Chapter 3
Naomi came to on marble.
Cold, veined marble beneath her palms. The scent of citrus cleaner and expensive perfume. Someone calling her name like it mattered.
“Naomi—hey—stay with me.”
Davis.
She opened her eyes to lights too bright and faces too close. The rooftop had dissolved into a service hallway, discreet and hushed, the kind of place meant to hide messes before they reached the brand.
“I’m okay,” she said, though her head throbbed like it disagreed.
He crouched in front of her, jacket discarded, tie loosened. His hands hovered at her waist, not touching, like he was afraid of crossing a line he didn’t trust himself to step back from.
God, don’t scare me like that.
Her breath caught.
The thought came softer now, wrapped in concern instead of heat. It grounded her.
“I think I just stood up too fast,” she lied.
He searched her face, eyes sharp, unconvinced. “You sure?”
She nodded. “Embarrassingly sure.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. Relief softened him in a way that made something inside her ache.
“I’ll walk you down,” he said.
The elevator ride was quiet but charged. Manhattan slid past the glass walls as they descended—lights, movement, a city that pulsed like a living thing. Naomi watched his reflection instead of the skyline.
She looks like she belongs everywhere.
Her chest tightened.
Outside, the night wrapped around them—warm, loud, perfumed with traffic and ambition. A black car idled at the curb, waiting for someone important.
“Do you need a ride?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I want to walk.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll walk with you.”
They moved south, heels and polished shoes tapping in rhythm. SoHo storefronts glowed like curated dreams. A woman in a silk slip laughed too loudly outside a bar. Somewhere, music spilled into the street.
New York was performing for them.
They stopped at a crosswalk, red light washing Davis’s face in color. Naomi noticed the small scar near his eyebrow, the faint tiredness beneath his eyes.
I don’t bring women into my chaos.
Her stomach twisted.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He exhaled, looking up at the light. “Yeah. Just…work.”
She nodded, letting the silence stretch.
I don’t want her to see me struggle.
The urge rose fast and dangerous—to soothe, to adjust, to fix. She felt the ability hum beneath her skin, responsive, eager.
She didn’t use it.
Instead, she said, “You’re good at what you do. People see that.”
He looked at her then, really looked. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
The light changed.
They crossed.
Outside her building, a converted factory with a doorman who knew everyone’s secrets, they paused. The air between them felt thick, almost visible.
“Thank you for tonight,” she said.
“For fainting?” he teased softly.
“For catching me.”
A beat.
If I kiss her, everything changes.
The thought landed heavy and honest.
She felt it too—the edge of something irreversible.
Davis stepped back. “Get some rest.”
“You too.”
She watched him walk away, the city swallowing him whole.
The next morning, New York dressed her.
Naomi wore a tailored cream blazer, gold hoops, heels that clicked with confidence. The city reflected her back to herself—capable, desirable, ascending.
At the office, the Morrison account exploded.
Praise flowed. Leadership nodded. Davis’s strategy was lauded as visionary.
How did this turn so cleanly?
Naomi kept her face neutral.
She hadn’t pushed much. Just nudged. But the results came fast—too fast.
By lunch, Davis stopped by her desk.
“Walk?” he asked.
They grabbed salads neither of them would finish and took the elevator down. The city greeted them with honking cabs and sunlight bouncing off glass.
On a park bench, Davis finally said it. “You’ve been…helpful. Beyond your role.”
Her heart thudded. “I like to be useful.”
She’s hiding something.
The thought sliced through her calm.
She met his gaze. “Is that bad?”
“No,” he said slowly. “Just unexpected.”
A breeze lifted her hair. He watched it like he wanted to tuck it behind her ear and didn’t trust himself to try.
I want more than I should.
Her pulse fluttered.
That afternoon, Naomi leaned into the glamour—meetings in high-rise conference rooms, assistants gliding in with espresso, fabrics spread like art. She felt taller, sharper, closer to the woman she’d imagined becoming.
And the thoughts kept coming.
My sister’s meds are late.
The bank called again.
Don’t let her see you flinch.
Each one tightened something in her chest.
After work, she detoured uptown.
The hospital was fluorescent and unforgiving. She didn’t use names. Didn’t make scenes. She asked questions, dropped hints, made calls that opened doors.
By the time she left, a payment plan had shifted. A delay smoothed over.
She felt lightheaded with it.
That night, Davis texted.
Davis: Random question—did you say you knew about medical grants?
Her thumb hovered.
Naomi: I’ve heard things.
The reply came almost instantly.
Davis: Funny. The billing office called today. Things…changed.
Her stomach dropped.
The ability surged, loud and insistent.
She did this.
Heat flooded her limbs—not desire this time, but fear.
She typed carefully.
Naomi: Glad it helped.
Seconds passed.
Minutes.
Her phone buzzed.
Davis: Naomi—how did you know?
Her apartment felt too small. The city too close.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she poured a glass of wine and stood by the window, watching New York glow like a promise she might not deserve.
Her phone buzzed again.
Davis: Are you free tomorrow night? We should talk.
Her chest tightened.
Outside, a siren wailed, distant and inevitable.
Naomi set the glass down with shaking hands.
Because she could hear it now—clear as her own heartbeat.
If she’s manipulating my life, I need to walk away.
And beneath it, softer, more dangerous—
But God, I don’t want to.
