---
Emery Clarke sat outside the glass office, clutching a leather folder that had seen better days.
Her fingers twitched over the zipper like it was a lifeline. The receptionist hadn't said much—just gestured toward the chair with a forced smile and offered a bottle of water. Emery declined. Her stomach was in knots, and she'd already rehearsed her answers a hundred times.
One floor beneath the clouds, at the heart of Manhattan's skyline, the atmosphere was too sterile. Too silent. The kind of silence that screamed you don't belong here.
Then the door opened.
"Nicholas Ashford will see you now."
The receptionist's voice barely broke through the buzzing in Emery's ears. She stood, smoothed down her thrift-store blazer, and stepped inside.
---
Nicholas Ashford was not what she expected.
He was worse.
Tall, sharp-jawed, and impossibly composed, he stood at the window with his back to her. The city lights cast silver lines over his black suit, making him look almost sculpted—like some dark Greek god with a vendetta. He didn't turn around when he spoke.
"You're late."
"I'm early," Emery replied before she could stop herself.
His head turned. Only slightly. Enough to show a profile carved in cool indifference. "And yet you made me wait."
She bit the inside of her cheek. Great. Day one and she was already mouthing off to a billionaire.
He turned fully now, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were the color of winter—steel-gray, unreadable. They flicked over her like she was a spreadsheet.
"Sit."
She did.
"Name?"
"Emery Clarke."
"Experience?"
"Five years as an executive assistant. Six if you count the six months I did two jobs for one paycheck."
His mouth twitched. A smirk? No, just a ghost of something close to recognition.
"I assume you've done your research."
"Yes," she said, "Ashford Enterprises. Multi-sector holdings. M&A strategy. Recent expansion into renewable tech. And you were named 'Most Relentless CEO' by Forbes two years in a row."
That definitely was a smirk this time.
"Flattery won't get you the job."
"It wasn't flattery. It was a warning."
He paused.
Interesting.
"Why apply?"
She swallowed. "Because I need the money."
Straight. Honest. Stark. Something flickered behind his eyes, but he didn't comment.
He circled the desk, leaned back against it casually—too casually for someone so rigid—and folded his arms.
"I don't like games, Miss Clarke. I don't like drama. And I don't sleep with employees."
Emery blinked. "I wasn't planning on offering."
Another flicker. This one almost a laugh.
"Most women in this building already have. Don't be naïve."
"I'm not naïve," she said coolly. "But thank you for the warning."
Silence stretched between them, long and taut like a wire ready to snap.
Then he stood.
"You're hired."
She blinked. "I… what?"
"You start Monday. 6 a.m. Not a minute late."
"Don't you want to check my references?"
He tilted his head. "I don't hire based on references. I hire based on instincts. And mine say you'll either be the best assistant I've ever had—or the one who burns the place down."
She stood, confused. "So which is it?"
Nicholas smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Let's find out."
---