Amara adjusted the collar of her blazer for the fifth time since stepping into the elevator.
It was technically the same blazer from earlier, but now it was buttoned properly, straightened, and screaming, "Look at me, I am composed, employed, and definitely not sleeping with my boss."
Even though, y'know. She had.
Just once. Totally anonymous. Extremely chaotic.
And now that boss was standing beside her in the elevator like sin incarnate in a Brioni suit.
"Relax," Damien said, not looking at her.
"I am relaxed," she lied.
"You're vibrating like a phone on silent."
She scowled. "Maybe that's just my default setting around egotistical billionaires."
His lips twitched. Was that almost a smile? God forbid.
The meeting was held in a glass conference room two floors down. The kind of space where fortunes were made and egos were bruised with power-point precision.
Damien slid into the head chair, all dominance and sharp edges, while Amara took the one beside him, feeling very much like the new kid on the playground—with a bomb strapped to her resume.
Across the table sat a team from a boutique fashion label Voss International was considering investing in. Slick, shiny executives. All male. All visibly trying to figure out what Amara's role was—assistant? Girlfriend? Arm candy?
Try "wildcard," boys.
The meeting began.
Amara stayed quiet at first, watching Damien flip through financial reports and lean into numbers with the cold precision of someone who probably did calculus for fun.
And then it happened.
One of the fashion execs—a man named Graham—made a joke. A bad one.
"You know how women are with branding—sparkles and drama. Sell the story and they'll buy anything."
Everyone chuckled.
Except Amara.
She didn't mean to speak. It just came out.
"Actually, women are the reason this market exists. Sparkles and drama sell because we made them valuable—not because we fall for them."
The room quieted.
Damien's eyes slid toward her. Not with annoyance.
With interest.
Graham's fake laugh wobbled. "Didn't mean to offend. Didn't realize you had opinions on this."
Amara blinked, smile ice-cold. "I'm a woman, Graham. Not a lamp."
Oof. Oops.
The meeting moved on, but the energy shifted.
Amara expected Damien to scold her afterward. To remind her that being seen but not heard was the polite thing to do in a room full of billionaire bros.
Instead, when the meeting ended and the room cleared, he turned to her, arms crossed.
"You're not subtle."
"Thank you?"
"That wasn't a compliment."
She shrugged. "I didn't think you brought me along for my subtlety."
He stared at her for a long, long moment. The silence between them crackled like heat on concrete.
"I brought you because I thought you'd listen. Learn. Blend in."
She tilted her head. "Sounds like you want an intern, not a strategist."
Another long pause. He stepped closer.
Close enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold his gaze.
"I want someone who understands power," he said quietly. "And how to wield it. Not waste it."
She didn't blink. "You don't scare me, Mr. Voss."
His mouth curved. Not a smile. More like a dare.
"You should."
They stood there, neither moving, the air between them thick with tension.
Not just sexual. Emotional. Professional. Something that could either build an empire or set it on fire.
Then he stepped back.
"Return to your desk," he said, cool again. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Dismissed.
Back at her desk, Amara sat down slowly, heart hammering in her chest like she'd just survived a verbal sniper duel.
Celeste walked by with a stack of folders and an expression that screamed "I know something you don't."
"Careful," she said, voice light. "Mr. Voss doesn't usually tolerate interruptions."
Amara didn't look up.
"I don't usually tolerate bullshit. Looks like we'll both have to adapt."
Celeste raised a brow. Smirked. Walked away.
And for the first time since accepting the job, Amara felt like she belonged.
Sort of.
Maybe.
Possibly?
God, what the hell had she just gotten herself into?
[END OF CHAPTER 4]