THIRD PERSON POV
BLACKWOOD INSURANCE, LONDON
Sarah stands under the massive glass-and-steel tower, clutching her brown tote bag. Her hair is tied in a neat French braid, square-framed glasses perched comfortably on the bridge of her nose. In her hands are two cups of coffee—a vanilla iced latte for herself, and a double-shot espresso for Rhys.
Her amber eyes catch the sunlight as she weaves through the morning crowd. Everyone in the building knows her as the assistant to the CEO of Blackwood Insurance—the one woman who has somehow survived next to Rhys Blackwood for more than five years.
No one would ever guess, even in their wildest dreams, that this petite, soft-spoken woman is the lost princess of the Medici family—or that she almost sparked a gang war without even knowing it.
Sarah hasn't told a soul about being kidnapped by Kayros. Not the kidnapping, not the bargaining, not her true identity.
Not even the fact that her heart has belonged to Rhys Blackwood for years.
"Ms. Mars, the file for the Japanese fire insurance claim is on your desk," an employee calls out cheerfully as she steps off the elevator on the 28th floor.
Sarah nods, hurrying toward Rhys's office. Her heart beats a little too fast, like it always does when she's about to see him. Even after five years, she hasn't grown calm around him.
The 28th floor holds only three rooms: Rhys's expansive office suite, secured behind three layers of access control; her own small, cozy workspace beside it; and a storage room.
She enters her code. The first glass door slides open. At the second, she offers a retina scan. The third reads her fingerprint.
She's done it a thousand times. What some might call a hassle, she calls duty.
She pauses outside Rhys's door, clutching the coffee cups. Her heart kicks up again.
Get it together, Sarah. Being in love with your boss is the most cliché thing you could have done.
But she is. And despite every effort to bury it, the more she's gotten to know Rhys—the man behind the CEO, behind the Blackwood heir—the harder she's fallen.
Some days, she lets herself hope he feels it, too. She's seen his patience with her, the way he shares things he tells no one else, the way he seeks her out when he's stressed.
But he's also cold. Distant. Unreadable.
She shakes her head, pushes the door open, and—
The world stops.
The coffee mugs freeze in her hands. Her breath catches, held so tightly that even the softest exhale might shatter something inside her.
A woman with long, beautiful ginger hair is sitting on Rhys's lap. Her violet eyes are fixed on him with a familiar, intimate desire. Rhys's hand rests on her hip—not pulling her close, but not pushing her away, either.
His head snaps toward the door the moment it opens. Sarah watches, motionless, as the color drains from his face. His hand loosens on the woman's hip. His eyes widen, caught.
The woman turns, and Sarah's heart breaks into a million silent, invisible pieces.
She's flawless. Rosy-pale skin, full glossy lips, lashes thick enough to be a sin. A doll-like beauty that could make even the most pious man stray.
She looks at Rhys curiously. "Ry, is this your assistant?"
Rhys's Adam's apple bobs as he glances away and nods. "Althea, this is Sarah Mars, my assistant of five years." He turns back to Sarah, his voice oddly heavy. "Sarah, this is Althea Gregor. Daughter of President Oscar Gregor of the United States. My… soon-to-be fiancée."
Sarah has imagined this moment before. What it would be like to see Rhys with someone else—a woman he'd touch, marry, have children with.
But no amount of mental rehearsal prepared her for this. It feels like being skinned alive and rubbed with salt.
Her hands tremble slightly as she sets Rhys's coffee on the desk. Althea looks her up and down, judgment sharp in her gaze. Sarah suddenly feels painfully plain in her wide-leg jeans, white tee, and leather jacket.
"Oh," Althea giggles softly, running a hand through Rhys's hair as if she owns the right. "Your assistant is rather… modest, Ry. You really do put work before beauty, don't you?"
Sarah's eyes burn. Her grip tightens on the strap of her bag. Rhys won't look at her.
She feels like crying right there.
"I'll take my leave, Mr. Blackwood," she says, her voice cracking on the last syllable.
Rhys stiffens when she calls him by his surname—something she hasn't done in years.
Althea watches her with a smug, victorious smile as Sarah turns to go.
"Sarah."
Her heart betrays her, leaping at the sound of his voice. She turns back, hopeful against all logic.
What she gets is a declaration that breaks her all over again.
"You don't need to come to work from tomorrow," Rhys says, his voice steady, cold.
Sarah freezes. Her eyes widen. No words come.
Rhys's emerald eyes—which once looked at her with something soft, something real—are hard. Impenetrable.
"What do you mean?" she whispers, tears welling. "Are you… firing me?"
He blinks slowly. "Yes. I don't need you here anymore."
Not needed.
Those two words are everything she's feared her whole life.
Tears stream down her face, shameless and hot.
She needs this job. It's her lifeline. Suddenly, the ground beneath her feels like it's crumbling.
"But—"
"You'll receive three months' advance salary and a recommendation letter from me," Rhys cuts her off, his gaze shifting back to Althea. "If you're out of the building in twenty minutes."
Sarah's heart shatters at his cruelty. This is the same man who panicked if she sneezed during a meeting. The man who shielded her from corporate sharks. The man who sometimes looked at her as if she were the center of his world.
Now he's giving her twenty minutes to leave the place that's been her second home for five years.
She wants to shake him. To beg. To scream.
Instead, she just nods. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood."
Without a second glance, she turns and walks out. The door closes behind her with a soft, final click.
---
The moment the door seals, Rhys shoves Althea off his lap as if her touch burns.
She stumbles back onto the couch with a soft groan. Rhys stands, tearing at his tie, his breathing ragged. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed. He paces like a caged animal.
Althea sighs, her earlier smugness replaced by quiet concern. "If you love her that much, did you have to lie to her like that?"
Rhys snaps, desperation clawing through his voice. "Do you have any idea what danger she'd be in if I kept her close? If I ever made her mine?"
His face pales. He shakes his head, throat tight with fear.
"She was already kidnapped once—used as a bargaining chip by Kayros. And now, with Ophelia making enemies of two of the biggest families… they'll come after Blackwood. And anyone close to me."
Althea nods slowly. "If anyone realizes how you feel about her—or worse, if they find out she's Sarah Medici…"
Rhys slams his fist onto the mahogany desk. The sound echoes. Althea flinches.
"That will never happen," Rhys says, his voice breaking. A tear falls onto the polished wood. "I'll push her so far away from all of this… not a single drop of blood will ever reach her."
He bites down on his own pain, painting himself the villain, all to keep her safe. To keep her off the radar.
But what Rhys fails to consider is this: sometimes, when you push someone away from one danger…
They step right into another.
---
Sarah stands in the pouring rain, clutching a cardboard box full of her office belongings. Her tears won't stop. Her head aches from crying.
Suddenly, the rain stops hitting her head.
For a wild, heart-stopping second, she thinks it's Rhys.
But when she looks up, it's Alexander who stands beside her, holding an umbrella over them both. His overcoat is already soaked, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Alexander," she whispers, the name tasting like both a curse and a fragile hope.
He says nothing for a moment, his gloved hand steadying the umbrella.
"No need to catch a cold," he says finally, his voice low. "I'll drive you home."
Sarah's lips tremble. Fresh tears well. The apartment she lives in is company-provided. Now, with no job, she has nowhere to go.
As if reading her silence, Alexander adds, "I heard you're good with accounts."
She nods, sniffling. "I've cleared three levels of the CFA."
"And yet you worked as an assistant."
It isn't a question. Just a statement—one that twists the knife already in her chest.
"If you want," he says, looking down at her, his gaze impossible to decipher, "I have a job for you. I need an accountant who can manage… messy finances. Without making me a criminal."
Sarah knows she has no other choice. Jobs are scarce. She needs income. Shelter.
She looks up at him, rain and tears blurring her vision. "Okay."
That day, Sarah had no idea what she had just stepped into.