Maya POV
The coffee mug bursts.
Not metaphorically. Actually explodes. Hot coffee sprays across my tiny kitchen, across my last clean work shirt, across the acceptance letter I've been hiding in my drawer for three weeks—the one that says "Congratulations! You've been chosen for the Global Marketing Fellowship in Paris."
The one I can't accept because I'm stuck.
I look at the brown stain spreading across the words "full scholarship" and want to scream. But I don't have time to scream. I have exactly forty-three minutes to shower, change, and get to Kane Enterprises before my boss decides I'm late and makes my life even more awful than it already is.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sophie: Good luck beating Satan today! Remember—only 8 more hours until wine night!
Eight hours. I can survive eight hours of anything, right?
Wrong.
I've been Dominic Kane's executive assistant for eight months, two weeks, and four days. Yes, I'm counting. Everyone counts when they're in jail. And working for Dominic Kane is exactly like being in jail, except the warden is unfairly handsome and smells like expensive cologne and pine trees.
Not that I notice how he smells.
I definitely don't notice.
I grab my backup shirt—the one with a small stain I've been hiding with a blazer for weeks—and run to the shower. My place is so small I can touch both walls in the bathroom at the same time. The hot water goes out after four minutes like always. I'm toweling off when my phone rings.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops. Unknown numbers at 5:47 AM are never good news.
"Hello?"
"Miss Chen." That voice. Deep, cold, sharp enough to cut glass. My boss. "I need the Morrison files on my desk by 7 AM. Not 7:01. Seven."
The Morrison files are locked in the office filing room. Which means I need to leave RIGHT NOW to get there, find them, and have them on his desk in seventy-three minutes during rush hour traffic.
"Mr. Kane, I don't have access to—"
"Figure it out." He hangs up.
I want to throw my phone across the room. I want to scream. I want to quit and take that fellowship in Paris and never think about Dominic Kane's cold gray eyes again.
But I can't.
Because I have $87,000 in college loans. Because my rent is due in five days and I have exactly $200 in my bank account. Because I finished top of my class with a degree in business management and the only job I could get was as an assistant to the cruelest man in New York City.
I yank on my clothes, grab my bag, and run.
The train is packed. A man steps on my foot. Someone's backpack hits me in the face. I'm sweating through my shirt by the time I appear at street level, and I still have eight blocks to run.
Kane Enterprises towers above me—fifty floors of steel and glass where ideas go to die.
I badge in at 6:34 AM. The security guard, Marcus, gives me an understanding look. "Early again, Miss Chen?"
"Morrison files," I say, still out of breath.
Marcus winces. "He called you at home?"
"Is that surprising anymore?"
I take the lift to forty-seven, where the executive offices are. The file room is locked. Of course it is. I call Janet from Records, waking her up, asking for the code. She gives it to me with a yawn and a mumbled, "Kane's going to get sued for labor violations one day."
I find the Morrison files. They're huge—three giant binders that I have to carry with both arms. I'm speed-walking to Dominic's office when I see him.
He's standing at the wall of windows, looking out at the city. The morning lights him from behind, making his dark hair gleam. His suit probably costs more than my full month's salary. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly beautiful in a way that makes me angry.
I hate that I notice. I hate that every woman in this building sees. I hate that underneath all my rage, some stupid part of my brain still skips a beat when I see him.
"You're late," he says without turning around. "It's 7:02."
"The files were locked—"
"I don't accept excuses, Miss Chen." He finally turns. His eyes are that strange silver-gray color, like storm clouds. Cold and empty. "Excuses are for people who don't care about their work. Do you care about your job?"
My hands tighten on the bands. I think about paying rent. I care about not being homeless. I care about surviving until I can leave this nightmare.
"Yes, sir."
"Then stop making excuses." He takes the binders from me. His fingers brush mine for half a second, and I swear I feel electricity. Static shock, possibly. "I need the Morrison deal rewritten. The language in section seven is unacceptable."
I wrote part seven. I spent twelve hours on it last week. My law master said it was "brilliant work."
"What's wrong with it?" I ask carefully.
His eyes narrow. "Everything. Rewrite it. I need it by end of business today."
"Today? That's eight hours of work—"
"Then you should start now instead of arguing with me."
My jaw clenches so tight I might crack a tooth. "Yes, sir."
I turn to leave, fighting back angry tears. This is my life. This is every single day. Nothing I do is good enough. Nothing I do matters.
"Miss Chen?"
I stop at the door. "Yes?"
"Cancel my 2 PM meeting and push everything back an hour."
I check his calendar on my phone. "Your 2 PM is with the board of directors. I can't just—"
"You can and you will." He sits at his desk, already looking at his computer like I don't exist. "Or find a new job."
The danger hangs in the air between us. We both know I can't find a new job. Not one that pays enough. Not one that will take me without experience. I'm stuck and he knows it.
"Yes, sir," I say.
I walk back to my desk in a fog. My hands are shaking as I open my computer. I have eight hours to rewrite a contract and somehow also do all my regular work and cancel a meeting with the board of directors who are going to scream at me like this is MY fault.
I'm opening the Morrison file when my phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number: You have something he wants. Meet me at Joe's Coffee during your lunch break. Come alone. This is about Dominic Kane's secret.
My blood goes cold.
What secret? Who is this? How did they get my number?
I look up at Dominic's office. He's on the phone, talking and moving. He looks normal. Powerful. In charge.
But someone out there knows something about him. Something secret. Something worth telling a random assistant about.
My mouse hovers over the reply button.
This is either the biggest chance of my life or the most dangerous mistake I could make.
I look at the Paris grant letter in my bag. At my student loan account. At Dominic through the glass.
Then I type: What secret?
The answer comes in three seconds: Meet me and find out. Unless you want to keep being his victim forever.
My heart pounds so loud I can hear it in my ears.