Max
The lighting in the Met's rooftop atrium was cruel—unforgiving in its precision, engineered to flatter no one but the art. Maxine Sterling stood beneath the vaulted glass ceiling like one of the curated sculptures herself: deliberate, composed, untouchable. Her navy suit was tailored to her exact frame, crisp enough to cut glass. The cuffs of her ivory blouse peeked out with mathematical precision, a nod to discipline over flair.
Her martini sat untouched on the low table beside her. She didn't drink at these things. Drinking meant softening. Softening meant missteps. And she hadn't clawed her way to the top of one of Manhattan's most ancient family empires by making mistakes.
But she still hated galas.
They were loud. Artificial. Crowded with power-hungry men in predictable tuxedos and thinly veiled ambition. She preferred boardrooms, spreadsheets, negotiations in sharp rooms with colder coffee and cleaner lines. Here, everything glittered—but none of it mattered.
"CEO of the year," someone toasted nearby, clinking glasses. Another financier laughed too loud. A couple air-kissed and whispered about hostile takeovers like they were brunch reservations.
Max allowed herself a moment to breathe in the sharp scent of citrus from the floral arrangements and the subtle underlying waft of over-applied perfume. Her temples throbbed.
The Sterling Fashion Group was at a critical juncture – the board meeting next week would determine their expansion strategy for the next five years. She should be reviewing proposal drafts, not standing here among Manhattan's elite pretending to care about whoever was being honored tonight. But her father had insisted. "Visibility matters," he'd said over the phone that morning, his voice carrying that familiar edge that brooked no argument. "The Sterling name needs to be seen supporting the arts."
What he meant was: connections needed to be maintained, alliances reinforced, rivals assessed. The real business of New York happened at events like these, not in offices.
So here she was. Perfect posture. Perfect suit. Perfect mask.
Then, as if summoned by some unseen gravitational force, she felt it.
Her.
Aurelia Kaiser had arrived.
The shift in the room was almost imperceptible—like a breeze across still water—but Max felt it with maddening precision. The distant hum of polite laughter took on a sharper edge. A few guests subtly turned to look toward the entrance. A waiter fumbled a tray of hors d'oeuvres.
Max didn't look. She wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
But Lani, her assistant and unofficial emotional chaos goblin, sidled up with the glee of someone watching her favorite enemies-to-lovers drama unfold live.
"She's wearing red," Lani whispered. "Power move."
Max resisted the urge to exhale. "It's just a color."
"It's your color," Lani sing-songed. "Your lipstick. Your signature branding. She's in your head."
"She's in everyone's head. That's her whole brand."
"Well, she's in yours rent-free and adding throw pillows."
Max finally allowed herself a glance—quick, precise. And yes. There she was.
Aurelia Kaiser. Draped in a custom gown that might have been black, but shifted like oil under the lights—rippling with hints of crimson in every fold. Hair in sculpted waves, lips the same red Max had made iconic. Eyes scanning the room like she was picking her next victim.
Max's stomach tightened.
Aurelia caught her looking, of course. She turned, slow as silk sliding off skin, and smiled—wolfish, knowing.
Max downed her martini in one sharp motion.
"That's not like you," Lani observed, eyes widening slightly.
"Consider it armor," Max replied, setting the empty glass on a passing tray with more force than necessary.
"Against what?"
Max didn't answer. Couldn't, really. How to explain the peculiar chemistry that had always existed between her and Aurelia Kaiser? It wasn't just rivalry, though God knows that's how it had started. Back at Wharton, they'd been opposing forces—Max the methodical strategist, Aurelia the intuitive risk-taker. Every class, every competition, every internship opportunity had become a silent battlefield between them.
But somewhere along the way, the rivalry had developed... edges. Sharp ones. Edges that cut deep whenever they got too close.
"She's coming this way," Lani whispered, suddenly fascinated by her clutch.
"Of course she is," Max murmured, straightening her already impeccable posture. "She can smell weakness from across a crowded room."
"Is that what that was?" Lani asked innocently. "Weakness?"
Max shot her a glare that would have withered a lesser employee. Lani merely grinned and retreated, positioning herself close enough to eavesdrop but far enough to maintain plausible deniability.
Traitor.
---
Aurelia
The thing about walking into a room like you own it was: you had to believe you did. Aurelia had long ago perfected that belief into an art form.
She stood at the top of the stairs leading into the atrium, letting the buzz of voices and shifting attention wash over her. This wasn't just a gala. It was a battlefield. And she'd dressed like a weapon.
Her custom Kaiser Original gown hugged her curves and dared you to look away. She wore it with blood-red stilettos and matching lipstick that made her skin glow like candlelight. Her jewelry was minimal—just enough to whisper wealth without screaming for it.
She descended the steps like a story unfolding. People turned. Men smiled too eagerly. Women narrowed their eyes. Aurelia took it all in like sunlight on her skin.
But she was only interested in one reaction tonight.
Maxine Sterling stood across the room, carved from elegance and ice. Her hair was pulled into that annoyingly perfect twist, her posture straight-backed and regal, a queen surrounded by pawns.
Aurelia's pulse quickened.
She hadn't seen Max in person since the investors' conference last fall, when they'd nearly gotten into a shouting match over sustainable revenue models and market share diversification. It had ended with Max walking out and Aurelia winning the contract. And yet… it hadn't felt like a win.
Not really.
Because Max always lingered.
In her inbox. On magazine covers. In her damn dreams, when Aurelia's subconscious got lazy and nostalgic at 3AM.
Tonight, the Ice Queen was staring—and trying not to.
It was adorable.
Vivien appeared at her side, champagne in hand, eyes narrowed in appraisal.
"She looks... tense," Vivien said.
"She always looks tense," Aurelia replied lightly. "It's part of her mystique."
Vivien took a sip. "No, this is new. You're in her head tonight."
"I live there," Aurelia said with a grin. "I've just been away on business."
Vivien rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
"Please behave," she said.
"I always do. Poorly, but consistently."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Vivien replied. "We need the Harrison Group investment. Their VP of development is here tonight, and I'd rather not have to explain why you're verbally eviscerating Maxine Sterling instead of charming potential partners."
"I can do both," Aurelia assured her. "I contain multitudes."
"What you contain is chaos," Vivien muttered. "Just... aim it constructively."
Aurelia's laugh attracted glances from nearby guests—exactly as intended. She was a performer at heart, something her late father had recognized early and her mother had cultivated relentlessly. In the world of fashion, especially the disruptive tech-integrated luxury space Kaiser Originals had pioneered, being seen was half the battle.
Being remembered was the other half.
And no one forgot an encounter with Aurelia Kaiser.
She left Vivien to charm a board member and started toward Max. She took her time, weaving through clusters of industry leaders, letting the hem of her dress whisper across the marble. Each step was deliberate. She didn't walk so much as glide—years of runway coaching wrapped in boardroom dominance.
When she reached Max, the temperature seemed to drop by several degrees.
"Maxine," she said, voice honey-dipped and dangerous. "Still favoring navy? How bold."
---
Max
The scent hit her first—something dark and citrusy, like orange blossoms at midnight. Then the voice. Smooth, teasing, unmistakably Aurelia.
Max turned.
"Aurelia," she said evenly. "I didn't realize this event was open to... influencers."
Aurelia's lips curled. "Darling, I influence markets. What do you influence—boardroom naps?"
Max forced her expression into stillness. "Stability. Something your quarterly reports could learn from."
"Mmm," Aurelia purred, swirling her champagne. "So serious. So proper. I almost forgot what you looked like without a stick up your—"
"Excuse me," came a breathless PR intern, "would you two mind a quick photo together? For the event blog?"
Max opened her mouth to decline.
"Of course," Aurelia interrupted brightly, already stepping closer.
The proximity was startling. Warmth radiated from her skin. Her dress brushed against Max's thigh like static. Max held her breath.
They posed, flash popping once, twice.
Then Aurelia leaned in, close enough to whisper against her ear, "Still doesn't affect you at all?"
The question—delivered with such pointed precision—evoked a memory Max had spent years trying to bury. Senior year at Wharton. The night of the case competition finals. Their teams had been forced to collaborate at the last minute due to a judging panel change. They'd worked through the night, arguing strategy, debating approaches, finally finding a delicate balance between Max's methodical analysis and Aurelia's intuitive market sense. They'd won, of course. And afterward, high on victory and exhaustion, something had shifted between them.
A moment in an empty classroom. Aurelia moving closer than professional celebration warranted. The electric current between them suddenly more personal than competitive. Max hadn't backed away. Instead, she'd said—with a calmness she absolutely did not feel—"You don't affect me, Kaiser. Not like that."
A lie so transparent it had shimmered in the air between them.
And now, years later, Aurelia was calling her on it.
Max's mouth twitched. "You're like a rash, Kaiser. Persistent. Occasionally photogenic."
Aurelia's fingers brushed her wrist—light, but lingering. Max's pulse betrayed her.
Then she was gone.
Max turned, heart pounding, and caught Lani lurking by the column with a suspiciously pleased expression.
"I hate you," Max muttered.
"You'll thank me one day," Lani replied, not even pretending to be innocent.
"For what, exactly?" Max demanded, keeping her voice low as a group of investors passed.
"For documenting the early stages of what will clearly be the business world's most epic romance."
Max stared at her. "I don't know whether to fire you or have you committed."
"Neither," Lani replied cheerfully. "You need someone who sees the truth, and I'm currently the only candidate."
"The truth," Max repeated flatly.
"That you and Aurelia Kaiser have enough chemistry to power Manhattan, and you're both too stubborn to admit it."
Max inhaled sharply, prepared to deliver the kind of scathing dismissal that had reduced board members to silence, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the lingering warmth where Aurelia's fingers had touched her wrist. Perhaps it was the echo of that whispered question still sending unwelcome shivers down her spine.
Whatever the reason, she simply shook her head and said, "I need another drink."
Lani's triumphant expression was almost as irritating as the fact that she was right.
---
Aurelia
Aurelia returned to Vivien, a little breathless, a lot triumphant.
"How bad was it?" Vivien asked dryly.
"Delicious," Aurelia said, eyes sparkling. "She's pretending I don't get to her. Which means, of course, I do."
Vivien handed her a fresh glass. "You're playing with fire."
"No," Aurelia corrected softly, watching Max from across the room. "I am fire."
Vivien followed her gaze, observing how Max now stood slightly more rigid than before, her conversation with a fashion editor noticeably less fluid than her usual careful charm.
"You know," Vivien said carefully, "some would say this fixation is... counterproductive."
"Mmm?" Aurelia murmured, still watching Max.
"Your therapist, for one."
That got her attention. Aurelia turned, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. "Dr. Chen mentioned Maxine precisely once, and it was about healthy competition, not fixation."
"Semantics," Vivien countered. "The point is, you've been orbiting each other like binary stars for a decade. At some point, you either need to collide or find new trajectories."
Aurelia laughed, the sound both genuine and strategic—loud enough to carry, light enough to seem carefree. "Always so dramatic, Viv. It's just fun to rattle her cage. The Ice Queen needs someone to remind her she's human occasionally."
"Is that what you're doing? A public service?"
"Exactly," Aurelia said, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Besides, we have history. What's the fun in being industry rivals if you can't occasionally remind them why?"
Vivien studied her for a moment, then nodded toward the entrance where a distinguished silver-haired man had just arrived. "Harrison's here. Business now, Sterling-baiting later."
"You're no fun," Aurelia pouted, but she obediently turned her attention to the potential investor, her mind already calculating the best approach. Charm? Intelligence? Vulnerability? She cycled through her repertoire of personas, selecting the one that would most appeal to a traditional businessman with progressive aspirations.
As she moved across the room, she caught Max watching her—a quick, stolen glance that most wouldn't have noticed. But Aurelia noticed everything about Maxine Sterling. Always had.
She'd won this round. But the night was young, and Manhattan was a very small island when you lived in the same stratosphere.
---
Max – Later That Night
The town car was too quiet.
Manhattan slid past the tinted window in a blur of gold and shadow, but Max wasn't really seeing it. She sat with her back straight, coat neatly folded across her lap, and one hand resting lightly on her knee like she was waiting for a meeting to begin.
But there was no meeting.
Only Aurelia's voice echoing in her head. That smug smile. That look like she'd already won something Max hadn't realized was even on the table.
Still doesn't affect you at all?
God. The nerve.
Aurelia had always been like this. Back at Wharton, she was chaos in six-inch heels, the only student who ever managed to outmaneuver Max in debate or strategy. Their rivalry had been legendary—two future CEOs squaring off in classes, internships, case competitions. Professors used to schedule them into opposite teams just to watch the sparks.
Max had hated it. And, if she was honest… maybe loved it, too.
Aurelia was a risk-taker, a rule-breaker, a media darling with a wicked mouth and zero fear. Everything Max wasn't allowed to be. And tonight, she'd swept into that gala like no time had passed at all—like they hadn't left a decade of cold wars and near-kisses and unanswered emails behind.
Max had pretended not to notice her.
But she'd felt her walk into the room like gravity. And when she got close—too close—it wasn't just irritation or competition anymore.
It was heat.
Max closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat.
This was going to be a problem.
Even after all these years, Aurelia still knew exactly which buttons to push. Still knew how to slip past Max's carefully constructed defenses with a look, a word, a touch. It was infuriating. And addictive.
The car slowed as they approached Max's building, a sleek high-rise in Tribeca with views of the river and privacy that cost more than most Manhattan apartments. The doorman nodded respectfully as she exited, maintaining the professional distance she preferred. Inside, the elevator ascended silently, carrying her to the penthouse floor where she lived alone in meticulously organized luxury.
The apartment was dark when she entered, just as she'd left it. No one waiting. No one to ask about her evening or notice the slight tremor in her hands as she hung her coat in the precisely arranged closet.
She moved through her evening routine with practiced efficiency—makeup removed, hair released from its severe twist, clothing exchanged for silk pajamas in the same navy as her suit. Control in all things, even relaxation.
But when she finally stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, glass of water in hand, she allowed herself to revisit the moment. Aurelia's whisper against her ear. The brush of fingertips against her wrist. The challenging smile that dared her to drop the mask, just for a moment.
Max's phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Lani, who had no concept of appropriate business hours:
Just saw Kaiser on Page Six Instagram story. Still at the gala. Still talking to Harrison. Still looking like she's plotting world domination in that dress.
Max didn't respond. Didn't need to encourage Lani's unprofessional interest in this... whatever it was between her and Aurelia.
But she did open Instagram. Just to assess the competitive landscape, of course. Just to see what Harrison might be falling for in his conversation with Aurelia.
The story loaded. And there she was, captured in mid-laugh, head tilted back, throat exposed, a vision in that shifting black-red gown that seemed designed specifically to drive Max to distraction.
The caption read: Kaiser Originals heiress charms Manhattan elite at Met gala. Revolutionary new tech-fashion collab rumored to be announced soon...
Max set her phone down too quickly, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.
A new collaboration? After Aurelia had so publicly poached the Harrison investment from under Max's nose last fall? That was more than competitive. That was personal.
And if Aurelia Kaiser wanted personal...
Max smiled thinly at her reflection in the darkened window.
She would get exactly what she asked for.
---
Aurelia – Midnight, Penthouse Balcony
The city glowed like embers below her—restless, glittering, alive. Aurelia stood on her balcony barefoot, still in the remains of her gown, hair unpinned, a fresh glass of champagne in hand.
She was buzzing.
Not from the alcohol. From her.
Max Sterling.
God, she hadn't expected it to hit like that. The second she'd seen her across the gala—tall, crisp, unbending in that flawless navy suit—something in Aurelia's chest had sparked to life.
Old rivalries didn't just die. They festered. They evolved. And Max? Max had only gotten sharper.
Still so cold. Still so controlled. But Aurelia had seen it—that tiny flicker in her eyes when their bodies brushed. The way her pulse had jumped beneath her wrist when she touched her.
She could still get to her.
That was... interesting.
Because once upon a time, Aurelia had wanted more than just to beat Max in boardroom battles. Back at Wharton, she'd studied her like a puzzle. Not just the academic kind—but the maddening, alluring kind. There'd been nights they'd argued until 3AM, side by side in the library, Max's face lit by lamplight and fire.
Aurelia had almost kissed her once, after a competition they both should've lost but somehow won. Max had looked at her like she was either going to slap her or kiss her back.
But she hadn't moved. And Aurelia hadn't risked it.
Now? Now they were CEOs. Rivals. Public figures.
The stakes were higher.
But so was the temptation.
Aurelia smiled to herself and sipped her champagne.
Let the games begin.
She pulled her phone from where she'd tucked it into her loosened bodice and checked the time. Past midnight, but the night still felt young. The gala had been productive beyond the pleasure of tormenting Max—Harrison was interested in the new tech-fabric line, and she'd secured a tentative meeting for next week.
Success tasted sweet. But not as sweet as the memory of Max's eyes darkening when she'd leaned in close.
On impulse, Aurelia opened her rarely-used contacts and scrolled to "S." There it was, still saved after all these years: M. Sterling (Ice Queen).
She hesitated only briefly before typing:
Navy suits you. But I'd like to see you in red someday.
She hit send before she could reconsider, a mischievous smile playing across her lips as she imagined Max's reaction. Would she respond? Ignore it? Pretend she hadn't seen the challenge embedded in those simple words?
The answer came faster than expected, her phone buzzing in her hand.
In your dreams, Kaiser.
Aurelia laughed out loud, the sound carrying across the empty balcony into the Manhattan night. Oh, this was going to be fun.
She typed back:
Frequently. Sweet dreams, Maxine.
Then she silenced her phone, finished her champagne, and went inside, leaving the city lights and the promise of tomorrow's games behind her.
The war had officially begun again. And this time, Aurelia wasn't planning to let Max escape so easily.