I didn't mean to spill my coffee on a three-thousand-dollar suit. I was just trying to make it through my first day without embarrassing myself. So of course, the universe had other plans.
"Jesus!" I gasped, scalding liquid splashing over my hand and the crisp charcoal suit in front of me.
The man stepped back, slow and precise, like a predator stalking its prey. His icy-blue eyes flicked down to the dark stain seeping across his tailored chest.
I froze. "I—I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. I was—" I held up the empty coffee cup like it might serve as proof of my incompetence.
He didn't blink. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking once.
"You must be Harper Quinn," he said coolly.
Oh no.
This wasn't just some random exec. This was him.
Alexander Hale.
Billionaire. CEO of Hale Global. My new boss.
I felt my soul attempt to exit my body.
"Yes. That's me," I mumbled, praying for spontaneous combustion.
He pulled a handkerchief from his inner pocket and dabbed the stain with clinical detachment. His suit probably cost more than my rent. Hell, it probably cost more than my college tuition.
"I thought you'd be taller," he said dryly.
"I—sorry?"
"And punctual."
Right. Because showing up five minutes late and launching a latte at your billionaire boss was the perfect first impression.
"Traffic," I said lamely, even though I'd been on the subway. "And pigeons."
That earned the tiniest twitch of his lips. Not a smile, exactly. More like amusement trying to sneak through a wall of ice.
He turned on his heel. "Come with me."
And just like that, my fate was sealed.
We walked in silence through the marble lobby of Hale Tower, his pace brisk, every stride of his long legs purposeful and powerful. The man radiated authority. It wasn't just the expensive suit or the watch that probably cost more than my annual salary. It was his presence. Controlled. Dominant. Magnetic.
The elevator doors slid shut behind us, and I swear the temperature dropped five degrees.
He didn't say a word as the numbers ticked upward.
I stole a glance at him. His profile was sharp, sculpted—like a Greek statue who'd walked into a boardroom and decided to conquer capitalism. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers interlocked. I noticed the veins on his forearms, the expensive silver cufflinks, the hint of cologne—something dark and woodsy that made my thoughts spiral.
He caught me staring.
I looked away instantly, cheeks blazing.
"Rule number one," he said, voice low and smooth, "Don't ogle your boss in the elevator."
My mouth opened, then shut again. "Noted."
"And rule number two?"
The doors opened on the 57th floor before I could answer.
"Don't be late," he finished.
I followed him through a maze of glass-walled offices and whispered conversations. Every person we passed straightened up like soldiers at attention. Some nodded. Others looked terrified.
No one said a word.
We stopped in front of a sleek glass office overlooking the Manhattan skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Modern furniture. Power in every inch.
This was his den.
"Sit," he said.
I sat.
He walked to his desk, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat down opposite me, folding his hands together like a judge about to deliver a sentence.
"So," he said. "Harper Quinn. Graduated top of your class. Internship at Mason & Blake. Four months as executive assistant to Ava Rosenthal before she had her nervous breakdown."
I stiffened. "That wasn't my fault."
"I didn't say it was." He leaned back slightly. "But you'll find the stress level here… higher."
I gave him a tight smile. "I can handle pressure."
He arched a brow, amused. "We'll see."
The next hour was a blur of instructions, expectations, and icy stares. He spoke in clipped, precise sentences. No wasted words. No wasted time. He wanted my calendar open at all times. He expected zero mistakes. He demanded discretion, efficiency, and a level of commitment usually reserved for cults and hostage negotiations.
By the time I left his office, my head was spinning.
But as I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
"One more thing."
I turned.
He stood again, this time stepping around the desk and moving toward me.
I should've backed up. Instead, I froze.
He stopped just a foot away, his eyes piercing into mine. "There's a reason I hired you," he said. "I don't make impulsive decisions. I don't waste time. And I certainly don't surround myself with people who bore me."
I swallowed. "Understood."
"But this isn't just about work," he added, voice dropping.
My heart tripped.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, gaze locking on mine, "I saw the way you looked at me. Just now. In the elevator. Even during the interview."
I blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do."
The air between us turned thick.
"I don't mix business with pleasure," he said. "Usually."
I felt my pulse in my throat.
"But if you want this—whatever this is—we'll do it my way. No games. No drama. No distractions."
My breath hitched. "Are you offering me a… proposition?"
He smirked. "I'm giving you a choice. We keep this professional. Or we stop pretending."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he leaned in, his lips just brushing my ear.
"Think about it, Harper."
He walked back to his desk and sat down like he hadn't just detonated a bomb.
"You're dismissed."