Emily didn't move. Couldn't. The locks had clicked open—she'd heard them—but her hand still clamped around the handle like the door might bite if she pulled it.
The words he'd left her with sat heavy in the air. Not shouted. Not even sharp. Just there. Like a promise dressed up as something polite.
"You should go," Alexander said finally. The fact that his voice was soft and somewhat sluggish only served to exacerbate the situation. "It's late. I imagine you've got an early morning."
Emily should've bolted right then. Locked herself in after slamming the door and running upstairs. However, his tone contained a hint of complacency. Like he'd dismissed her already, boxed her up as unimportant.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped before she could stop herself.
His smile came slow, knife-sharp. "I assume someone in your… position… doesn't have the luxury of sleeping in."
The way he said position made her blood heat. "My position?"
"Community service work is admirable," he said, studying her like she was a case study instead of a person, "but it hardly pays the bills." His gaze flicked down, sharp as a scalpel. "This dress—vintage, but not out of preference. Mended seam on the shoulder. Hem worn thin. Shoes half a size too small, but they matched, so you borrowed them. And the address you gave me? Converted warehouse. Neighborhood pretending it's on the rise but still rotting underneath."
Each word hit like a shove. Her cheeks burned hot, rage and humiliation tangled so tightly she couldn't breathe. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." His tone was detached, surgical. "Single woman, early twenties. College dropout, financial reasons. Lives in a cramped building—two roommates, minimum, judging by the mailboxes. You juggle more than one job, because the community center alone can't keep you afloat. Probably retail. Food service. Something that gives you calluses." His eyes dipped to her hands.
Emily's stomach turned. "Have you been investigating me?"
"I don't need to." He leaned back, casual, as if this was all obvious. "It's in the details. The way you held your champagne glass—like breaking it would cost you a week's groceries. The way you checked your phone, calculating that rideshare price before deciding to wait for a cab. Every gesture, every pause. It all writes your story."
"Stop." Although her voice was raspy, he didn't.
"And then your brother's call sealed it. The sheer panic in his tone upon realizing your location. The things he said about your mother working doubles. You dropping out of school. All fallout from your father thinking he could walk into my world without knowing the rules."
Her throat closed. Every private shame, dragged into light like it was just another item on his spreadsheet.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
He tilted his head, calm. "No. I'm a realist. And I'm offering you a way out."
That stopped her. Against her will. Her pulse stuttered. "What?"
From his jacket came a leather portfolio. He flipped it open, neat, precise, revealing a contract that made her eyes widen before she could stop herself. The number on that page—it wasn't real. Couldn't be.
"This is a position," he said smoothly. "Personal assistant. Special projects. Salary included." He tapped the figure with one long finger. "More than five years at your center."
Emily stared, her breath caught. Enough money to wipe her parents' medical debt. Enough for Daniel's law school. Enough for her to… maybe finish what she'd started at Columbia.
Her voice came out small. "What kind of special projects?"
"The kind that suit your skills." He didn't blink. "You're articulate. Sharp. Not cowed by power. You irritate me. You challenge me. That, Emily, is valuable."
Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
"I have rivals," he said. "Men who think they can anticipate me. But they've never seen me with someone like you at my side. Idealistic. Unimpressed and direct." His grin was as sharp as a knife. "You make me unpredictable. That's an advantage."
Her stomach flipped. "You want to employ me as a weapon."
"I want to use your presence. Your authenticity." He shrugged, easy, terrifying. "Call it method acting. You show up beside me at meetings, galas, negotiations. You don't play a role. You are the role. I won't reveal anything about you to my enemies."
"And you'd pay me enough to solve everything."
"Exactly." His eyes glimmered with triumph. "One year. Twelve months. Then your family's free. Your parents retired. Your brother debt-free. You, back at Columbia, if you want."
Her chest ached with the sheer temptation. She could see it—the weight lifted off her mother's shoulders, Daniel's relief, her father finally smiling again. All the holes patched, finally.
"There would be conditions," he went on, voice silk over steel. "You'd be on call. Travel. Discretion. Always."
Her eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?"
His smile widened, unhurried. "Nothing you can't handle. You've already proven you don't scare easily."
Emily's gaze locked on the contract, heart thudding unevenly. It was wrong. Every piece of it wrong. The timing, the money, the way he was watching her like she was already his. And yet—the figure on the page screamed louder than her doubt.
"I need time," she said finally.
"Of course." He snapped the portfolio shut. "But not too long. Opportunities don't wait."
She gripped the handle once more, yanked, and the door opened this time. Cold night air hit her skin like release. She climbed out, legs shaky, the city's noise rushing back into her ears.
"Emily," he called.
She turned, against her better judgment.
"Sweet dreams," he said, soft, dangerous.
Her chest tightened. It was as though the words were a lullaby and a knife.
Emily rushed towards her building after slamming the door. The Mercedes purred away behind her.
The elevator was dead again, so she trudged the three flights on burning feet. Every step a replay of his voice, his offer, that salary line burned into her mind.
When she forced her way inside, her apartment seemed much smaller than it already was. Cramped. Stifling. Bed folded against the wall, kitchenette barely big enough for a microwave, one window staring at brick. She stripped out of the silk dress carefully—couldn't afford not to return it—and tugged on her old Columbia sweatshirt.
With a dull thud, the clutch landed on her little table. She dug for her phone, planning to call Daniel, to tell him she hadn't done anything reckless. That she was fine.
That's when she saw it.
Another card. Heavy. Black. Silver lettering that shimmered even in her dim apartment.
Her name. A flight. Departure: Saturday morning, 8:00 AM. Destination: Napa Valley. Weekend. All expenses covered. Drake Industries Executive Retreat.
At the bottom, Alexander's initials in silver ink. And below it, smaller words that chilled her blood:
Declining this invitation would be… inadvisable.
Her knees gave. She stood there, gazing at the Murphy bed while seated firmly on it. When had he slipped it in? At the gala? The car? She hadn't noticed, hadn't seen, hadn't felt.
Her phone buzzed. Screen lit.
Alexander.
Pack light. This is the ideal time of year to visit Napa since the weather is so lovely. – A.D.
Her hand shook. Another message.
And Emily? Don't even think about running. I always find what I'm looking for.
The screen dimmed, leaving her own reflection ghosted back at her.
The card burned against her palm. The clock ticked toward dawn. And somewhere inside her gut, she already knew: he would come, whether she wanted him to or not.
The only issue was if she had the guts to say no.