Ava's heart pounded against her ribs as she pushed through the glass doors of Drake Enterprises. Six minutes late. Just six—but she knew it might as well have been six hours.
The elevator crawled upward, floor by floor, dragging out her dread. Her palms were slick against her purse as she gripped it tightly, whispering silent prayers. Maybe Lucien wouldn't notice. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe—
"Miss Lane."
His voice sliced through the air the second she stepped onto the executive floor. He stood at the doorway of his office, calm in his charcoal suit, dark eyes locked on her with unnerving precision.
"Mr. Drake, I'm so sorry. The bus—"
"My office. Now."
The icy finality in his tone made her stomach sink. She followed him inside, her heels clicking too loudly against the marble, each step a countdown. The door shut behind them with a soft click that felt like a lock turning.
"Six minutes," he said flatly, not even bothering to sit. "You were six minutes late."
"I know, but—"
"Did I ask for excuses?"
Her mouth snapped shut. His stare, sharp and predatory, pinned her where she stood.
"I told you yesterday—punctuality is non-negotiable. Did you think I was joking?"
"No, sir."
"Good." He turned, picked up a thick stack of documents from his desk, and dropped them into her hands. The weight nearly made her stagger. Every page bore the red stamp of CONFIDENTIAL.
"Since you've apparently got spare time, you can use it productively," he said.
She blinked down at the stack. "Mr. Drake, I have other work—"
"Your other work can wait. This is your priority now." His eyes narrowed, voice low and edged. "Unless, of course, you'd rather start searching for another job?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. Ava thought of the bills stacked at home, her mother's prescriptions, the creditors' calls that never stopped.
"No, sir."
"Then begin."
Her fingers trembled as she opened the first file. The pages swam with numbers, legal jargon, acquisition details that seemed endless. She forced her voice steady at first, but it grew thinner, shakier with every line.
"The quarterly earnings report shows a net profit of two-point-seven billion dollars…"
Lucien didn't type. He didn't make calls. He didn't move from behind his desk. He only watched her. Those dark eyes tracked her every pause, every breath.
An hour slipped by. Then another.
Her legs burned from standing. Her throat ached, voice rasping as she read line after line, number after number. She shifted her weight to ease the pain, but his sharp voice cut across the silence before she could fully adjust.
"Stand still."
She froze. Her legs trembled, a faint shake running up her thighs as the files seemed to double in weight. Her throat burned with dryness, but she didn't dare ask for water.
"Continue."
Three hours had crawled by. Her calves were on fire. Her voice cracked over the word subsidiary, and she cleared her throat quickly, desperate to keep going.
"The merger with Blackstone Industries requires—"
Her voice gave out entirely, dropping to a broken whisper.
Still, he said nothing. No reaction. Just that unblinking, unyielding gaze—dark eyes that seemed to peel her open, layer by layer.
Four hours. Her vision blurred. Heat and frustration pressed at the corners of her eyes, but she forced the tears back. She refused to let him see her break.
Her legs quivered now, weak and unsteady. Her voice rasped, cracking every few words. But she read on. She stood her ground. Because stopping—losing this job—was not an option.
At last, when her body felt moments from collapse, Lucien rose.
He moved from behind his desk, slow and deliberate, circling until he stood directly before her. Close enough for her to catch the sharp, expensive bite of his cologne. Close enough that she could see the faint flecks of gold buried in the darkness of his eyes.
"Do you understand why this was necessary?" His voice was calm, low, controlled.
Ava gave the smallest nod, her throat too raw to trust with sound.
"Good." He slid the files from her grip, his fingers brushing against hers in a fleeting touch that still managed to send a shiver darting up her spine. "Because this is what happens when you disappoint me."
His words lingered, quiet and heavy. "And I hate being disappointed."
She swayed on legs that barely obeyed her, waiting for a dismissal she knew wouldn't comfort her. Waiting for the nightmare to end.
Instead, he crossed to a closet she hadn't even noticed and pulled out a shoebox. Designer — unmistakably expensive. He set it on his desk and lifted the lid. Inside lay a pair of black stilettos: sleek, elegant, at least four inches of knife-heel perfection.
"These are for you."
Ava blinked, confused. "I don't understand."
A curl crossed his mouth that anyone else might call a smile. On Lucien Drake it was a blade. He stepped in until she had to tilt her chin up to meet him. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Wear these. You'll be standing longer tomorrow."
The words landed like a punch. Tomorrow. He meant to do this again.
Her knees buckled a little; she gripped the desk edge to steady herself. The movement drew her even closer to him. She could feel the warmth of his body, the faint scent of his cologne.
"Do we understand each other, Miss Lane?"
She looked into those dark, merciless eyes — no softness, only control. The awful clarity of that moment hit her: she wasn't merely his secretary. She was under his command.
"Yes, Mr. Drake," she breathed.
"Good girl."
The phrase slid out smooth and dangerous. It sent a hot, involuntary thrill through her, and she hated herself for feeling it. She hated the way her body betrayed her at the sound of his voice.
Bending, hands trembling, she lifted the shoebox. One thought thudded in her skull, dull and cold: What have I gotten myself into?