his cologne—woodsy, dark, infuriatingly intoxicating. “See you at your new desk.”

He didn’t answer. But the fire in his eyes told me I was getting under his skin. Exactly what I wanted.

---

Step One: Pretend I Can’t Function Without Him

My first strategy was simple. Classic. Act like I couldn’t do a single thing without him.

“Alaric,” I called dramatically one morning, sprawled across my office chair like a damsel in distress. “My email won’t send. Help me.”

He stalked over, glanced at my computer, clicked once, and walked away.

I blinked. “Wait—that’s it?”

“You didn’t hit send,” he said flatly.

I scowled. “Well excuse me for being busy and glamorous!”

He didn’t even look back.

Another time, I called him into my office, fluttering my lashes. “Alaric, I don’t know how to work the coffee machine.”

He pressed one button, and hot espresso poured into the cup.

I gasped. “Witchcraft.”

His lip twitched—just barely—but I caught it. A tiny almost-smile.

Victory. Small, but still a victory.

---

Step Two: Clash Until Sparks Fly

The more we worked together, the more we argued. He corrected me constantly.

“Ms. Stallone, the quarterly report—”

“Call me Sydney.”

“No.”

“Fine. Then I’ll call you Mr. Sexy-But-Moody-Pants.”

He didn’t even flinch.

When I strutted into meetings late, he gave me that cold, judgmental stare that made my skin prickle. When I snapped at employees, he cut me down with one icy word. And when I tried to flirt, he shut me out like a locked vault.

But the more he resisted, the more determined I became.

---

Then Everything Changed

It happened on a Thursday.

I went to the restroom to fix my lipstick, humming to myself. My dress—a silk, body-hugging number that screamed power—slid over my skin like a second layer of confidence.

I was finishing up when the stall door creaked open. At first, I thought Paige had followed me in.

Then a man’s voice hissed.

“Well, well, well. Look at the princess in her castle.”

My blood ran cold. I looked up. A man—one of the employees, I recognized his face vaguely—stood in the stall with a camera in hand.

“Smile for me, sweetheart,” he sneered, snapping a photo.

Rage burned through me. “Get out!”

He lunged instead, grabbing at my dress strap. It tore with a sickening rip.

I kicked hard, my heel connecting with his shin. He cursed, swinging at me. Panic flooded my veins. I shoved, clawed, fought, but he was stronger.

Then—

A blur.

A blow.

The man dropped like a rag doll, unconscious before he hit the floor.

And there he was. Alaric.

He stood over the man’s body, chest heaving, eyes storm-dark. I stared, trembling, my heart hammering.

“How—” My voice shook. “How did you do that? One punch? That’s not—”

Blood ran down my injured elbow.

Then I saw it.

His eyes. Not just dark—inhuman. Black veins spread across his temples, pulsing. His breathing was ragged, feral.

“Alaric…” I whispered. “What’s happening to you?”

But in the blink of an eye, he was gone. Just… gone.

Leaving me alone with a torn dress, a bleeding elbow, and a thousand questions.

---

Later

Paige fussed over my injury with a first-aid kit while I paced my office.

“Are you sure you don’t want to report this to security?” she asked nervously.

“No.” My voice was sharp. “I’ll handle it.”

Because security wasn’t the problem. Alaric was.

When I finally cornered him that evening, he was at his desk, calmly reviewing documents as though nothing had happened.

“You think I imagined it?” I snapped, slamming my hand down. “You think I didn’t see your eyes? The veins? The way you—”

“You saw nothing,” he interrupted coldly, not even glancing up.

“Don’t lie to me!”

His head lifted, his eyes locking onto mine, and suddenly the air between us was molten. We were inches apart, breathing hard, the argument dissolving into something far more dangerous.

Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was fire and hunger and fury all at once. My brain screamed at me to stop, but my body betrayed me, melting into his. His lips were rough, desperate, claiming. And I kissed him back, drowning in the chaos, in the heat of him, in the way my heart thundered like it wanted to escape my chest.

For a second, nothing else existed. Not my scandal. Not my father. Not my stupid bet. Only him.

When he pulled away, I stood trembling, breathless, ruined.

“Don’t,” he rasped, his voice low and raw. “Don’t push me, Sydney.”

And then he was gone again, leaving me alone with lips that still burned and a heart that refused to calm.