The glass walls of Kane Global stretched so high they seemed to pierce the sky. Sleek, silver, intimidating. The kind of building that made people walk faster, straighten their spines, and adjust their collars. It was Monday morning, and the city was already pulsing—cars honking, people rushing, coffee cups steaming.
Amara stood on the sidewalk, one hand gripping her faux-leather tote, the other smoothing the creases in her pencil skirt. She wasn't a stranger to nerves, but today they clung to her skin like heat. It wasn't just any job interview. This was the job. Executive Personal Assistant to the CEO of one of the most powerful tech conglomerates in the city.
She took a deep breath and walked through the revolving doors, her heels clicking against the marble floor like a countdown.
"Good morning. Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked without looking up.
"Yes. Amara Okoye. 9:30. Interview with Mr. Kane."
That made the receptionist glance up. Her eyes flickered over Amara—tailored white blouse, simple gold studs, soft makeup—and gave a brief, unreadable smile. "You're early. Take the elevator to the 49th floor. He prefers punctuality."
Amara nodded and stepped into the lift. The doors slid shut, enclosing her in silence and mirrored steel. As the numbers climbed, she smoothed her palms against her skirt again. It wasn't just nerves anymore. It was anticipation. Something deep and low, crawling under her skin.
When the doors opened, the first thing she noticed was the quiet. The entire floor was hushed, carpeted in thick gray that silenced her steps. Minimalist, glass-walled offices lined the space, and in the corner—one massive office with floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline stretched behind it like a painting.
She approached the mahogany desk outside that office. A woman, maybe in her thirties, looked up. "Amara Okoye?"
"Yes."
"You can go in. He's expecting you."
Amara nodded and stepped toward the door. Before she could knock, it opened from the inside.
He was taller than she expected.
Leon Kane.
CEO. Billionaire. Infamous. Charismatic. Known for building empires and destroying reputations. His eyes—gray and sharp—moved over her like a blade. He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just stepped aside to let her in.
The office was colder than the hallway. Sleek lines, black-and-chrome furniture, a massive desk, and one long leather couch that stretched along the windows.
He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit."
She sat, spine straight, legs crossed at the ankle. His eyes lingered on her for a moment too long before he took his own seat.
"Why do you want this position?" he asked, fingers steepled under his chin.
Amara cleared her throat. "I'm highly organized. I work well under pressure. I'm discreet, loyal, and I've worked with C-level executives before—"
"I didn't ask for your resume," he interrupted smoothly. "I asked why you want this position—my PA."
The word my echoed.
She swallowed. "Because I want to work for someone who demands excellence. Someone who pushes their team to be better."
"Flattery is cheap," he said. "What do you know about my reputation?"
"That you're brilliant. Demanding. Exacting."
"And ruthless?" he added, a brow raised.
"Yes."
He leaned back. "I go through assistants quickly. They either quit or get too comfortable."
"I won't do either."
There was a pause. He stared at her like he was peeling layers. Not just hearing her words, but watching how she sat. How her mouth moved. How her breath hitched when he leaned forward slightly.
"You'll work long hours," he said. "Nights. Weekends. You'll be expected to be reachable at all times."
"I understand."
"I don't tolerate lateness. Or excuses."
"Neither do I."
Something flickered in his eyes then. Approval. Or interest. She couldn't tell.
"Fine. You're hired," he said. "Start tomorrow."
Amara blinked. "Just like that?"
He smiled faintly. "I know what I want when I see it."
He stood, walked around the desk, and stopped just in front of her. Close. Too close. The air between them charged.
"Do you have any issues with authority?" he asked quietly.
"No," she replied. Her voice sounded different—softer. A little breathless.
"Good. I'll be testing that."
He reached for a folder and handed it to her. "Contracts. NDA. Sign them before noon."
She took it with trembling fingers.
Then he turned away, dismissing her.
And just like that, she was out in the hallway again, folder in hand, heart pounding against her ribs.
—
Her first day started at 6:30 a.m. sharp.
By the time she arrived at the office, Leon was already there. His jacket hung over the back of his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, veined forearms as he typed on his laptop. He didn't look up when she entered.
"Coffee," he said.
She hesitated for just a moment before moving toward the kitchenette. When she returned, he took the cup from her hand without a word, sipped, and then glanced at her.
"Good," he said simply. "You can learn."
The next few hours blurred. Emails, calls, rescheduling meetings, drafting reports. Leon barked instructions with clipped efficiency, and Amara followed them, quick and quiet. She felt him watching her, though—whenever she bent over to file documents, whenever she walked past his desk, his eyes followed.
At lunch, he didn't eat. Just leaned back in his chair, eyes closed for a moment.
"You haven't asked me anything personal," he said suddenly.
Amara looked up from her tablet. "Should I?"
"Most people do."
"I'm not most people."
He smiled at that, slow and deliberate. "No, you're not."
She shifted in her seat, heat blooming low in her stomach. There was something about his voice. The way it dipped when he said certain words. The way his eyes pinned her down like he already owned her time—and maybe more.
That night, he handed her a file just as she was about to leave.
"This is for a client dinner tomorrow," he said. "You're attending."
She frowned. "Am I replacing your usual assistant?"
"No," he said. "I'm replacing my usual assistant."
His eyes dragged down her blouse, lingering just long enough to make her cheeks flush.
"Wear something appropriate," he added. "But don't bore me."
—
The restaurant was all shadows and candlelight. Elite. Exclusive. The kind of place where even laughter felt rehearsed. Amara wore a fitted black dress that skimmed her hips and ended just above her knees. Not too short. Not too modest. Just enough to make heads turn when she walked in.
Leon was already at the table, nursing a glass of whiskey, his jaw tight. He stood when he saw her.
"You clean up well," he said.
"Was that a compliment, Mr. Kane?"
He didn't smile. "An observation."
The dinner was long. Clients laughed. Leon dominated the conversation with his usual effortless control. Amara sat beside him, taking notes, pouring wine, offering small smiles at the right moments.
At some point during dessert, his hand brushed hers under the table.
It didn't move away.
Her fingers twitched—uncertain—but he didn't press. Just let his knuckles rest against her skin.
A silent promise.
When the night ended and the clients left, Leon walked her to the waiting car. But instead of opening the door, he turned to her.
"You're very good at following instructions," he said softly.
"I try."
"You'll need to be better than good if you want to stay in my world."
The implication curled between them like smoke.
She met his gaze. "What do you want from me, Mr. Kane?"
He stepped closer. So close she could smell the expensive cologne on his skin—dark, masculine, dangerous.
"Everything."
—
Back in her apartment that night, Amara stood in front of the mirror, still in her black dress. Her skin hummed, her lips swollen from biting them too much.
She didn't know what this was—this slow game, this tension that coiled tighter every time he looked at her. But she knew one thing: Leon Kane was dangerous.
And she had just stepped willingly into the fire.