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kendricklamine · 3 months ago

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Saint's Temptation[1]

Damson Idris as "Franklin Saint" X Black! OC (Tems as Ariyah Moore)

Chapter warning: Nothing (for right now at least)

Author's note: This is my first work on here, so I'm a bit nervous. I hope you guys end up liking this one right here cause it took me days to end up finishing it.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The office, despite its sun-drenched appearance, felt frigid. Floor-to-ceiling windows, like polished shields, encased the 36th floor of Monroe & Chase Private Investments, mirroring the Miami skyline. Inside, a pervasive sheen covered every surface – the desks, the floors, even the strained faces of those who masked the relentless pressure of their aspirations.

Ariyah Monroe stepped off the elevator like she owned the whole floor. Black, bold, and bound to no one but her own damn goals. Her heels clicked sharp against the tile, echoing with purpose. She wore a slate-gray suit that hugged her curves like it knew better than to disrespect her, and her natural hair was pulled into a sleek puff that didn’t move—not even when the tension did.

She didn’t speak to anyone as she passed the glass-walled conference rooms. Didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Ariyah had learned a long time ago that in places like this, too much friendliness gets mistaken for weakness.

A group of junior analysts hovered near the espresso machine, laughing too hard at something Chase said—Chase, the mediocre white man with a title he didn’t earn and a Rolex he didn’t pay for. His laugh stalled when he saw her coming.

“Morning, Ariyah,” he called, flashing his usual smug grin. “Heard you crushed the Langford pitch. Our pitch.”

She didn’t break stride. Just turned her head slightly and hit him with that razor-blade smile.

“Funny,” she said. “You mean the pitch I built while you were out at TopGolf?"

His chuckle died quick. The silence she left behind was louder than any comeback he could’ve come up with.

Inside the boardroom, Ariyah laid down numbers like scripture. Quarterly projections, risk assessments, market penetration reports—all delivered in a voice as smooth as silk and sharp as glass. The room full of executives—older, paler, and always low-key surprised when she opened her mouth, nodded along, feigning understanding while mentally writing her off as “too aggressive.”

One of the VPs leaned back in his chair, a tight smile on his face. “You’ve got edge, Miss Monroe,” he said. “A little sharp for finance, but hey—it’s working.”

Ariyah cocked her head, lips pressed in a polite line. “I wasn’t hired to be soft, sir,” she replied coolly. “I was hired to get results.”

Silence. Then slow, reluctant applause. The meeting adjourned, and the tension left with them.

She was packing up her notes when her boss approached—Mrs. Rutherford, the kind of woman who wore pearls like brass knuckles and ran the firm like a machine. Her heels were silent, but her presence was loud.

“You’ve got a new client,” Rutherford said without pleasantries. “Big numbers. Private. From the West Coast.”

Ariyah glanced up, unimpressed. “Another tech bro with mommy’s money?”

Rutherford’s eyes narrowed. “This one requested someone... competent.”

Ariyah raised an eyebrow. “Competent or quiet?”

“Just take the meeting,” her boss snapped. “Room 4C. Tomorrow morning. Be sharp.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by the hallway like smoke in the wind.

Ariyah stood there for a beat, looking out at the city through the glass wall. Miami was a beautiful mess—just like her life.

The thing about working in a place like this was that it never stopped. You gave everything and got nothing in return, except maybe a bigger paycheck and a smaller sense of self. But there was no going back now.

She wasn’t just fighting for recognition. She was fighting to stay in the game.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

By the time Ariyah stepped into her apartment, the city’s pulse had slowed. Streetlights outside glowed orange, their reflections stretching across the cold concrete floor of her small, modern one-bedroom. The space was neat, minimalist, almost sterile—like a showroom for a life she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

She kicked off her heels with a frustrated sigh and tossed her leather portfolio onto the couch. The soft thud of the leather against the cushion was the only sound that filled the quiet apartment. The silence felt heavy, like it was pressing against her chest, suffocating her with the weight of unspoken thoughts and responsibilities.

She ran a hand through her hair, pulling the puff tighter to keep her thoughts in check. No time to think about that shit now. You have to keep going.

Her house phone rang on the coffee table. A call from her mother. Ariyah stared at the phone for a moment, her chest tightening at the thought of answering. It had been two weeks since their last conversation—two weeks of stress from her job that she never had time to answer, and voicemails that she deleted without listening.

She knew what this was: her mother’s voice, shrill and demanding, asking when Ariyah would come visit. When are you going to come back to us, baby? We need you.

Ariyah let the house phone ring again, glancing toward the window. The city’s chaos felt miles away from her life. She should have been grateful for how far she’d come, but all she could think about was her mother—clinging to her as if Ariyah could save her from the weight of her own mistakes.

The phone rang a third time.

Damn it.

Ariyah snatched the house phone up, swiping the screen with a tired motion. “Hello?”

“Ariyah, baby, you never pick up anymore. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you can’t just disappear like this. You know we need you down here. Your brother, he’s still… well, you know. And I can't keep running this house by myself. When are you coming back home?”

Ariyah leaned back against the sofa, her eyes closing briefly as the words hit her like a punch. Her mom’s voice always had that same tone: pleading, guilt-tripping, but never asking what Ariyah needed.

“Mom, I’m doing everything I can up here. You know I’m working, trying to get ahead—this job takes everything from me. You don’t understand how it is here.”

“Don't tell me about your job, girl. You act like you’re too good for us now. You never come around, never call. I’m just trying to keep this family together and all you do is get lost in that corporate nonsense. What about your own people? What about us?”

Ariyah gripped the phone tighter, the words hitting her in places she didn’t want to feel. It was the same every time. Her mom needed her—expected her to fix everything. To fill the gaps, pick up the pieces, carry the weight of everyone else's mistakes. It was exhausting.

She wasn’t anyone’s savior.

“I am trying, Mom! You don’t get it, okay? You don’t understand the pressure I’m under. You never did.” “Well, maybe if you hadn’t gone and left us behind, maybe you wouldn’t have to be under so much pressure! But I guess it’s easier to forget where you come from when you got that fancy job and that new apartment. Must be nice, huh?”

The words stung, harder than they should have. Ariyah’s pulse quickened, anger starting to rise like a storm inside her chest. She’d worked damn hard to get where she was, and here her mother was again, acting like she didn’t deserve it. The same tone of disappointment, the same judgment that had followed her her whole life.

“Don’t do this, Mom,” Ariyah said, her voice tight. “I didn’t leave you behind. I’m doing the best I can. But you can’t just keep demanding things from me like I owe you everything. I don’t owe you an explanation for my life.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Ariyah could feel her mother’s breath on the other side, the heavy silence that followed. She wasn’t ready for this, but she also knew—deep down—that this conversation was coming sooner or later.

“I just don’t want you to forget where you come from, Ariyah. You can’t forget who raised you.”

Ariyah's chest tightened. Her mom's words cut deep, but they also felt like shackles. She wasn’t that little girl anymore, the one who always cleaned up after everyone. She wasn’t the woman who carried the weight of her family’s brokenness on her shoulders. She was her own person now, trying to carve a life for herself.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Ariyah said quietly, but there was an edge to her voice now. “But I’m not going to keep letting you hold me back. I’ve worked too hard for this. I can’t be your crutch anymore.”

“You think you’re too good for us now? You think you’re better than me? You don’t have time for your own family, and for what? To buy into a system that will never care about you?”

The sharpness in her mother’s voice broke through Ariyah’s restraint. She could feel the anger bubbling up from deep inside, the resentment, the betrayal she’d been carrying for years. It wasn’t the life she’d chosen, but it was the life she had to live now. She wasn’t going back to the chaos she’d left behind.

“Goodbye, Mom,” Ariyah said, her voice steely.

Before her mother could respond, Ariyah hung up, pressing her palm to her forehead. Her stomach churned with the aftertaste of guilt, but there was no going back. She wasn’t going to apologize for wanting a life of her own.

The apartment was too quiet again. She sank onto the couch, staring at the empty space around her.

Her phone rang again before her voicemail played yet again—another voicemail from her mother. Ariyah didn’t bother listening to it. Instead, she grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge and poured herself a glass. She needed to forget the weight of everything for just a moment. She needed to stop feeling like a prisoner in her own life.

The silence wrapped around her, more suffocating now than before.

All she had was herself. And that had to be enough.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Ariyah’s phone rang twice before 8 a.m., Mrs.Rutherford and Chase both reminding (and annoying) Ariyah about the fact that she has a client meeting at 9:55.

By 9:50 a.m., the conference room was empty except for the sleek oval table and the faint scent of fresh coffee drifting in from the break room. Ariyah smoothed the crease in her navy pencil skirt, recalling Malik from operation’s warning: “If this guy’s really as deep‐pocketed as they say, he’ll test you. Don’t let him rattle you.”

She tapped her pen against her notebook and stared at the door, her pulse humming in anticipation. The clock ticked to 9:55 and then—almost on cue—the door swung open.

A tall man in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit stepped in. He moved with such ease that it was as if he owned the place. His dark skin caught the overhead light, and his eyes were sharp, appraising. He didn’t introduce himself by reputation or resume; he simply offered a measured nod.

“Ms. Monroe?” His voice was smooth, with just enough edge to sound authoritative rather than polite.

“That’s me,” she replied, rising to meet him. Her handshake was firm, practiced. “I’m glad you could make it Mr.Saint.”

He settled into the chair opposite her without a word, folding his hands on the table. The only clue to his identity was the name on his leather folio: Franklin Saint.

Ariyah turned to her laptop and launched into her prepared overview. “I understand you’re interested in diversifying your portfolio with low-risk, stable assets. Here are a few strategies we’ve had success with…”

She clicked through slides of blue-chip stocks, municipal bonds, and prime real estate ventures. She spoke clearly, confidently—just as Malik had advised—and felt his gaze flick over every chart and figure, measuring her poise.

When she reached her final recommendation, she paused to look up. Franklin had said nothing, merely watched. The silence hung heavy.

“Any questions?” she asked.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “You’ve covered the numbers well, Ms. Monroe. But I want to know what you think. Cut through the corporate speak—tell me what you’d do if this were your money on the line.”

She met his gaze, steady. “If it were my money, I’d balance half in high-yield municipal bonds—steady returns, low volatility—and half in a diversified real estate fund focusing on emerging neighborhoods here in Florida. It’s a blend of security and growth.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Good. You didn’t hesitate.” He tapped the folio on the table, the nameplate catching the light. “I like that.”

Ariyah’s heart rate settled. She’d passed his test. But something in that smile felt like a challenge: dig deeper, prove yourself again.

He stood, smoothing his jacket. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. No hint of warmth—just an unspoken agreement that this was only the beginning.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Ariyah let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Not even 10 minutes went by before the conference door opened and Malik walked in.

"Well? Did he give you the once-over?" He grinned, his caramel face lighting up with amusement.

She tapped on Franklin's file with a sigh, fingers steady: “He’s intriguing. And I’m ready.”

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The bank was almost deserted, the silence broken only by the drone of the overhead lights. The majority of the staff had departed by 5:30, their footsteps echoing on the tile floor before their typewriters grew still. However, Ariyah remained. Tucked away at her desk in the back corner, illuminated by the warm glow of her desk lamp, she meticulously reviewed ledgers and client notes, pen in hand and calculator nearby. Her cream blouse showed the wear of the day, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows, and her once-perfect red lipstick had faded, a testament to her exhaustion.

She reached for her Styrofoam cup of black coffee, now bitter and cold. Still, it was something to keep her grounded.

Her thoughts hadn’t been on the accounts in front of her, not really. Not since that morning. Franklin Saint.

He didn’t walk in like most of the suit-and-tie types that passed through First South Atlantic Bank. He had presence—like a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to control a room. And something about him… didn’t fit.

No one could say exactly what kind of business he was in, only that he moved with the kind of confidence that made people fall silent.

Ariyah hadn’t thought much of it until she was sitting across from the man, watching the way his eyes followed her like he was reading more than just the numbers.

She tapped her pen on her notepad when she heard the clack of hard-soled shoes coming down the hallway. She lifts her head up to see who is coming into the building at this time. A moment later, a security guard passed by her glass office wall, but right behind him, moving slower—deliberately—was Franklin.

He wasn’t wearing his blazer this time. Just a deep gray button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His gold watch caught the light just as he tapped on her doorframe.

“You burnin’ that midnight oil, huh?” he asked with a sly smile.

Ariyah straightened, caught off guard but not shaken. “Something like that,” she said. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

He stepped inside, holding out a slim black envelope. “Didn’t want to trust this to some courier. Figured it’d land better in your hands.”

She accepted it, brushing his fingers by accident—or maybe on purpose. Inside were hand-written ledgers, notes scribbled on yellow legal paper, and numbers that hinted at something big. Private. Untraceable.

“This ain’t for the whole board to see,” he said casually, leaning against her desk. “You… you I trust.”

Ariyah blinked. That kind of confidence? In her? It was rare.

“And why’s that?” she asked, arms crossing, but not defensive—more curious.

“'Cause you looked me in the eye this morning,” he said. “Didn’t flinch. Didn’t fold. Most people don’t got that in ‘em.”

For a second, the buzz of the lights seemed to fade. All she could hear was the quiet sound of the city outside and the unspoken tension inside this room.

“I’ll review it first thing,” she said softly.

He smiled again, slow. “I know you will.”

Then he turned, walking out like the world outside didn’t scare him. Ariyah watched him disappear into the hallway, the envelope heavy in her hand, her mind suddenly louder than ever.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Franklin Saint didn’t make mistakes. That was his rule. In a world built on power moves, whispered names, and silent threats, there was no room for missteps. Everything he did—from who he met to how he spoke—was calculated, clean, and deliberate.

But tonight, as he sat in the backseat of his black Cadillac Fleetwood, eyes trained on the dim city skyline, he replayed her voice in his head.

Ariyah Monroe.

Professional. Sharp. No nonsense. But there was something in her tone, beneath the polished banker talk and pressed blouses, that caught his ear. She was too poised for a nine-to-five grind like this. Too real. And she hadn’t looked at him like the others did—afraid or impressed. She looked at him like she was trying to figure him out.

That made her dangerous. And for the first time in a while… interesting.

Back in her apartment, Ariyah twisted the rotary dial on her phone, half-ready to call Malik and spill about Franklin's late visit—but stopped herself. Something about it felt too personal to share. She kicked off her heels, her legs sore from standing in those narrow pumps all day. The TV played softly in the background—some old rerun she wasn’t paying attention to. Her mind was still in that office.

Why did he come back tonight? He could’ve dropped that envelope off through the front desk, no questions asked. But no—he wanted to see her again.

She slipped out of her skirt and changed into a long tee, brushing her curls out at her vanity. As she looked in the mirror, she saw more than just the exhaustion of a banker pulling double shifts. She saw something else in her eyes—something that hadn’t been there in a long time.

Curiosity. Excitement. A pull toward something she had no business chasing.

Meanwhile, Franklin had the car park two blocks away from his spot. He didn’t like people knowing where he slept. Even his closest lieutenants rarely came through unless called. Privacy was power.

Inside, he loosened his tie and poured a splash of cognac into a cut-glass tumbler, watching the way the liquor caught the light. The folder he’d left with Ariyah wasn’t fake—but it wasn’t the full story either. Just enough to see how she handled pressure. How she handled him.

And she handled it well.

He’d dealt with women before—plenty—but not like her. Not the quiet kind who clocked your every move while acting like you were just another Tuesday. Not the kind who could pull off red lipstick and a bank badge in the same breath.

He sat down, the ice in his glass barely clinking as he stared out the window. His world was filled with heat—money, cocaine, fast loyalty. But Ariyah? She was something else.

Not heat. Fire.

The slow kind. The kind that burns deep before it ever touches the skin.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The next morning, the office was already buzzing by 8:30. Phones rang off the hook, fingers clicked away on typewriters, and the scent of strong coffee lingered in the air. But Ariyah was barely listening. She was reviewing a file, nodding at whatever Malik was saying, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

She hadn’t slept well. She never could, but this time it was worse. Not because of work. Because of him.

Franklin Saint.

That unexpected drop-in had done something to her. Stirred her mind. Tightened her chest. Now, every click of the elevator had her glancing up. Every deep voice in the hallway made her ears perk.

“Girl, you good?” Malik asked, snapping a finger in front of her face with a playful grin. “I know you ain’t still daydreamin’ about that mystery man.”

She shot him a look. “I’m not.”

“Mmhmm,” he smirked. “He’s supposed to swing through again today. They told me upstairs he scheduled a follow-up. Said he requested you specifically.”

Ariyah tried to keep her face neutral, but her stomach flipped. “Did he say what time?”

“Didn’t say much at all. Just said ‘make sure Ms. Monroe is available.’ That man got a vibe... like he’s used to people movin’ when he talks.”

She brushed down her pencil skirt and turned her attention back to the stack of files in front of her, trying to ground herself in routine. Numbers were safe. Rules were safe. Franklin Saint was neither.

At 11:03 AM, he walked in again. Sharp charcoal gray suit. Gold watch. Smooth as the jazz record playing faintly from the waiting room stereo. He gave a polite nod to the receptionist and ignored the curious glances from staff who still didn’t know exactly who he was—just that he didn’t come from money, but moved like he made it.

Ariyah looked up as he entered her office. She didn’t stand this time, just lifted her eyes slowly, pen still in hand.

“Mr. Saint,” she greeted, cool and professional. “Twice in two days. You must like our customer service.”

Franklin gave a slow smile as he closed the door behind him. “I’m a man who believes in consistency,” he said. “You handled my info right. Didn’t ask no dumb questions. Didn’t snoop. That earns trust.”

He sat down across from her desk, casual but controlled, resting his forearms lightly on his knees. His eyes scanned the space—framed degrees, a ceramic mug with chipped gold trim, a small photo of Ariyah, and a woman who looked older but just as stern. Her mother, probably. That detail didn’t escape him.

“You mind if I ask you somethin’?” he said, tone softer now.

Ariyah raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that depends on what it is.”

“You ever feel like this place don’t really see you?” he asked. “Like they know you’re sharp, but they still look past you anyway?”

The question hit too close. Her hand stopped mid-motion, pen hovering above paper.

“I’m here to do my job,” she said carefully.

“Yeah,” Franklin nodded. “That’s what I say too.”

A pause settled between them—one charged with something neither wanted to name.

He leaned forward just slightly. “I’m lookin’ for someone to manage more than just my accounts. Someone who understands discretion... loyalty... vision.”

“You trying to offer me a side gig?” she asked, lips curling just a little.

“I’m just sayin’—the world’s bigger than these four walls.”

She stared at him for a long second. Then closed the folder in front of her, slowly. Deliberately.

“Well, Mr. Saint,” she said, tone tight as silk, “while you’re within these four walls, my only job is to make sure your financials are squared away. Nothing more.”

Franklin smiled again—low, amused. “Understood.”

But as he rose to leave, his eyes lingered on hers a beat longer than they should have.

“See you around, Ms. Monroe.”

#kendricklamine #damson idris #damson idris fic #franklin saint x reader #franklin saint #franklin saint x black!reader

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