Isabelle hit the spiral staircase, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She had to get out. She had to put distance between herself and that man.

The marble steps were slick. The cleaning crew had just mopped, leaving the surface shining like a mirror under the overhead lights. She was moving too fast, her steps clumsy and panicked.

At the turn, her right foot slipped on the wet marble. Her ankle twisted violently. A sharp, loud crack echoed up the stairwell — but it wasn't her bone. It was the strap of her custom-made shoe snapping under the strain. The entire shoe came loose from her foot and skidded across the step.

Isabelle pitched forward, her knee slamming into the hard step. Pain shot up her leg, but the adrenaline was stronger. She didn't have time for pain. She bent down and ripped the broken shoe off her foot.

She couldn't run in one shoe. She yanked the other one off, the delicate straps cutting into her fingers as she pulled. She grabbed both of them, her knuckles white around the expensive leather.

The marble was freezing against her bare soles. It was a shock to her system, but it grounded her. She bolted down the rest of the stairs, her feet slapping against the cold stone, sounding like a startled rabbit fleeing a predator.

Behind her, she heard the measured, deliberate click of leather soles on marble. Bennett was descending the stairs. He wasn't running. He was taking his time.

He paused at the landing where she had stumbled. His gaze dropped to the step. Sitting there, alone and glittering under the light, was a single diamond-encrusted shoe — the one she had dropped in her panic.

Bennett stopped. He bent down and picked it up. It was exquisite craftsmanship. His thumb brushed over the inner sole, finding a line of tiny, engraved text. A custom signature. His expression shifted, his eyes unreadable pools of black. A flicker of a predatory smile touched his lips before vanishing. The game was just beginning.

Inside the banquet hall, Eleanor Caldwell was holding court with a group of clients. Her smile was tight, her eyes sharp. Isabelle slipped in through a side door, keeping her back to the wall. She just needed her coat. Then she could disappear.

Suddenly, the main doors swung open. Bennett's tall frame filled the doorway. The room went quiet for a split second. Every head turned. Every eye locked onto the new capital representative.

Bennett ignored the stares. His gaze swept across the room once — slow, deliberate — as if searching for something. Or someone. Then, without a word to anyone, he turned and walked back out, the diamond-encrusted shoe hidden in the pocket of his overcoat.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. "What was that about?" someone whispered.

Eleanor frowned, confused by the brief, unexplained appearance. But the moment passed, and the party resumed its buzz.

Isabelle pressed her spine against the cold pillar, her heart hammering. He hadn't given the shoe to anyone. He had kept it. And that was far more terrifying.

She waited until the crowd shifted, their attention moving back to the bar. Then she bolted. She dashed out the hotel's side entrance, the cold pavement biting into her bare feet. She swore to herself, right there on the sidewalk, that she would erase every trace of tonight.

By 9:00 AM the next day, the firm's Slack channel was on fire. The topic GalaShoe was trending at the top of the feed.

It started with a grainy photo someone had posted at 2 AM — a shot of Bennett Lloyd bending down on the staircase landing, a glittering high heel in his hand. The caption read: "Our new boss playing Prince Charming. But whose shoe?"

By morning, the speculation had spiraled. Phoebe Keller was leading the charge. "Someone definitely left a 'glass slipper' last night. Custom Louboutins? Who are we trying to impress?"

Isabelle sat at her desk, staring at the screen. Her hand was clamped around her mouse, the plastic creaking under the pressure of her grip.

A shadow fell over her keyboard. Eleanor walked past, her gaze dropping to Isabelle's feet. Isabelle had swapped the heels for a pair of sensible black flats. Eleanor's eyes lingered for a second too long before she moved on.

Isabelle's stomach twisted. If this didn't stop, someone would dig up the custom order. The shoe had her name on it. Literally.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her photos. She found a picture she had taken last night-a cheap, $40 pair of black pumps she had bought at a CVS a block from the hotel. She had worn them to get home.

She uploaded the photo to the Slack channel. "I think there's a misunderstanding. My shoes are pretty cheap. Definitely not custom."

The channel went quiet for a moment. Then Clara sent her a private message. A sigh-of-relief emoji. "Thank god. I was worried they were yours."

Phoebe, never one to let a drama die, replied in the main channel. "Oh? Then whose is the custom one?"

Isabelle's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She was about to type "No idea" when a notification popped up at the top of the screen.

Bennett Lloyd has joined the channel.

Isabelle's fingers froze. A sharp cramp seized her stomach, doubling her over for a second.

Before she could even process his presence, a message appeared.

@IsabelleDominguez: "Since your shoes are fine, Ms. Dominguez, it seems you have the capacity for more time on-site."

Isabelle stared at the words. What did that mean?

A second later, a new email chimed in her inbox. It was an official appointment letter, CC'd to Eleanor and HR.

"Effective immediately, Isabelle Dominguez is appointed as the on-site technical consultant for the capital representative."

Isabelle shot to her feet. Her chair scraped against the floor, the sound piercing the quiet office.

Eleanor stepped out of her office. Her face was grave, her eyes locking onto Isabelle. "Isabelle. The client specifically requested you. This is a major project. Don't let me down."

Isabelle opened her mouth to refuse. She wanted to say she couldn't do it. But the warning in Eleanor's eyes-the unspoken threat to her career-choked the words back down.

She looked back at the Slack channel. Bennett's avatar was a solid black square. It stared at her like a single, unblinking eye.

The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her denial hadn't put out the fire. It had handed him a perfect excuse. If she had just admitted the shoe was hers, it would have been awkward. But by lying, by claiming she was available, she had given him the rope to tie her to his side.

It was a checkmate. She had walked right into it.

Isabelle grabbed the rolled-up blueprints off her desk. Her nails dug into the thick paper, leaving crescent moons in the margins.

She had to go to his office. It was company policy. It was an order.

She walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. She watched the numbers climb, each ding tightening the knot in her chest.

The doors opened. The hallway was silent, ending at a heavy oak door that looked like the mouth of a beast.

She knocked.

"Come in." That low voice. The same one from the terrace.

Isabelle pushed the door open. Bennett was sitting behind his massive desk. And in his hands, he was casually turning over a very familiar, diamond-encrusted high heel.

Isabelle stood stiffly in front of the desk. She locked her eyes on the wall behind Bennett's head, refusing to look at the shoe. If she didn't acknowledge it, maybe it would disappear.

She forced her voice out, starting her report on the project's technical specs. The words came out tight, her throat constricting every time she swallowed.

Bennett leaned back in his leather chair. He wasn't looking at the blueprints. He wasn't looking at her face. His long fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on the polished wood. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Suddenly, he stood up. He moved around the desk, his long strides eating up the distance between them.

Isabelle stepped back instinctively. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. There was nowhere else to go.

Bennett stopped half a meter away. He looked down at her, his height blocking out the light from the window.

"Spread the drawings out," he ordered. His voice was low, a rumble she felt in her own chest.

Isabelle's hands shook as she unrolled the blueprint on the desk. The paper curled at the edges, refusing to lay flat.

A gust of air from the overhead vent blew across the desk. The lightweight paper lifted, the corner flapping wildly.

Bennett reached out to flatten it. His movement was casual, unhurried.

But just as his hand touched the paper, it slipped. The entire roll of blueprints slid off the edge of the desk, falling to the floor right at Isabelle's feet.

Isabelle bent down automatically to grab them. Her knees bent, her calf muscles stretching taut.

Bennett bent down at the same time. Their heads nearly collided. She caught a whiff of that scent again-cedar and mint-and her brain went completely blank.

Bennett's fingers didn't reach for the paper. Instead, his hand drifted. His fingertips brushed against the back of Isabelle's calf. It was a light touch, barely a whisper of contact.

Right over the faint, silvery scar that sat on her skin. A mark left when she'd stumbled against a wrought-iron table leg in her haste to flee his hotel room five years ago.

The moment his skin touched hers, Isabelle yanked her leg back. It felt like she had been burned. Her breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound in the quiet room. Her pupils dilated, blowing wide with shock.

Bennett slowly straightened up. He held the blueprint in one hand. His eyes were dark, fathomless pools that gave nothing away.

Isabelle stared at him, horror creeping up her neck. That touch was too deliberate. Too intimate. It was not an accident.

But Bennett's face was a mask of innocence. He looked completely unbothered, as if touching her leg had been as meaningless as picking up a piece of paper.

"Your leg is shaking, Ms. Dominguez." He raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing. "Are you afraid of me?"

Isabelle bit down on the inside of her cheek. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth. "It's just a little cold in here, Mr. Lloyd."

Bennett didn't push it. He simply placed the blueprint on the desk and walked back around to his chair. He sat down, returning to his paperwork as if nothing had happened.

That retreat terrified Isabelle more than anything else. It felt like the calm before a storm.

She grabbed her bag, her fingers fumbling with the strap. She didn't say goodbye. She just walked out of the office as fast as she could without actually running.

Back at her desk, Isabelle sat down heavily. Her hand drifted to her calf, her palm pressing against the scar. Her skin was slick with cold sweat.

That touch was not an accident. He knew. But why wasn't he saying anything?

A deeper, more chilling thought took hold. He was playing with her. Like a cat with a mouse. He didn't want to kill it right away. He wanted to watch it squirm.