By Monday morning, I was already regretting my life decisions.
The call time was 6:30 a.m. I arrived at 6:15, just to be safe. The building was almost deserted, with the skyline behind it still showing the last traces of dawn. TitanLux slept, but I did not dare to relax. Not when I was entering the lion's den.
A silent, glass elevator whisked me up to the 53rd floor, Damian Westwood's domain. The air was colder up here, as if the altitude had sucked all the warmth away. Everything was minimalist black and chrome, with no photos or personal effects. Only expensive silence.
Then I saw her.
A slender woman wearing a white silk blouse, dark red lipstick, and stilettos sharp enough to be weapons. She gave me an unimpressed look.
"You must be Naomi Blake," she replied, folding her arms. "I am Miranda Vale. Executive Assistant to the CFO and unofficial guardian of your sanity. You will want to remain on my good side.
I offered her a polite smile. "It is nice to meet you.
"Mm-hmm." She gave me a binder. "Here's your survival guide. Passwords, contacts, his coffee order, meeting schedule, dietary restrictions, favorite cigar brand, emergency jet clearance codes—the usual boss stuff."
"What are the jet clearance codes?" I blinked.
She ignored it. "Rule number one: Never keep him waiting. Rule number two: Do not ask questions. Rule three: He never brings the same woman to a gala more than once. Do not take it personally if you are asked to book someone you met last week."
I frowned. "I am not... a concierge."
Miranda gave a small laugh. "Oh, honey. That is exactly who you are. The difference is that you will do it while building his trust in you. What if he does? "You will be in a completely new tax bracket by Christmas."
The elevator chimed. The door slid open behind me.
Damian Westwood stepped outside.
"Blake," he replied simply. No hello. No smile. The same thunderstorm presence, wrapped in tailored charcoal.
"Mr. Westwood," I answered, trying not to sound breathless.
"Follow me."
---His office had floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of Manhattan that was almost unbelievable. But he did not notice it. He moved purposefully, dropping his briefcase on the desk and opening a large manila folder.
"You will be responsible for all travel arrangements, call logs, and social event planning," he said without looking up. "My former assistant had a loyalty issue."
I remained silent, but my curiosity grew.
He handed me the schedule. Tonight, Obsidian Noir. Ten p.m. "You will come with me."
I blinked. "Sir?"
He looked up. "This is a club. Private. You will be observing. Do not speak unless spoken to. Dress appropriately.
Dress appropriately.
Dress appropriately.
"You will figure it out."
That night, I stood in front of my closet, realizing I had nothing suitable for anything called Obsidian Noir.
So, I borrowed from Clara.
Clara Monét, my best friend and side hustle stylist, lived for these emergencies. She threw a slinky black silk dress at me, complete with strappy heels and a glittering clutch.
"Girl, this exudes danger. "He is not your type."
I muttered, "I do not even have a type."
"Right. Because your last 'type' was a barista who abandoned you after two dates and a Spotify playlist."
I grimaced. "Thanks."
She squeezed my shoulders. "Just be careful, okay?" Do men like that? They do not play fairly.
Obsidian Noir was not what I expected.
Hidden behind an unmarked door in Tribeca, it led to a world of crimson velvet, golden light, and quiet whispers. Slow and smoky jazz spilled out of somewhere. Every man was wearing a tuxedo. Every woman resembled a secret.
Damian was already present. At a private booth, drinking from a crystal glass. When he noticed me, he stood.
For the first time, I noticed him really looking at me.
For a brief moment, his eyes softened.
"Blake," he replied. "You clean up nicely."
"Thank you, Sir."
He offered his arm. I hesitated before taking it.
Whatever this night was about, it was not all business.
And I was already in deeper than I had anticipated.