Clara stood in front of the full-length mirror in her small apartment, staring at her reflection with a mixture of nerves and determination. Her hands smoothed over the soft fabric of her pale-blue blouse for the tenth time that morning, as if creases could decide the trajectory of her life. She had paired it with a black pencil skirt and low heels—not too flashy, not too plain. Professional, but still her.
"You can do this," she whispered to her reflection, trying to summon courage.
It was her first day at Cross Enterprises—one of the most prestigious companies in the city, and a place she had only ever dreamed of working at while sitting in her cramped college library with stacks of textbooks and instant noodles for company. Now she was here, about to walk into a skyscraper where legends of the corporate world thrived. The thought alone made her stomach twist.
She grabbed her modest handbag, checked that her resume copies and notepad were inside (because over-prepared was safer than under-prepared), and took a deep breath before heading out into the morning.
The building came into view as she rounded the corner from the subway. Clara stopped dead on the sidewalk, head tilted back to take in the towering glass structure of Cross Enterprises. It glistened in the sun like a shard of crystal, sleek lines cutting the skyline. The rotating glass doors at the entrance glimmered with endless movement—people in suits streaming in, some glued to phones, others chatting briskly as though the world spun on their schedule.
Clara clutched her bag tighter. For a fleeting moment, she thought about running back home. But she shook herself. No. You worked for this. You survived sleepless nights of studying, dozens of rejections, and endless interviews. You belong here.
Steeling her resolve, she walked into the building.
The lobby was a cathedral of modern design. Marble floors reflected the sunlight pouring through wide windows. A massive abstract sculpture dominated the center, while receptionists sat behind a sleek curved desk, their voices soft but efficient. Clara swallowed hard as she gave her name, received her visitor badge, and followed the directions to the elevators.
She pressed the button for the thirty-second floor and stood inside the chrome interior, surrounded by people who radiated confidence. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and kept her eyes on the glowing numbers above, silently praying she wouldn't embarrass herself today.
The HR assistant, a cheerful woman named Janine, met her at the floor and gave her a quick tour. The office layout was a mixture of glass-partitioned cubicles and wide-open spaces. Everything seemed to hum with energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, printers whirring. Clara tried to absorb every detail but her nerves made her stiff, her smile too tight.
"This way, Clara Hayes," Janine said warmly. "You'll be part of the Strategic Projects team. They're fast-paced, but you'll learn quickly. Just… a word of advice—avoid making mistakes around the CEO."
Clara frowned slightly. "The CEO?"
Janine lowered her voice conspiratorially, glancing around. "Mr. Damien Cross. Brilliant man. But… demanding. Cold as ice. People say he doesn't tolerate incompetence. He's been known to fire someone over a single blunder."
Clara blinked. "That bad?"
Janine gave a rueful smile. "You'll see for yourself. Just… keep your head down and don't draw attention."
Clara nodded, her pulse quickening. Great. Day one and I'm already being told to avoid the boss like he's some kind of predator.
By the time Janine left her at her new desk, Clara had rehearsed at least fifty ways to smile politely and fade into the background. A few teammates introduced themselves. Some were friendly enough—Marcus, who had been with the company for three years, cracked a small joke to ease her nerves. A couple of others seemed indifferent. But the undertone was the same: respect for the company, fear of its leader.
At ten sharp, the call for a meeting came.
Everyone rose almost in unison, gathering their notepads and tablets before streaming toward the glass-walled conference room at the end of the hall. Clara followed nervously, clutching her pen like a lifeline.
Inside, the room was all polished wood, chrome chairs, and a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Clara slid into a seat near the corner, hoping to remain invisible. She glanced around, curious about who this CEO was. She imagined some older man in his fifties with graying hair and a permanent scowl.
The door opened.
Clara's breath hitched.
Walking in with sharp precision was not some aging executive—but him.
The man from the storm. The arrogant stranger with cold eyes and a jaw carved from stone. The man who had barely thanked her for helping him in the pouring rain.
Clara's stomach dropped.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Damien Cross.
He was taller than she remembered, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that seemed sculpted to his lean frame. His black hair was slicked back neatly, his expression unreadable as his gaze swept the room. The air shifted immediately; conversations cut off, silence fell. People straightened in their seats like soldiers in formation.
Clara's heart hammered so hard she was sure the entire table could hear it. You've got to be kidding me. The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
Damien didn't acknowledge her—didn't even glance her way. He strode to the head of the table with an air of authority that demanded obedience. When he spoke, his voice was cool and clipped.
"Good morning. Let's begin."
No preamble. No smile. Just command.
The meeting launched into a rapid-fire discussion of current projects. Damien's words were sharp, precise, leaving no room for misunderstanding. He questioned reports, cut down vague answers, and praised efficiency only with curt nods. Clara scrambled to keep up with her notes, her hand aching from writing.
When someone faltered while explaining a financial forecast, Damien's stare was icy enough to freeze the air. "Do it again," he said flatly. The poor man stammered, red-faced, until Damien dismissed him with a flick of his hand.
Clara clenched her jaw. She understood now what Janine meant. He was ruthless. Brilliant, yes—but ruthless.
As the meeting dragged on, Clara couldn't help herself. Under her breath, she muttered, "Arrogant much?"
Unfortunately, the universe wasn't done tormenting her.
Damien's head lifted slightly, his dark eyes narrowing as if he'd heard something. The room fell even more silent—if that were possible. Slowly, his gaze swept the table, and then… landed on Clara.
She froze.
Those piercing eyes locked with hers. Cold, assessing, dangerous.
Clara's throat went dry. She forced herself to sit straighter, refusing to wilt under his stare. Heat rushed to her cheeks, but she didn't look away.
For a heartbeat, time held still.
Then Damien's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something sharper, like he was filing her name away for later. He turned back to the presentation, continuing as if nothing had happened.
But Clara's pulse didn't settle. Her mind spun. He heard me. Oh god, he heard me. Great. First day and I've already poked the bear.
She scribbled frantically on her notepad, but the weight of his glance lingered like a storm cloud.
When the meeting ended, people rushed to gather their things. Conversations picked up again, though quieter, filled with the tension of being under Damien's scrutiny for an hour. Clara rose slowly, her legs stiff, her stomach churning with both dread and indignation.
As the team filed out, Damien remained at the head of the table, speaking quietly to his assistant. Clara tried to slip away unnoticed, but she felt his gaze brush over her again, sharp and deliberate.
She quickened her pace.
By the time she made it back to her desk, she collapsed into her chair with a sigh, pressing a hand to her chest.
Of all the people in this city—of all the men she could have helped that night—it had to be him.