The office smelled like power—clean leather, polished wood, and the faint trace of an expensive cologne that lingered long after he walked in.
Elian stood near the door, clutching a wrinkled résumé and the fraying strap of his worn-out backpack. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. The bus fare here had been borrowed. His fingers trembled, but he couldn't let them see it.
Behind the massive glass desk sat Leonhart Vale, heir to Vale Industries. Sharp-suited, colder than steel, and as untouchable as a god on a throne. His black hair was perfectly styled, and his expression unreadable as he scanned Elian's paperwork with bored eyes.
"You graduated top of your class?" Leonhart said. His voice was smooth, bored, cruel. "From a second-rate public university no one respects."
Elian swallowed. "Yes, sir."
"And you're broke."
"Yes."
"And desperate."
Elian hesitated. "…Yes."
Leonhart folded the papers. "I like honesty. It's the only currency poor people like you can afford."
The blood drained from Elian's face.
"I don't have a position for you," Leonhart continued. "Not a real one. But I do have… a proposal."
He stood and walked over, towering over Elian. He didn't touch him—yet—but the space between them tightened like a noose.
"You'll be my personal assistant. Twenty-four hours. Live-in. You'll do what I say, when I say, without question."
Elian's voice was a whisper. "What kind of assistant?"
Leonhart's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"The kind who knows how to keep quiet."
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