I Can't Help You

ARIANA'S POV

I leaned back in my leather chair, fingers tapping a steady rhythm on the polished glass desk as sunlight streamed through the tall windows of my office. The city below buzzed with life, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. No, it wasn’t about Beatrice—not anymore. Hardin had handled that, as he promised. But something felt off today. A pulse in the air. A subtle shift I couldn’t quite name.

Joan poked her head through the door. "Miss Miller, the quarterly projections are in, and—"

"Handle it," I said, rising from my chair and smoothing out the hem of my tailored pencil skirt. "I’m stepping out."

Joan’s ever-jovial smile didn’t waver. "Everything’s under control."

Of course it was. I trained her well.

I grabbed my bag, slipped on my sunglasses, and made my way to the elevator. As the doors closed around me, a small chuckle slipped from my lips. This elevator. God, the memories.

I leaned against the mirror-paneled wall and closed my eyes. This was where Hardin had once kissed me. Back when he was still my assistant. I used to give him hell—assign him impossible tasks, test his limits, watch him squirm. He’d never flinch. Always met me with that maddening smirk and eyes that dared me to push him further.

He’d cornered me in this very elevator. No warning. No hesitation. Just heat and hunger and that growled, "You’re not as untouchable as you think, Ariana."

I sighed. Look at us now.

The elevator dinged.

I stepped out, my heels clicking confidently across the marble floor. Heads turned. They always did. I was used to it—the stares, the subtle nods, the whispered recognition. Ariana Miller wasn’t just a name. I was the woman of power.

My employees straightened as I passed, some offering nervous smiles, others avoiding my gaze altogether.

I gave them a soft smile. Just enough to keep them guessing.

Outside, my black Aston Martin waited. I slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and pulled into traffic. I wasn’t going far. Just the exclusive mall across town—the kind that didn’t bother with price tags. If you had to ask, you didn’t belong.

Hardin’s birthday is tomorrow. And I hadn’t bought him anything yet.

Not because I forgot. God, no. I’d been thinking about it for weeks.

But what do you get a man who has everything?

I parked in the private garage, took the elevator up, and walked into the marble-floored expanse of the shopping center. Soft classical music floated through the air, mingling with the scent of fresh orchids and expensive perfume.

First stop: Hugo de Lyon.

I browsed their newest suits. Sleek cuts, bold colors. Nothing he didn’t already own.

Shoes? No. He had dozens.

Watches? He had a collection worth a fortune.

I wandered toward the jewelry section, hoping something would spark inspiration. A cufflink maybe. A pendant. Something simple but meaningful.

That’s when it hit me.

A bracelet.

A customized bracelet carrying both our names.

The gift wouldn’t be from a store.

It would be personal. Intimate. A moment captured in metal, forged by memory. But still, I couldn’t leave empty-handed. That wasn’t me.

I picked a silk tie. Deep navy with silver threading—classy, clean, understated. Like him. I took it to the counter, paid in silence, and turned to leave.

And then it happened.

I collided into someone.

"Oh, sorry," I said instinctively.

Then I saw her.

The boutique woman.

Same elegant posture. Same chestnut brown hair pulled into a perfectly effortless chignon. Same smug smile curling her lips.

The same woman who, not too long ago, had told me to "enjoy it while it lasts" over a pair of damn shoes.

"Well, well," she said, tilting her head. "What are the odds?"

I took a step back, holding my gaze steady. "Are you stalking me now?"

She laughed, light and melodic and utterly fake. "Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here buying a birthday gift for my fiancé."

"Good for you," I said flatly.

I stepped around her.

"Wait," she said, her hand gently catching my arm.

I froze.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me. Studied me. Like she was trying to decode something beneath my skin.

Then she said, "If you don’t mind, could you help me pick a gift for him?"

The air grew thick.

Tense.

Deadly.

My head turned slowly, my eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You seem to have good taste. And since you’re already here..."

"If you know your fiancé so well," I cut in, voice smooth as ice, "you shouldn’t need help picking a gift for him."

Her smile didn’t falter. "Maybe I want a second opinion."

I stepped closer.

"Or maybe," I whispered, "you’re still trying to crawl under my skin."

A flicker crossed her expression—a crack in the porcelain.

"You think I don't know what you're doing?" I continued, calm, precise. "Showing up here. Acting innocent. Dropping that little 'fiancé' like a landmine."

Her smile grew sharp. "So defensive. Is something wrong in paradise?"

I didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

"You know what's wrong? Women like you. Who just seems to get on someone's nerves for no reason."

She tilted her head. “You're the one taking it the wrong way, there's nothing wrong asking another woman for help."

I leaned in so close she could feel my breath. "Asking for help you say?"

I pulled back and offered her the sweetest smile I could muster.

"I hope your fiancé likes whatever you get him," I said, voice laced with lethal calm. "But I won’t be helping. I have better things to do than humor unstable women with bad hair and worse boundaries."

With that, I turned on my heel and walked away.

I didn’t look back.

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I Can't Help You