The elevator climbed too slowly. It knew I didn't belong. My palms left damp prints on the manila folder. Résumé. Transcripts. Some bullshit recommendation from a professor who'd never remember my name. Twenty-two years old. Fresh out of state college. Here I was. Stepping into the lion's den of Victor Hale's empire. Hale Enterprises. The kind of place where interns vanished if they spilt coffee wrong.
Floor fifty-two dinged. The doors slid open to reveal marble that probably cost more than my mom's house. A receptionist with lips painted blood-red glanced up. Then back to her screen. "Mr Hale's office is expecting you. End of the hall."
No smile. No warmth. Just the click of her nails on the keyboard. It echoed like gunshots in my head.
I walked. The shoes were too new. They squeaked. Tie choked me. The hall stretched forever. Framed photos of Victor shaking hands with presidents. Senators. Guys who looked like they ate babies for breakfast. Then the door. Frosted glass. ISABELLA HALE – CREATIVE DIRECTOR.
Creative director? The job posting said junior analyst under Victor himself. My stomach twisted. Maybe a mix-up.
I knocked once.
"Come."
One word. Sharp as a blade.
I pushed the door. The office hit me like a fever dream. Floor-to-ceiling windows. City sprawling below like a toy set. And her. Isabella Hale. She perched behind a desk carved from some dark wood that screamed old money. Legs crossed. Skirt riding just high enough to show the edge of lace stocking. Black hair pulled tight. Not a strand out of place. Eyes. God, those eyes. Grey. Cold. They sliced right through me.
She didn't stand. Didn't offer a hand. She just stared. Up and down. Slow. Like she priced meat.
"You're J," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah. I mean, yes, ma'am." My voice cracked. Heat crawled up my neck.
She leaned back. Chair creaked softly. "Victor handles the numbers. I handle the potential." Her fingers drummed the desk. Nails red. Pointed. "Sit."
I sat. The chair was too low. Or maybe she liked it that way. It made me feel small. The folder slipped from my grip. Papers scattered. Shit.
I bent to grab them. When I straightened, she was closer. She leaned over the desk. Blouse dipped low. Skin like cream. A faint scar just above her collarbone. Thin. White. Like someone had drawn a line with a knife.
"Clumsy," she murmured. Smile didn't reach her eyes. "But pretty. That's something."
Pretty? Guys didn't get called pretty. Not where I grew up. I swallowed. "I prepared for the analyst role. Market trends. Data modelling."
"Victor bores me with trends." She picked up my résumé. She held it between two fingers like it might bite. "Tell me, J. Why should we let a boy like you play in our sandbox?"
Boy. The word stung. "I'm top of my class. Interned at."
"Everyone's on top of something." She folded the paper once. Crease perfect. "Stand up."
I did. Legs shaky.
"Turn."
What the hell? But I turned. Slow circle. I felt her gaze burn holes.
"Good lines," she said. Voice low now. Almost a purr. "Virgin?"
My head snapped back. "Excuse me?"
"You heard." She stood then. Heels clicked as she circled me. Predator slow. She stopped behind. Breath warm on my ear. "Are you?"
Heart hammered. Lie? Truth? "Yeah. I mean, yes."
A soft laugh. "Honest. Rare." Her hand brushed my shoulder. Light. But it jolted like electricity. "Victor will like that."
She was back at her desk before I blinked. She sat. Crossed legs again. "You'll start Monday. Report to me first. We'll see if you fit."
Fit. The word hung heavy.
I nodded. I mumbled thanks. I backed toward the door. Hand on the knob.
"Oh, J?"
I turned.
She held my résumé up. Then slipped it into a drawer. She locked it with a tiny key on a chain around her neck. It nestled right between her breasts.
"I'll keep this for later."
The door clicked shut behind me. The hallway blurred. The elevator down felt like falling.
What the fuck just happened?
That night, I couldn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling in my shitty apartment. Hand drifted south without permission. Her face. Those eyes. The scar. The key.
Monday couldn't come fast enough.
Or maybe it came too soon.
By the end of the week, I'd be trapped in an elevator with her. Everything would change.
But that was later.
For now, just the gaze. The ice. The promise of fire underneath.
The air tasted of rust and polished stone. Silence thick as wool muffled the clicks.