The clubhouse bar was all polished mahogany and soft leather, the kind of place where deals were sealed with handshakes and lies were served neat. Alexa slid onto a stool, tossing Sean’s golf ball onto the counter between them with a sharp “clack”. “You’re lucky I didn’t aim for your head,” she said. Sean signalled the bartender, unfazed. “You’d have missed.” The words were bait. She knew it. He knew she knew it. But the exhaustion and the Sterling Tower deadlines had left her raw, and she was too tired to resist snapping at him. “Try me.” His grin was infuriating. “Whiskey. Neat.” He glanced at her. “And whatever she’s having.” “I’m not drinking with you.” “You’re not drinking *yet*.” He leaned back, the gold watch shiny under the dim light. “But you will.” Alexa exhaled through her nose. She should’ve walked away. Should’ve gone back to her loft, buried herself in blueprints, and forgotten this arrogant trust-fund prince existed. But the way he looked at her—like she was a puzzle he was already halfway to solving—itched under her skin. “Tequila. Two shots.” Sean’s eyebrow lifted. “Starting a war after all?” “Just seeing if you’ll keep up.” The bartender set the drinks down. Alexa knocked back the first shot without breaking eye contact, the burn sharp and clean. Sean watched, amused, before sipping his whiskey like he had all the time in the world. “So,” he said, “what’s an architect with a swing like a wrecking ball doing at Pinecrest on a Tuesday?” “Avoiding my mother’s voice in my head.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. Sean quietened. “Ah.” A single syllable, heavy with understanding. She hated that he recognized it—the weight of a legacy, the chokehold of expectation. “Don’t pretend you get it.” “Because I’m just another spoiled Daniel?” He swirled his glass. “You’re not the only one with ghosts, Smith.” The way he said her name—like a challenge, like a dare—sent a spark of heat through her. “Why are you here, then?” She asked. “Same as you.” His thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Pretending I don’t hear the old man’s voice telling me I’ll never be good enough.” Silence settled between them, tense and unexpected. Alexa studied him—the scar above his eyebrow, the tension in his jaw. Maybe he wasn’t just the polished heir the tabloids made him out to be. Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shuttered. “Problem?” She asked. “Always.” He tossed cash on the bar and stood. “Duty calls.” Alexa smirked. “Running away already?” He turned, his gaze lingering on her mouth. “This isn’t over.” “Sure, it isn’t.” He left without another word, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood. Alexa reached for the second shot, then paused. Her fingers brushed the edge of the golf ball he’d left behind. She shouldn’t care. But when she slipped it into her pocket, she knew—this wasn’t over at all. The Aftermath Outside, Sean slid into his car, his phone pressed to his ear. “Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded. The voice on the other end was grim. “The deal’s falling apart. And the Sterling Group just entered the bidding.” Sean’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Find out who’s behind it.” He hung up, his mind racing. The Sterling Tower project. Alexa’s blueprints. Coincidence? He didn’t believe in those. And neither did she. Back at the Loft Alexa’s apartment was a controlled chaos—sketches pinned to the walls, scale models crowding the coffee table, and half-empty coffee cups marking the passage of time. She dropped her bag on the floor, the weight of the Sterling Tower blueprints inside heavier than they should’ve been. She pulled out the golf ball, rolling it between her fingers. “Why had he left it behind?” Her phone buzzed. A text from her assistant: "Sterling wants revisions by Friday. They’re pushing for exclusivity." Alexa exhaled sharply. The project was already behind schedule, and now the client was tightening the noose. She rubbed her temples, the tequila doing nothing to dull the pressure. Then another message lit up her screen—unknown number. "You forgot your club." A photo followed: her abandoned driver, propped against the bar. She typed back without thinking. "Keep it. You’ll need the handicap." Three dots appeared. Then: "I prefer a challenge." A smirk tugged at her lips. Damn him. The Bloodstain on the Watch Across town, Sean stood in his penthouse, staring at the gold watch on his wrist. The bloodstain on the dial was faint now, but it was still there—a reminder of the deal that had gone wrong, the one he’d had to clean up himself. His phone buzzed again—his contact at Sterling Group. "They’re bringing in outside architects. One of them is Alexa Smith." Sean’s jaw clenched. *Of course, she was. He typed a reply. "Keep me updated." Then he opened his messages with Alexa, staring at their exchange. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a collision waiting to happen. And neither of them would walk away unscathed.