The glass tower of Hartman Enterprises shimmered under the New York morning sun, too perfect, too intimidating. I stood in front of it, clutching my cheap leather bag and trying to calm the storm in my chest. This was it—my one shot at landing a job that could change everything.
"Okay, Mia, just breathe," I whispered to myself. "You can do this."
When I stepped into the building, everything smelled of power—coffee, cologne, and quiet money. The marble floors gleamed, the walls were all glass and steel, and everyone moved with a purpose. I felt like an impostor in my $20 blazer and trembling heels.
I checked in at the front desk, and the receptionist gave me a polite smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You're here for the executive assistant interview?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied, forcing a smile.
"Good luck," she said flatly, pressing a button. "Mr. Hartman will see you now."
Mr. Hartman. The name alone carried weight. The man who built an empire before turning thirty. The billionaire everyone in New York called the Ice King. I had seen his face in magazines—sharp jawline, piercing grey eyes, always expressionless.
When I entered his office, the view hit me first—Manhattan stretching endlessly beneath us. Then I saw him.
Alexander Hartman stood by the window, hands in his pockets, a tailored suit hugging his tall frame. He didn't turn when I walked in.
"You're late," he said, his tone calm but cold.
I froze.
"I— I'm sorry, the elevator—"
"Excuses," he cut me off, finally turning to face me. His eyes were as cold as the rumors said. "Sit."
My knees felt weak as I obeyed.
He studied me for a long, painful moment, his gaze unreadable. "Why do you want this job?"
Because I need to pay my rent. Because I'm tired of struggling. Because my life is falling apart.
But I said, "Because I believe in hard work and loyalty, sir."
One brow lifted, amused. "Loyalty?" He walked closer, the air between us tightening. "People say that until money is involved."
Something in his tone made me look up. "I'm not people," I said softly.
For the first time, his lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost.
The interview continued, filled with questions I barely understood. But when it ended, he surprised me.
"You start tomorrow," he said, sliding a contract across the desk.
"Wait… I got the job?"
"You'll be my personal assistant," he replied, turning away again. "Don't be late."
My heart raced. I should have been thrilled. But as I left his office, one thought burned in my mind—
There was something dangerous about Alexander Hartman.
Something I couldn't stay away from.