The next morning, the marble floor still gleamed under the fluorescent lights, though I wasn't cleaning it. I was hovering near the coffee station, trying to convince myself that my legs weren't about to betray me from the soreness of yesterday. Surviving one day in his office had felt like winning a battle I hadn't volunteered for, and yet here I was, ready to face round two.
I was refilling my water bottle when the soft hum of the elevator broke the silence. He appeared before the doors even finished sliding shut—his presence so sharp, so commanding, it made the air itself shiver. A black suit that could cut glass, perfectly polished shoes, and that damn cold gaze that seemed to see straight through walls and excuses.
"Good morning," he said, voice low, precise, dangerous. Not a greeting. Not a warmth. Just… acknowledgment.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and straightened my shoulders. "Morning," I said. Short. Simple. No apologies. No excuses. Just words that refused to bend.
He walked past me, the faintest smirk brushing the corner of his mouth. Patronizing or amused? I couldn't tell. That was part of the problem. Men like him didn't make mistakes, and I wasn't about to let him think I could be cornered easily.
Author's thought: And yes, reader, the moment he smirked? That's the beginning of the storm. And we all know storms like this don't tiptoe—they roar.
Minutes later, I was tidying the reception area when his assistant appeared, tapping at a tablet like she had rehearsed a thousand times. "Miss…?" she hesitated, glancing at me as if unsure. "The CEO… wants to see you in his office."
Every instinct in my body screamed run. Every rational thought reminded me: this is his world, not mine. But the truth? Curiosity edged out caution. I followed the assistant in silence, each step echoing against the marble, each echo a drumbeat of tension in my chest.
I stepped into his office and immediately regretted it. The smell of expensive leather, cologne, and authority hit me like a physical force. He was behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes on the city outside the window. He didn't turn to me yet, didn't acknowledge my presence in a human way. He waited. Commanding me to prove I belonged—or didn't.
"I scrubbed your floor yesterday," I said finally. My voice didn't waver. Not much. Just enough to remind him I existed without sounding desperate.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning me from head to toe, assessing every imperfection, every ounce of strength, every line of defiance. His gaze lingered longer than necessary. "Yes," he said, voice smooth as silk and sharp as a razor. "You did that well."
I blinked. Praise? Not really. Just… acknowledgment. A tool. He was probably noting my efficiency for some reason I didn't want to guess.
Then he leaned back in his chair, fingers lacing together. "I have a proposition for you," he said. The words were calm, controlled, and deadly. "It's… unusual."
I raised a brow, arms crossed. "I'm listening," I said carefully. Every nerve in my body was on high alert.
He smiled—not kind, not charming. Predatory. "I need someone reliable. Discreet. Efficient. And I believe… you might be exactly what I need."
I paused. My brain tried to process that sentence while my gut screamed: Danger. Danger. Danger.
"Excuse me?" I asked, cautious. "I'm not sure I understand."
"You will," he said. "It's a short-term contract. You follow my rules, you get… compensation. Sign it, and your life changes. Don't, and… well, you keep scrubbing floors." His gaze pierced me, like he could see every compromise, every desperation, every shred of pride.
I squared my shoulders, holding his gaze. "I'm not your… experiment. I don't work for free. And I don't bend for anyone, no matter how… powerful."
He smirked again, leaning forward. "Good. I like that."
We negotiated terms—silently, through tension, not words. I knew better than to give him an inch. I had boundaries, and he had money. Dangerous combination.
"You have until tomorrow to decide," he said finally, standing. His presence filled the room like sunlight in a storm—blinding, intense, impossible to ignore.
I nodded, refusing to betray the whirlpool of excitement, fear, and something else—something I didn't have a name for yet.
The rest of the day blurred. I went about tasks mechanically, each swipe of a rag or mop reminding me of my survival, my pride, my rules. But I couldn't shake the thought of him—the way his gaze lingered, the way he sized me up like a puzzle he intended to solve.
By evening, when the office was empty, I lingered near the exit, contemplating the offer. Money was tempting—no, it was necessary—but the catch? I didn't know yet. And he liked ambiguity.
I clenched my fists, a private promise to myself echoing louder than the office silence: I will survive this. I will keep my rules. And I will not break. Not for him, not for anyone