The CEO's Runaway Cinderella Returns

The night wind swept across the Manhattan rooftop terrace, carrying the distant hum of traffic far below. Isabelle Dominguez swirled the last of her Martini, the ice cubes clinking against the glass like a tiny, sharp bell. The alcohol had painted a warm, fuzzy glow over the edges of her usually rigid composure. Clara leaned in close, her voice barely audible over the ambient chatter of the project kickoff party. "So, give it to me straight. What do you think of the new money guy? Bennett Lloyd?" Isabelle took a sip, the cold liquid sliding down her throat. She smirked, the alcohol making her bold, her tongue loose. "The file they sent around? Technically... barely adequate." Clara's eyes widened, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder. "Shh! Isabelle, walls have ears. The guy practically holds the purse strings for this entire project." Isabelle shrugged, taking another generous swallow of her drink. The warmth in her stomach made her feel invincible. "He's just a suit with a trust fund. What does a guy like that know about structural loads and historical preservation? He probably thinks rebar is a type of cocktail." She set the glass down on the stone parapet, the sound slightly too loud. "He's eye candy, maybe. But technically? I've seen better specs on a toaster." From the shadows in the corner of the terrace came a sharp, metallic sound. The strike of a lighter wheel. Isabelle's spine went rigid. It was a primal instinct, the feeling of being watched by a predator. The fine hairs on her arms stood at attention. A scent invaded her space. Cedar and mint. It was crisp, expensive, and utterly out of place among the stale cologne and perfume of the other partygoers. It hit her respiratory system like a physical blow, dragging up a memory she fought daily to keep chained in the deepest part of her mind. "Barely adequate." The voice was low, a magnetic rumble that vibrated right against her eardrum. It came from directly behind her. Isabelle spun around, her heel catching on the uneven pavers. She lost her balance, her body pitching forward. A large hand caught her elbow. The grip was firm, the fingers pressing into her skin with a force that felt like it could crush bone. It kept her from falling, but it also kept her locked in place. Her gaze slammed into a pair of deep, bottomless gray-blue eyes. Her lungs simply stopped working. The air evacuated her chest in a single, silent gasp. The face. The sharp jawline. The dark hair swept back from a high forehead. It was a perfect, terrifying match to the memory that haunted her darkest nights. The man from the charity gala five years ago. The stranger she had spent one chaotic, desperate night with, and then fled from before the sun came up. Bennett Lloyd leaned in slightly, his gaze sweeping over her frozen features like an X-ray. It was clinical, assessing, and entirely too intimate. The corner of his mouth ticked up, a glint of amusement in his eyes that looked distinctly like a hunter sighting prey. "Have we met somewhere before?" His voice was soft, almost gentle, but the words hit Isabelle like a sledgehammer right between the ribs. Her throat closed up. The secret she had guarded for half a decade suddenly felt like a live grenade in her hands, the pin already pulled. She forced herself to look away from those eyes, her fingers curling around the Martini glass on the parapet. She gripped it so hard the stems of her fingers turned bone-white. "I think you have me confused with someone else, Mr. Lloyd." She fought to keep her voice level, to inject a professional distance into the trembling sound. But the tail end of the sentence wavered, betraying her. Bennett didn't step back. He stepped forward. Suddenly, Isabelle was trapped between the low terrace railing and the solid wall of his chest. The cedar scent wrapped around her, suffocating. His gaze drifted downward, casual and slow. It tracked over the collar of her blouse, pausing on a tiny mole right below her left collarbone. It was a spot he had kissed five years ago. A spot that suddenly felt like it was burning under his scrutiny. Isabelle's hand flew up instantly, yanking the lapels of her blazer closed. She tried to cover the skin, trying to hide the evidence of that night from his eyes. Bennett's gaze darkened. His throat moved as he swallowed, a subtle shift in his jaw that looked like he was remembering exactly how that skin felt under his lips. He let out a soft laugh. It was a dry sound, completely devoid of warmth. It was the sound of a man who knew he had already won. The glass doors to the terrace slid open. A burst of laughter from the interior broke the suffocating spell. Isabelle seized the opening. She dropped her Martini glass onto the nearest table with a clatter. "Excuse me." She didn't even look at his face. She just turned and walked away as fast as her shaking legs could carry her. In her haste, the strap of her clutch bag snagged on the back of a wrought-iron chair. She didn't stop to untangle it; she just yanked it free, the leather groaning in protest. She practically fled into the building, the heavy thud of her own heartbeat drowning out the party noise. She didn't stop until she was safely inside. Out on the terrace, Bennett stood alone. He watched her retreating back until she disappeared through the glass doors. Slowly, he raised his hand. His long, elegant fingers-the ones that had just gripped her elbow-rubbed together. He traced the pads of his fingers against his thumb, as if savoring the ghost of her touch.