The city throbbed in a way that made Amelia Gray feel both exhilarated and exhausted at the same time. Neon signage bled into the night air, cars blared their horns impatiently at crosswalks, and sidewalks swarmed with hurried footsteps. Somewhere amidst all the chaos, Amelia clutched the strap of her worn satchel and tried to ignore the way her stomach twisted with hunger and ambition.
She had exactly twenty-three dollars left in her checking account, rent due in three days, and a boss who seemed to take great pleasure in grinding her soul into the pavement. But Amelia did not give up—not when she had fought her way out of a small town where people told her dreams didn't pay the bills.
It was another late evening at the hotel tonight. She pulled on the constricting collar of her uniform and let out a sigh. Five-star luxury was her daily existence—the grand chandeliers, the velvet carpets, the guests reeking of designer brands. But she was none of it. She was the shadow running between corridors, the invisible hand carrying trays of champagne, the polite smile serving people who would not remember her name by dawn.
Still, Amelia had a plan. She would work hard enough, save carefully, and tolerate her boss's acidic tongue, and then she'd have enough to take the graduate course she'd been eyeing. She wanted more than just to get by. She had to build something of her own.
"Gray!
Her name snapped through the air like a whip. Amelia turned to see her supervisor, Mrs. Hughes, marching toward her with her ever-present clipboard. The older woman's hair was pulled back so tight it seemed to stretch her skin, and her lips pressed together like she'd been born frowning.
"You're late," Mrs. Hughes said, glancing at her watch though Amelia had clocked in exactly on time.
"I've been here ten minutes already," Amelia replied warily, flattening her tone.
Mrs. Hughes's eyes narrowed. "Don't get smart with me. There are VIPs in the ballroom at that gala, and I don't want you tripping over your own feet in front of them. You blow it tonight, Gray, you're out."
Amelia choked back a retort. Losing her job was not an option. "Got it."
"Good." Mrs. Hughes thrust a silver tray into her hands. "Table seven needs refills."
Amelia threaded her way through the ballroom, eyes scanning the crowd. It was a different world—the kind where women spent more on dresses than she made in a year and men clasped hands to finalize deals that were likely worth millions. She always felt so very much like an outsider here, watching a play in which she could never have a role.
And yet, deep inside, Amelia was not jealous. She was intrigued. She wondered how these people built empires, how power operated behind doors, how fortunes were won and lost with a single decision. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn enough in the shadows to step into the light one day.
Balancing the tray with professional grace, Amelia threaded her glances between the tables until she reached the party at number seven. She lowered her eyes respectfully, as needed, and refilled their glasses with iced champagne. The men barely missed a beat in their discussion, save one who eyed her with mild interest before returning to discuss a merger that sounded like it could feed an entire neighborhood for a year.
As Amelia set down the tray, her mind wandered briefly—what would it be like to have that kind of power? Not to flaunt it, but to use it. To create security, stability, maybe even change lives.
She was so lost in thought that she had not noticed the man had come into the ballroom until a wave of silence followed in his wake. Heads turned discreetly, conversations fell off, and even the orchestra itself paused for half a beat.
Amelia's head came up—and her breath caught.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of confidence in his movements that bespoke a man who was aware that the world bent to his will. His suit was black and perfectly tailored, his dark hair slicked back in a style that said as much about danger as it did about elegance. People stepped aside without being asked, creating space for him automatically.
She didn't yet know his name, but the shift in the room told her everything she needed to know: this man was a man of significance. A man of influence.
And when his eyes scanned the ballroom and locked on hers, Amelia was pinned where she stood like prey under the gaze of a predator.
She wrenched her attention away, heart racing. She had no business looking at men like that—definitely not guests who lived in universes galaxies away from her own. She occupied herself with the straightening of glasses on the tray, attempting to pretend her hands weren't trembling.
"Excuse me," a voice drawled, as smooth as velvet and as sharp as steel.
Amelia tensed before slowly facing him. He was now directly in front of her, close enough that she caught the faint whiff of expensive cologne. Up close, he was even more heart-stopping—chiseled jaw, storm cloud eyes, a mouth that looked as though it had never smiled for no reason.
"You missed one," he said to her, pointing to a half-full glass on the table.
Amelia gulped. "Sorry, sir." She reached to pour, but the tray wobbled slightly under her hand.
His hand shot out, steadying the tray with ease. Strong fingers brushed against hers—momentarily, but a shiver ran up her arm.
Her cheeks warmed, and she pulled back quickly. "Thanks."
He inclined his head, his gaze scrutinizing her with uncomfortable intensity. "Do I know you?"
"No, sir," Amelia answered stubbornly, trying not to let her voice shake.
His lips twisted in what was not a smile. "Strange. You look… familiar."
Mrs. Hughes swooped down on them like a bird of prey before Amelia could say anything. "Mr. Blackwood! Such a pleasure to have you come tonight." Her tone was honey, her posture submissive. She pushed Amelia aside like a piece of furniture.
Blackwood. That was his name, then.
Amelia's chest tightened as reality hit her. Alexander Blackwood—the billionaire investor whose face graced magazines, whose name topped the headlines, whose rumored ruthlessness made veteran businessmen tremble.
And now, he had looked at her. Spoken to her.
Amelia slipped away unnoticed as Mrs. Hughes fawned over him, her own heart pounding in manners she refused to admit. She told herself sternly that men such as Alexander Blackwood were not only unavailable—they were also hazardous.
Nevertheless… his gaze had held.
Too long for comfort.
Amelia stepped back toward the service hall, forcing herself to focus on her job. Her heart was still unsettled, her hands shaking at the memory of Alexander's touch. It was ridiculous—she barely knew the man, and yet her body had betrayed her with a reaction she would not admit.
"Gray!" Mrs. Hughes whispered the moment she caught up with her. "You nearly embarrassed us in front of Mr. Blackwood. Do you know who that man is?"
Amelia nodded silently. She had already realized.
He effectively controls the other half of the businesses in this city," Mrs. Hughes continued, her voice low but cutting. "He could destroy us with a phone call. You stay away from him. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Amelia whispered.
But fate had a warped sense of humor.
Barely an hour afterward, Amelia was balancing a second tray of champagne when a distracted guest stumbled backward. The elbow of the man caught her tray at an angle, and the glasses teetered dangerously. Amelia grabbed to right them, but it was too late—golden liquid soaked her uniform, and one glass crashed onto the shiny floor.
Gasps rippled through the nearby throng of people.
Heat scorched Amelia's cheeks. She fell into a crouch immediately, gathering shards, apologizing under her breath as if the sound of her own voice might mend the shame weighing her down.
"Careful," a cool voice addressed her from above.
Amelia froze. Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
Alexander Blackwood simply stood, impossibly calm, his storm-grey eyes on her. All the guests surrounding them seemed to be holding their collective breath to see if he would sneer, dismiss, or destroy her with a single word.
"I—" Amelia began, but her throat shut.
He extended his hand. Not impatiently, not in derision—just offering.
For a moment, an impossible moment, Amelia looked at it. The billionaire helping a stranded waitress off the floor—it didn't add up with the ruthless legend she'd heard whispered in the hotel corridors.
Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his. His handshake was strong, steady, grounding her in a way that made her knees quiver, not stiffen.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Accidents do happen," he said, his voice level but with a hint of something she couldn't define. His eyes ran over her ruined uniform briefly before returning to her face. "But you should be more careful. Not everyone here is so forgiving."
Her mouth opened, a protest quivering on her tongue. Forgiving? He was speaking to her like a child, as if her mistake had been some character defect rather than an accident.
But before she could respond, Mrs. Hughes swooped down on them, nearly tripping over her own feet in her eagerness. "Mr. Blackwood, I apologize for this girl's oversight. I'll have her sacked at once—"
"That won't be needed."
Alexander's voice sliced in, silky and commanding. It closed Mrs. Hughes's mouth immediately.
"She's all right," he continued, his eyes still on Amelia. "Have her get a new uniform."
And with that, he turned and departed, every inch the untouchable monarch of the room.
Amelia stood stiff, her cheeks still warmer. Humiliation was not the worst of it. It was the way in which he'd looked at her—as though he'd seen something, as though he'd known just how to bring her composure crashing down with a single word.
She hated it. She hated that she'd needed to request his help.
But the worst was that a part of her wasn't furious—a part of her was curious.
The rest of her shift passed in a blur. Amelia kept her head down and out of the ballroom as much as possible. When she was finally released, the night had already spilled into the early hours of the morning. She changed into jeans and a plain sweater from the hotel uniform and stepped out into the chilly air.
Freedom lasted three minutes.
"Wait."
Her name halted her in her tracks. Amelia turned, her heart missing a beat.
Alexander Blackwood leaned against a black vehicle parked at the curb, as if he'd been waiting for her. His jacket was removed, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal a glimpse of bronzed skin at his throat. In spite of the muted glow of the streetlamp, he appeared to radiate power.
Amelia's first instinct was to keep on walking. Nothing good could come from talking to him. But curiosity tugged at her, the way fire does a moth.
"Yes?" she said cautiously.
"You work here a lot?" he asked, rising from the car.
Her eyebrows narrowed. "Why?"
Since I don't get to see the same faces twice." His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes remained on hers, probing, as if he was trying to place her. "And yet. you look familiar."
Amelia bristled. "I serve drinks and wipe tables. That's all. Nothing to remember."
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or challenge. "Don't be so sure.
She crossed her arms, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "If you're here to lecture me on being more careful, save your breath. I've already had one."
That earned her the faintest of smirks from him, a fleeting bend of lips that softened his otherwise severe countenance. "Noted.
Silence hung between them, thick with a tension that had nothing to do with words. Amelia shifted uneasily, suddenly aware of how close they stood, how his presence electrified the night air like a storm ready to break.
Finally, he spoke: "What's your name?"
Amelia hesitated. Something in her screamed that to provide it was to take a gamble—that men like him never asked questions casually.
But something else whispered that not to respond would only intrigue him.
"Amelia," she said quietly.
"Amelia," he repeated, as if testing the sound. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice dropped lower. "We'll meet again."
Before she could demand what he meant, he opened the car door and slid inside. The vehicle pulled away smoothly, leaving Amelia staring after it with a mix of relief and dread.
Because something told her he wasn't wrong.
They would meet again.
And when they did, nothing in her life would ever be the same.
The subway shrieked as Amelia clutched the metal pole, swaying with the movement of the train. The lights overhead flickered, casting temporary shadows on the faces of fatigued commuters. She kept her head lowered, her mind reliving the night in ruthless replays.
Alexander Blackwood.
It was absurd. His kind of man did not notice her kind of woman. And if they did, it was only long enough to dismiss them. But he had regarded her as if she were a person worthy of note, as if he was trying to solve some puzzle hidden in her face.
She hated how the memory made her pulse quicken. She hated it even more that a part of her had wanted him to look longer.
"Don't be stupid, Amelia," she muttered under her breath. "He's a billionaire. You're a waitress with twenty-three dollars to your name."
When she at last reached her little apartment, the groan of the door and the musty scent of old wallpaper greeted her home. The space was tiny—a small area with a kitchenette and a bed shoved against the wall—but it was hers. She toe-kicked off her shoes, dropped her satchel to the ground, and collapsed onto the bed on a sigh.
She lay for a time, looking at the ceiling and listening to the far-off murmur of the city beyond her window. She had aspirations—large ones—but nights like these served to remind her of how tenuous they were. One misstep, one shattered glass, and she might well lose even the small security that she possessed.
But Amelia did not brood. She reached for her notebook, the one where she had scribbled plans and half-formed schemes. Business courses she wanted to take, businesses she needed to start, books she needed to read. Her notebook was her lifeline—proof she would never be relegated to the background forever.
Her phone suddenly beeped, and she startled. She frowned, grabbing it. The screen glowed with an unknown number.
Cautiously, she answered. "Hello?"
"Miss Gray?" A man's voice, smooth and professional.
"Yes?"
"This is Blackwood Enterprises. Mr. Alexander Blackwood requests your presence tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. His office will send a car."
Amelia's heart lurched. "What? That's—there must be a mistake. Why would he—"
"No mistake, Miss Gray. He was very specific." The line clicked dead before she could argue.
She sat frozen, phone pressed to her ear, pulse hammering.
Why would Alexander Blackwood want to see her?
She had no connection to him, no reason to be on his radar—unless last night's fiasco had had more of an impact than she'd thought.
But that was impossible. Billionaires didn't summon waitresses to their offices. Not unless…
Amelia dismissed the thought. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.
Morning. It came too early. Amelia dressed in her best but slightly worn outfit—a plain blouse and skirt that saw better days—and tried to do something with her hair that would be professional enough. She hated that she was anxious, that her hands shook as she made the cosmetic gesture of applying makeup.
At precisely nine, a black sedan pulled up in front of her building. The driver emerged and opened the door quietly. Amelia hesitated for only a second before sliding in.
The inside of the car reeked of leather and power. She looked out of the window as the city flew by, her stomach twisting with every block they drove. By the time the car stopped in front of a massive glass skyscraper, Amelia's mouth was parched.
The building loomed over her like a shrine to ambition—Blackwood Enterprises in block letters on its facade. People flowed in and out, each one sleek and intent, as if they belonged to an elite league of existence.
The driver followed her through the lobby, where marble floors gleamed and security guards watched with sharp eyes. Elevators whisked her upward until she stood in front of double doors that looked more like the approach to a throne room than an office.
The double doors were opened by the assistant, and Amelia passed through.
Alexander Blackwood sat behind a massive desk, sunlight streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows at his back. He didn't rise when she entered, but his eyes—stormy, unreadable—lifted to hers.
"Miss Gray." His voice was calm, commanding. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't appear."
Amelia swallowed. "I didn't have much of a choice, did I?"
That elicited the faintest whisper of amusement in his eyes. "No."
He inclined his head toward the chair across from him. "Sit."
She did so unwillingly, her heart racing. She felt diminutive in this office—dwarfed by its luxury, its size, and most of all by the man who was looking at her with such unnerving intensity.
"Do you have any idea why you're here?" he asked.
"No," Amelia said honestly. "And I'd very much like to know."
Alexander leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. There was a silence, dense and oppressive, for a moment. Then, finally, he spoke.
"I have a proposition for you."
Amelia's eyes went wide. "A… proposition?"
His eyes narrowed, locking hers in place. "Yes. One that would alter everything."
Her breath hitched, confusion warring with fear. She had no idea what he meant—but the certainty in his voice told her one thing:
Whatever this proposal was, it would not let her go unscathed.