Amara had done many terrifying things in her life.
Sung karaoke in front of strangers.
Tried to make a soufflé from scratch.
Said "you too" to a waiter who told her to enjoy the meal.
But walking into Voss International on her first day—fully aware that her boss had once had his face between her thighs?
Top tier horror.
She stepped off the elevator wearing a blazer too sharp for her budget and heels that felt like penance. Her name badge hung like a dare on her chest.
AMARA HAYES
Marketing Strategist – Voss International
God help her.
She smiled awkwardly at the receptionist from the day before, who offered a thin, polite nod and absolutely zero support. It was fine. She didn't expect fanfare.
She just wanted to get through the day without spontaneously combusting.
"Miss Hayes."
She turned—and instantly regretted it.
The woman in front of her looked like she'd been carved from marble by a particularly bitchy Renaissance sculptor. Platinum bun. Red lips. Black sheath dress that probably cost more than Amara's rent.
Celeste. Executive Assistant to Damien Voss. Gatekeeper to Hell.
"You'll be reporting to me until Mr. Voss assigns you to a project," Celeste said. "Come."
No "welcome." No "congrats." Just "come." Like she was a dog.
Off to a great start.
Celeste walked like the hallway was a runway and she was five seconds from firing someone just for blinking too loud. Amara kept up, trying not to trip or panic or accidentally scream.
"This is the marketing department," Celeste said, gesturing vaguely toward a sleek open-concept workspace filled with plants, exposed brick, and people in stress-chic clothing.
"You'll have a desk over there. Your log-in credentials are in your inbox. Mr. Voss expects weekly performance updates. Don't be late. Don't be loud. Don't—"
"Sleep with the boss?" Amara muttered before she could stop herself.
Celeste stopped. Turned slowly. One brow raised.
Amara smiled sweetly. "Joking. Just a little onboarding humor."
Celeste didn't laugh. "Mr. Voss values discretion. Don't disappoint him."
Noted. Celeste's blood is likely 87% iced coffee and resentment.
She got through most of the morning by pretending Damien didn't exist. Which worked right up until 11:32 AM, when Celeste reappeared at her desk like a sexy ghost from a productivity horror film.
"Mr. Voss would like to see you."
Of course he would.
The door to his office loomed like a portal to every bad decision she'd ever made.
She knocked once. Heard the low rumble of "Come in." And stepped inside.
There he was. Immaculate in navy. Staring at his laptop like it had personally offended him.
He didn't look up. "Close the door."
She did.
Heartbeat: elevated. Eye contact: avoided. Dignity: missing.
Finally, he looked at her.
"Settle in okay?"
"Define 'okay,'" she said before her filter caught up. "But yes. Thank you."
A flicker of a smile. Almost. Not quite.
"I have a meeting this afternoon," he said. "I want you to sit in."
She blinked. "Me?"
"You're here to observe and contribute," he said. "That starts today."
She opened her mouth, then shut it again.
Was this some kind of test? A trap? A very elaborate HR violation?
"I—yes. Okay. Of course."
He stood, gathering a sleek folder and his phone. Then paused.
"I trust your discretion."
"Right. Discretion. My favorite."
His eyes lingered on her for a second too long. "And Amara?"
She swallowed. "Yeah?"
"Wear something… sharper next time."
She blinked. "Sharper?"
"Professional. Clean lines. You're representing me now."
He didn't say it like a threat. But it felt like one. Or a promise. She couldn't tell.
He brushed past her, cologne and confidence trailing in his wake.
And Amara stood in his office, one breath away from combusting.
Her boss was a storm in a suit.
And she had just stepped directly into the eye of it.
[END OF CHAPTER 3]