The rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Thorne Enterprises, turning the Manhattan skyline into a watercolor blur. Nancy Clark checked her reflection in the elevator doors—navy pencil skirt, white silk blouse, hair pulled into a severe bun that screamed professional . She'd spent three weeks preparing for this interview, memorizing stock prices, studying quarterly reports, and rehearsing answers until she could recite them in her sleep.
The elevator dinged. Floor sixty-six.
"Ms. Clark?" A receptionist with perfectly manicured nails didn't look up from her desk. "Mr. Thorne will see you now. Straight through the double doors. Don't keep him waiting."
Nancy's heels clicked against marble as she walked, each step echoing like a countdown. She'd heard the rumors about Adrian Thorne—brilliant, ruthless, devastatingly attractive, and apparently impossible to please. Three assistants had quit in the last month alone.
She pushed open the doors.
Adrian Thorne stood at the window, broad shoulders filling out a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than her apartment. He didn't turn around.
"You're late," he said, voice like velvet over steel.
"Actually, I'm four minutes early." Nancy checked her watch. "Your receptionist made me wait twenty minutes."
That made him turn. And when he did, Nancy forgot how to breathe.
Dark hair, thick and slightly tousled. Eyes the color of storm clouds, currently narrowed in assessment. A jawline that could cut glass, and a mouth that quirked at one corner as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
"Most candidates apologize and take the blame," he said, strolling toward his desk with predatory grace.
"Most candidates probably need this job more than their dignity." Nancy lifted her chin. "I need both."
Adrian stopped. For a long moment, he simply stared. Then—was that a smile ?
"Sit down, Ms. Clark." He gestured to a leather chair. "And tell me why I should hire someone who talks back to her potential employer."
"Because," Nancy settled into the seat, crossing her legs with practiced poise, "you're bored. Everyone else bows and scrapes and tells you what you want to hear. You need someone who'll tell you when you're wrong."
"And you plan to tell me when I'm wrong?"
"Someone has to." She met his gaze steadily. "Sir."
Adrian Thorne threw back his head and laughed. It was a rich, genuine sound that transformed his severe features into something almost boyish. "Oh, Ms. Clark. You're hired."
Nancy blinked. "Don't you want to see my resume?"
"I already have." He tossed a folder onto the desk—her folder, thick with background checks and references. "Graduated summa cum laude from Wharton. Turned around a failing department at your last company in six months. Volunteer at a women's shelter on weekends." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, those storm-gray eyes pinning her in place. "But what the report doesn't say is that you have spine. That's rarer than any qualification."
"And what does your report say about you , Mr. Thorne?" The question slipped out before Nancy could stop it.
Adrian's smile turned dangerous. "That I always get what I want. And right now, Ms. Clark..." He stood, extending his hand. "I want you."
Nancy rose, placing her hand in his. His grip was warm, firm, lingering a second too long. "For the position," she clarified.
"Of course." But his thumb traced across her knuckles, sending an unexpected shiver up her spine. "For now."