The rest of the car ride to Montgomery Corporation was steeped in charged silence.
Neither Dante nor Anastasia made an effort to speak, their unspoken battle suspended only by the soft hum of the engine. The lingering tension wasn't one of attraction, but a raw clash of dominance—an invisible tug-of-war between two people who refused to bow.
When the car slid into the private underground parking reserved solely for the CEO, Anastasia glanced out the tinted windows. The vast lot was empty, save for Dante's sleek collection of luxury vehicles and the one they'd just arrived in.
Dante exited first, not sparing her a glance, but Anastasia followed at her own pace, heels clicking defiantly against the polished concrete. She caught up with him just as he reached the access point, where biometric authentication awaited.
No words were exchanged.
A single press of Dante's fingerprint unlocked the doors leading into the main building.
But instead of heading straight for the private elevator tucked away behind security, Dante led her through the main reception—a deliberate move, one she didn't miss.
The instant they stepped inside, heads turned.
Gasps were audible. Eyes widened. Murmurs erupted like wildfire.
Anastasia Laurent walked beside Dante Alexander Montgomery like she belonged there—like the scandal of last week didn't rattle the financial sector to its core. Her tailored black dress was sleek, hugging her figure without apology, and the sharp slit at the thigh drew eyes like magnets. She didn't flinch under their scrutiny. If anything, she basked in it.
A subtle smile played at her lips as she flipped her hair back and strutted forward, chin high.
Let them look.
Let them all gape. Let them whisper.
She was Anastasia Laurent, and she wasn't here to play small.
An assistant at the front desk froze mid-sentence. An intern nearly walked into a wall. And at least two senior managers stood with open mouths as the infamous Dante—forever cold, forever untouchable—walked beside a woman with no ID badge and no explanation.
The security guards didn't dare question it.
Dante swiped his keycard, and the elevator doors opened with a soft ding.
The moment the doors closed behind them, the temperature seemed to drop.
Dante finally turned to her, eyes glinting like cut ice. "Was that the grand entrance you had in mind for your first day, Mrs. Montgomery?"
Anastasia's arms crossed smoothly over her chest. "You can still terminate our contract if my dress offends your precious corporate standards."
He stepped closer, his voice cool and unflinching. "You don't get to decide anything. I control what happens in your life. That was the agreement."
Her jaw clenched. "So I'm a secretary and a puppet now?"
"You're what I need you to be. Starting today," his voice was calm, almost disinterested, "you will act as my personal secretary. All calls go through you. All schedules, all meetings, every memo. I don't repeat myself. I don't tolerate disobedience. And I don't entertain theatrics in the workplace."
Anastasia gave a dry smile. "Then maybe you should've married a wallflower."
The elevator dinged again, cutting the tension short.
They stepped out into the executive floor.
It was sleek, modern, pristine—exactly what she'd expect from Dante. Frosted glass, soundproof doors, marble accents, and silence thick enough to choke on.
He opened the door to his office.
"Follow me."
Anastasia did, heels echoing defiantly against the polished floor. Dante's office was massive, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. But what caught her attention wasn't the minimalist décor or the panoramic skyline view.
It was the glass cubicle tucked inside the left corner of his office.
Her desk. Her workspace.
A secretary's spot—inside his office, behind transparent glass like some kind of exhibit.
She stood frozen.
"You expect me to work here?" she asked, turning to him sharply.
"Yes."
"There's no privacy."
"You're my secretary, not a CEO."
Her eyes narrowed. "You deliberately planned this."
He gave a small shrug. "I don't like people keeping secrets. Especially not the ones who sleep under my roof."
She inhaled, slow and sharp. "This is control. Not work."
"You agreed to both when you signed the contract."
Her gaze burned into him. "And if I refuse?"
Dante smirked faintly. "Then I'll assume you're choosing breach of contract. And you know what happens next."
She said nothing, her spine straightening instead.
Fine. Let him play god in this office.
But she would not bend.
---
Meanwhile, at the Anstorne Estate…
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the dining room, casting a warm glow over the mahogany table where the Anstorne family sat for breakfast. The silverware clinked softly against porcelain, but the tension was far from mild.
Maxime Anstorne, newly minted CEO of Anstorne Capital, sat at the head of the table, eyes flicking between his wife and daughter.
His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his suit impeccable—one of those men who treated breakfast like a boardroom.
Juliette sat across from him, her lips taut, jaw tight.
The third at the table—his wife, Madeline Anstorne—poured herself a cup of tea with grace that masked her calculating eyes.
"Juliette," Maxime said, voice sharp like a whip. "Do you know why the Laurent Corporation rebounded overnight after being strangled by our legal traps for months?"
Juliette didn't look up from her plate. "Because Anastasia married Dante Montgomery," she muttered through gritted teeth.
Silence.
Maxime's spoon clattered into his bowl with a loud clank.
He stood.
"I invested everything into that merger," he snapped. "Every goddamn backchannel. Every asset we froze. And you—" he pointed at his daughter with a trembling finger, "—sat there waiting for Dante to choose you like some... naïve girl in a ballroom."
Juliette's hands gripped her cutlery.
"I tried," she bit out, voice brittle.
"Tried?" he hissed. "You should've fought. Seduced him. Married him. You know what was at stake!"
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he slammed his palm on the table.
"Enough!"
The room fell deadly still.
Without another word, Maxime straightened his tie and strode out, his footsteps echoing through the marble hall as silence cloaked the room like a shroud.
Juliette stared after him, lips trembling, shoulders shaking from anger—not sorrow.
Madeline reached out and placed a perfectly manicured hand over her daughter's.
Her voice was low. Cold. Almost eerily calm.
"You should've gotten to him before Anastasia did," she said. "You were too soft. You waited. And now look."
Juliette didn't respond.
"But it's not over," Madeline added, eyes gleaming. "We'll bring her down. One piece at a time."
Juliette finally looked up. "And how exactly do we do that?"
Madeline smiled sweetly. "Every queen forgets—when you climb too fast, you never see who's waiting at the bottom to pull you down."