The building was too quiet at 6 a.m.
Emery's heels echoed down the marble hallway like a countdown to something she couldn't name. She clutched her phone, double-checked the time—5:58 a.m.—and paused outside the glass doors of the executive suite.
Breathe, Clarke. You've survived worse.
A security guard nodded her in without asking for ID. She blinked. Either Nicholas Ashford had pulled strings in advance, or this place ran on face recognition and money.
The office smelled like cedar, ambition, and espresso.
He was already there.
Of course he was.
Nicholas stood in front of his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He didn't look up when she entered. Just spoke.
"You're early. I approve."
"I aim to impress."
He finally looked at her—and for a second, his gaze lingered. Not like a man checking out a woman. Like a general studying a weapon.
"You'll need this." He held out a leather-bound notebook, engraved with the Ashford logo and her name already etched in gold foil.
She blinked. "This was made over the weekend."
"I don't waste time."
He crossed the room, his presence like a force field, and passed her a phone. "Your company line. It's encrypted. You'll answer it when I call, no matter the hour."
"And if I'm asleep?"
"You won't be."
Charming.
By 7:30 a.m., she had taken twelve calls, rescheduled three board meetings, and deciphered his shorthand so well it terrified her.
By 8:00, she'd already snapped at a VP who tried to pull rank, and Nicholas hadn't said a word—though she caught the ghost of a smirk when she held her ground.
By 9:15, her computer crashed, and she had it rebooted by 9:22.
By 10:00, she wanted to cry. But didn't.
Because Emery Clarke didn't cry. Not at work. Not in front of wolves.
"Hold my calls." His voice came from behind her shoulder.
She turned. "You're going to the 11:00?"
He nodded. "And you're coming with me."
She froze. "Excuse me?"
Nicholas turned fully now, adjusting the cufflinks of his charcoal suit. "It's a client-facing meeting. I need someone who can read a room."
"You have assistants for that."
"I don't trust them."
Her brows lifted. "You trust me?"
"I trust your instincts," he said simply. "And your sarcasm. People underestimate sarcasm. It keeps the liars on edge."
The town car ride was silent.
Emery sat beside him, fingers fidgeting with her pen as the streets blurred by. He didn't look at her. Just scrolled through emails on his phone with the calm detachment of a man who didn't lose.
"You were poor growing up."
Her head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"
He glanced up, calm. "You hesitate before accepting luxury. You hold your bag like it's worth more to you than what's inside. And you wear thrift clothing tailored to look expensive. So, yes—poor."
Emery bristled. "You're incredibly rude, you know that?"
He smiled faintly. "Yes. But I'm rarely wrong."
"You're not wrong," she muttered. "But you are an ass."
To her surprise, Nicholas laughed. It was brief and dry, like he didn't get much practice at it. Then his face smoothed again. Cold. Focused.
"I grew up with nothing too. The difference is, I refused to stay there."
"I'm not planning on staying either," she said quietly.
"Good," he replied. "Then maybe we won't kill each other after all."
The meeting was with a rival firm trying to play nice.
Emery didn't say much—just watched, took notes, and read expressions. But Nicholas leaned on her unexpectedly.
"What's your take?" he asked suddenly, mid-meeting.
Three suited men turned to her. So did one woman in red heels and shark eyes.
Emery blinked. Then spoke.
"I think you're stalling," she said to the man leading the pitch. "You want our brand but not our terms. And you're underestimating Ashford's leverage."
The room fell still.
Nicholas's mouth curved—barely.
"I told you," he said calmly. "She's more useful than half this floor."
Back at the office, she found a white envelope on her desk. No name. Just her name in black ink.
Inside: a typed note.
Watch your back. He destroys everything he touches. Don't become another casualty.
She stared at it for a full minute, heartbeat crawling into her throat.
Then she folded it, locked it in a drawer, and stood.
Because if someone thought she could be scared off that easily, they didn't know Emery Clarke at all.