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