Dylan Haven hadn't slept.
Not because he was tossing and turning in some tortured, dramatic way.
He simply couldn't.
Sleep, for him, had always been about control. About stillness. About shutting out noise.
But ever since the moment her lips touched his—just that once—his mind had become the noisiest place he knew.
He leaned against the side of his car in the underground garage beneath Diamonds HQ, arms folded, the quiet hum of Manhattan above barely audible through the concrete.
He'd dropped her off that morning.
She hadn't said much.
And neither had he.
But the weight of last night lingered like a scent in his skin, in his jacket, in the air between them.
And all of it started with a kiss.
Not sex.
Not touch.
Just... a kiss.
And somehow, that was worse.
More dangerous.
More real.
The Night Before
The moment had built for weeks.
The looks. The proximity. The tension so thick it clung to the upholstery of his car like a perfume.
But he never crossed the line.
He wouldn't.
He'd built walls after Mia. Walls no one could climb. Especially not a woman like Tiana Kings.
She was everything he didn't want.
Vain. Vicious. Entitled.
And yet...
She wasn't. Not really.
Not when she looked at him and asked questions she didn't want to admit she needed answers to.
Not when she stood inches from him in her penthouse, asking for nothing but presence.
And when she leaned in?
When her lips brushed his?
It was instinct at first—his breath catching, his hands at her waist—but then something else happened.
He kissed her back.
Slow.
Warm.
Not forceful. Not lustful.
Just... present.
And that scared the hell out of him.
Because he knew what it felt like to kiss someone just for the pleasure of it. The thrill. The conquest.
But this?
This was different.
This kiss was silent.
Slow-burning.
It asked nothing.
But it said everything.
It was the kind of kiss that lingered behind your ribs long after the heat faded.
And when he pulled back—because he had to—he didn't recognize the look in her eyes.
She looked unguarded.
Hopeful.
Human.
And that was when he knew he had to get out of there.
Now
Dylan exhaled, his breath fogging the air despite the warmth of the garage.
He had kissed her.
He had let himself.
And not because she was beautiful—God, she was—but because she wasn't asking him to fix her.
She just... saw him.
And he had seen her too.
Not Tiana Kings, the Diva.
Not the woman on every cover.
Just a girl in velvet, asking him silently if she was allowed to want someone too.
And he'd said yes—with his mouth, with his hands, with that moment.
But now?
He didn't know what the hell to do.
Because everything in him told him to pull back.
To reassert distance. Control.
Feelings were dangerous.
He'd learned that the hard way.
Mia had taught him what it meant to fall for someone who only wanted parts of you—the parts that sparkled in public, the parts that looked good beside wealth.
She'd chosen Liam—his best friend. His wealthier, glossier, emptier best friend.
And Dylan had stopped choosing anyone since.
Until now.
And now he wasn't sure if this was a choice.
Or a fall.
Dylan hadn't slept.
Not because of guilt. Or regret.
But because every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel her.
Not her skin. Not her perfume.
Her presence.
She was everywhere—on his fingertips, beneath his breath, in the space between each beat of his heart.
He leaned against the kitchen counter of his tiny apartment, coffee gone cold in his hand, city noise filtering through the cracked window. Rain tapped lightly on the fire escape like memory scratching at the door.
He hadn't planned to kiss her.
Hell, he hadn't planned to feel anything.
When he'd taken the job as her driver two months ago, she had been just another elite client. Too polished. Too cold. Too untouchable.
She didn't ride in cars—she owned the world they moved through.
And he didn't fall for women like that.
Not after Mia.
Not after watching the woman he thought he loved walk away from him—hand-in-hand with his best friend and his black card.
But Tiana...
Tiana Kings didn't ask for love.
She demanded loyalty.
And somewhere between the silent drives, the late-night pickups, the overheard phone calls, and the stolen glances in the rearview mirror—something shifted.
She became real to him.
Complicated. Relentless. Lonely.
And last night...
God.
Last night.
He remembered the way she'd looked at him. Not with seduction. Not with arrogance.
But with challenge.
Like she was daring him to see through her, not just at her.
"You're not a performance," he'd said.
She'd stopped breathing for a second, he could feel it.
It was the first time her silence hadn't been weaponized—it had been naked.
And then she asked, voice barely a whisper: "Do you think I'm beautiful?"
He hadn't hesitated.
"You are. But not for the reasons you think."
It hit her like thunder.
He'd seen it in her eyes—the flicker of something fragile she didn't know how to name.
Then came the long pause. The silence brimming with electricity.
"One night. No promises," she whispered.
His throat tightened. She hadn't said it to be coy. Or sexy. She said it like a warning.
Like please don't hurt me more than I already am.
And that's when he realized: she wasn't trying to seduce him.
She was offering herself to him. Honestly. Quietly. Without armor.
And God help him—
He kissed her.
Not out of lust.
Not out of victory.
But out of recognition.
Her lips were soft, but her kiss was firm—controlled, like everything else about her. Until it wasn't. Until her hand gripped his shirt and she leaned in, just slightly, like the weight of the moment was too much for her spine to carry alone.
Dylan felt her tremble.
Just once.
She pulled back first, eyes wild, breath shaking.
And then she whispered, "You're dangerous."
He'd smiled sadly. "So are you."
She didn't invite him upstairs.
He didn't ask.
That kiss had been enough—and too much.
The morning after, everything felt like smoke clinging to his skin.
He rubbed his jaw, walked to the window, and stared out at the gray Manhattan skyline. People buzzed below like ants, unaware of the war playing out behind his ribs.
He couldn't do this.
Couldn't want her.
Tiana Kings was everything he avoided—everything Mia pretended to be: powerful, manipulative, immune.
But unlike Mia, Tiana didn't fake strength.
She was strength. The kind that bled in private.
He'd seen it in her eyes last night—just for a second.
And that was the problem.
Because now he couldn't unsee it.
His phone buzzed.
Emily Lane: She says she doesn't chase. If you're going to walk away, mean it. Car at 6.
He read it twice.
Then once more.
He set the phone down.
This wasn't a game to her.
It wasn't about ego. Or seduction. Or even revenge.
It was about connection.
Raw. Complicated. Unwelcome.
And real.
Dylan closed his eyes.
For years, he'd built walls. Mia had taught him that giving your heart was like giving someone the knife and your chest at the same time. He had trusted wrong. Loved wrong. And vowed never to do it again.
But Tiana…
She hadn't asked for love.
She'd asked for truth.
That's what made her so dangerous.
And that's why he wasn't sure he could stay.
Because Dylan Haven didn't do hope anymore.
And kissing her?
It had felt a lot like hope.
**********
He stood outside the building, waiting by the Bentley.
His posture was as sharp as ever. Hands in his pockets. Jaw tight.
But inside, he was anything but calm.
Tiana stepped out of the revolving doors, wearing a blood-red trench coat over black leather pants, sunglasses perched on her face like a shield. Her walk was fierce. Controlled.
Unforgiving.
But the moment she saw him, she paused.
Just slightly.
He opened the door for her.
She stepped in without a word.
And as he rounded the car, Dylan made a choice.
Not one built on safety.
But on truth.
He wasn't going to act on his feelings.
Not yet.
He got in, hands on the wheel.
Tiana didn't speak.
Neither did he.
But the silence between them wasn't cold.
It was charged.
Alive.
Like the kiss still lingered on their mouths, waiting to be acknowledged.