The city never stopped moving. Manhattan's pulse was constant, sharp, and unforgiving. Horns blared. Taxi doors slammed. Expensive shoes clicked along slick pavement. And in the middle of it all, Aria Monroe clutched her worn leather portfolio, sprinting toward a tower of glass and steel as if her life depended on it.
Because it did.
She skidded into the lobby of Blackwood International, nearly knocking over a security guard with a tray of coffees. Her lungs burned. Her cheap heels throbbed against her soles. But she had five minutes to make it to the 70th floor before she lost the only chance she had left in this city.
"ID?" the guard snapped, eyeing her rumpled blouse.
"I'm here for the internship interview. Aria Monroe," she huffed, brushing her wild curls from her eyes.
The man scanned her license and buzzed her through. The moment she stepped onto the sleek marble floor, she felt it—power. It dripped from the walls of the lobby like perfume, expensive and intimidating.
She jabbed the elevator button, tapping her foot.
Five minutes.
Four.
Ding.
The doors slid open and she stepped inside, grateful the car was empty. She hit 70 and leaned against the wall, heart hammering.
But just as the doors began to close—
A hand shot out, stopping them.
A man stepped in.
Tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed in a tailored navy suit that hugged his broad shoulders. A coat slung over one arm. He smelled of cedarwood and wealth. No tie. No smile.
Aria's breath caught.
He didn't glance her way. Just hit the button for 70, even though it was already glowing.
The doors shut.
The elevator began to rise.
Silence.
Except for the quiet hum of movement, the soft tick of the floor counter. Aria straightened her back, trying not to fidget. She snuck a glance at him.
His jawline looked carved. Sharp. Harsh. His dark hair was slicked back with precision. His hands—strong, veined—rested casually by his sides. Cold. Composed.
She shouldn't have stared.
He turned. Slowly. Caught her eyes with his.
Deep gray. Piercing. Like a thunderstorm waiting to break.
"You're staring," he said, voice low.
Aria blinked, flushing. "I—I wasn't."
A single brow arched. "You were. But go on."
She cleared her throat. "Sorry. You just look… familiar."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Do I?"
She nodded quickly. "I'm here for an interview. Maybe I saw your photo on the website."
"Maybe."
The elevator ticked past 40.
Then jolted.
Stopped.
Lights flickered.
Aria gasped, clutching the railing. "What the hell?"
The man sighed and tapped the emergency button. "Power cut. The storm last night likely knocked something out."
Storm?
Aria stared at the blinking lights, panic rising. "I—I can't miss this interview. If I don't make it—"
"You won't," he said, calm.
She turned on him. "Easy for you to say. You probably don't have to beg for a job."
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement?
"What job are you begging for?" he asked.
"Marketing internship."
"At Blackwood?"
"Yes," she said, pacing. "It's competitive. One opening. I've applied four times. I need this."
"Why?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why do you care?"
"I'm bored," he said simply. "And you're... interesting."
Aria stared at him. "You're enjoying this."
"Not particularly," he said, stepping closer. "But I'm curious. You don't dress like someone from money. That portfolio is at least five years old. Those shoes are dying. And yet you're here, on time—barely—and desperate."
She bristled. "You're judging me."
"I'm observing you."
"Same thing."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You're passionate. Fierce. But used to being underestimated."
"You know nothing about me," she shot back.
"Not yet," he murmured.
The elevator jerked again, this time surging upward. The lights steadied. The car resumed its ascent.
Aria exhaled in relief.
"Finally," she whispered.
As the doors opened on the 70th floor, she stepped out without looking back.
The receptionist blinked at her. "Miss Monroe?"
"Yes. Sorry I'm—"
"You're just in time. The panel is ready for you."
Aria smoothed her blouse, checked her portfolio, and stepped into the boardroom, determined to make an impression.
And then—she froze.
Seated at the head of the long glass table, in the very seat of power, was the man from the elevator.
His storm-gray eyes met hers.
This time, he smiled like a predator.
"Miss Monroe," he said smoothly. "Welcome to your interview."