The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. I didn't remember a single word that was said after Dominic's quiet threat. Numbers, projections, timelines—everything dissolved into white noise. All I could feel was the weight of his stare every time he glanced my way, like invisible fingers tracing the line of my throat.
When it finally ended, the executives filed out quickly, throwing curious looks in my direction. No one dared ask questions. Not when the new owner had just looked at me like I was a ghost he intended to exorcise slowly.
I gathered my things with shaking hands, planning my escape. Elevator. Lobby. Street. Home. Lock the door and figure out how to disappear again.
But he was waiting.
Leaning against the conference table, arms crossed, watching me as if he had all the time in the world.
The door clicked shut behind the last person, leaving us alone. The silence was deafening.
I clutched my folder to my chest like a shield. "Mr. Cross—"
"Dominic," he corrected, voice low. "You used to call me Dominic."
That name in his mouth felt intimate and lethal at the same time.
"I don't know what you think you remember," I started, hating how small my voice sounded, "but whatever happened back then—"
"You don't know what I remember?" He pushed off the table, closing the distance in three slow steps. "Let me help you."
He stopped just short of touching me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. They were colder than I remembered, but the pain in them—the raw, barely leashed pain—was exactly the same.
"Six years ago," he said quietly, "my mother died in a hospital bed because we couldn't pay the bill. My little sister went into foster care the same week. And I—" His voice cracked, just once, before he locked it down again. "I ended up on the streets. Alone."
My throat closed. I knew this. God, I knew this. But hearing it from him, spoken like an indictment, was worse than any nightmare.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. It sounded pathetic even to my own ears.
"Sorry." He tasted the word like poison. "You were the only person who knew where I hid the money I'd saved for her treatment. The only person."
The accusation hung between us, sharp and bleeding.
I shook my head, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. "Dominic, I didn't—"
"You did." His hand lifted, almost brushing my cheek, then dropped as if he'd thought better of it. "You took it. You vanished. And everything I had left burned."
I wanted to scream that it wasn't true. That I'd been terrified, manipulated, threatened by men with real power back then. That I'd run to save my own life, believing someone else had taken that money.
But the words stuck. Because part of me still felt guilty. Part of me had always wondered if I could have done more.
He saw it on my face. His expression hardened.
"I spent years clawing my way out of nothing," he continued, voice dangerously soft. "Every deal, every body, every drop of blood—it all led back to one question: what would I do when I found you?"
My pulse thundered in my ears.
"And now here you are," he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. "Living clean. Successful. Like none of it ever happened."
"I never forgot," I managed.
"Good." He leaned in, breath warm against my ear. "Because I'm going to make sure you remember every single day."
He pulled back just enough to study my face, something dark and hungry flickering behind the ice.
"Starting tomorrow," he said, "you work for me. Directly. My office. My rules."
I stared at him. "You can't—"
"I already did." He reached into his jacket, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and held it out.
Transfer orders. Signed. Effective immediately.
Personal assistant to Dominic Cross, CEO.
My new title stared back at me in black and white. I looked up at him, panic rising like bile.
He smiled then—small, cruel, beautiful.
"Don't look so scared, Aria," he said softly. "I told you—I'm not here for revenge."
His fingers brushed mine as he pressed the paper into my hand. The touch lingered a second too long.
"Not yet."
Then he turned and walked toward the door, pausing only to glance back.
"Oh, and one more thing."
He opened the door but didn't step through.
"You still owe me."
The door closed quietly behind him. I stood there alone, transfer orders trembling in my grip, heart pounding so hard I thought it might shatter my ribs.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a terrified voice whispered the truth I wasn't ready to face.
He wasn't the only one who had changed. Because the girl who ran six years ago? She was gone. And the woman standing in her place… was starting to wonder how long she could keep lying to herself about why she'd never stopped dreaming of the boy she left behind. Even if he now wanted to destroy her.
The elevator ride down felt endless. Every floor dinged like a countdown.
When the doors finally opened to the lobby, I stepped out—and froze.
Across the marble expanse, near the revolving doors, a man in a dark coat was watching the elevators. Watching me.
He didn't move. Didn't smile. Just lifted his phone to his ear and spoke quietly, eyes never leaving my face. I knew, without a doubt, that he was talking about me. And that whoever was on the other end of that call already knew my name.
I turned and walked the other way, legs shaking.
Because Dominic Cross wasn't the only ghost from my past who had come back. And something told me the next one wouldn't wait six years to make me pay.
End of chapter 2