CHAPTER SEVEN
ASHLEY POV
The elevator hums as it climbs, a soft mechanical purr that somehow makes the silence worse.
I stand in the corner, facing the brushed metal doors, watching my own reflection blur in the faint shine. My face looks like it belongs to someone else — a girl who is trying very hard not to cry at work.
I inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
It doesn't help much.
The higher the numbers tick, the colder the air feels. It's like the building itself knows where I'm going and disapproves.
The contract clause throbs in my mind: breach penalty — three million.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I am not going to throw up," I whisper to myself. "I am not going to faint. I am going to walk in, be civil, and survive this."
The elevator jolts softly to a stop. The light flickers just once. It's probably nothing, but my pulse jumps anyway.
The doors slide open to a quiet, plush hallway.
Everything up here looks more expensive. Thicker carpet, muted lighting, dark wood doors with polished silver handles. No chatter. No phones ringing. Just a low hum from the air conditioning and the distant sigh of the city through double-glazed windows.
At the end of the corridor, one door stands out:
> CEO — DAMIEN AXFORD
My heart gives a painful little kick.
I force my feet to move. One step. Another. My palm leaves a faint sweat print on the strap of my bag.
I raise my hand to knock.
"Come in," a voice says from inside.
Soft. Calm. Not loud — but it doesn't need to be.
I flinch anyway, then twist the handle and push the door open.
His office is big. Not cartoonish billionaire huge, but big enough to make a point.
A wall of glass overlooks the city, tall buildings rising like dark teeth, small lights winking in the gray afternoon. Shelves line the side wall, full of books arranged in military neatness. A tall plant stands in one corner, too green and perfect to be real.
And him.
Damien sits behind a dark wood desk, sleeves rolled down, jacket off, tie loose but still in place. He's not pretending to be relaxed — even his "relaxed" looks calculated.
His eyes shift from the screen in front of him to me. Just that tiny movement is enough to send the familiar jolt through my chest.
My spirit recoils even before my brain registers the thought.
I shut the door behind me quietly.
"Ms. Dean," he says. "Sit."
No hello. No smile. Just that low, controlled voice and that one-word command.
I walk to the chair facing his desk and sit. My knees don't trust me to stand much longer anyway.
He studies me for a second, like he's assessing a file. His gaze lingers — not in a sleazy way, but in an x-ray way. Like he's checking for cracks.
"You caused quite a stir earlier," he says. "Running out of the department like that."
I swallow. "I—felt lightheaded."
"Is that a medical condition I should know about?" he asks, tone flat.
"No," I say quickly. "That was… new."
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "New."
We stare at each other. The air feels thick. I can't tell if the room is cold or hot; my body's signals are all wrong.
I straighten my shoulders, trying to anchor myself.
"Why did you choose me?" I ask.
He doesn't react.
"Out of over six hundred people in this company," I add. "Why me for your Personal Assistant after being here for… what… a few hours?"
He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"That bothers you?" he asks.
"Yes," I say plainly. "Very much."
The ghost of something almost like amusement flickers in his eyes. "Good. I prefer employees who think instead of drooling."
I frown. "That's not an answer."
"It's part of one," he says. "You didn't stare at me like I hung the moon when I walked in. Most people did. They always do."
"I ran to the restroom," I point out. "That doesn't sound very impressive."
"Yet another reason you interest me," he says calmly. "Everyone else freezes or performs when they're nervous. You ran."
"That's not an achievement," I mutter. "That's embarrassment."
"And honesty," he adds. "You didn't deny it. You didn't make an excuse. You told the truth."
My brows draw together. "You chose me because I'm… honest?"
He shrugs very slightly. "Partly."
"That still doesn't explain—"
He cuts in. "You want the full list, Ms. Dean?"
"Yes. I do."
His gaze sharpens. "You passed a difficult interview. You have a first-class degree. Your portfolio was impressive enough that the previous management accelerated your hiring. HR flagged you as high-potential. Your references were solid. Your psychometric assessment suggests you're resilient under pressure, and your communication scores marked you as ideal support staff for senior leadership."
I blink. "…Oh."
"You expected what?" he asks. "That I spun a roulette wheel with employee names and picked whoever it landed on?"
"I don't know," I say, heat rising in my cheeks. "It just feels… intense. I barely started today. And suddenly I'm—"
"Close to the center?" he finishes.
"Yes," I breathe.
"That's how I build my teams," he says. "I don't waste time. I move pieces quickly when I recognize value."
His tone is so flat it grates.
"Value," I repeat. "So I'm a piece."
"We all are," he replies. "The difference is whether you're a pawn or something else."
"That's a comforting thought," I say dryly.
That almost-smile appears again, faint and quick.
"I didn't bring you here to comfort you," he says.
"Obviously."
He looks briefly at the screen, taps a key, then closes his laptop and gives me his full attention. The room seems to shrink a little when he does.
"You also didn't try to impress me," he says. "You didn't rush forward. You didn't smile too hard. You didn't speak at all. You simply watched and then fled."
"That's not flattering," I say.
"I'm not trying to flatter you," he replies. "I'm telling you that I value what's different. You are… different."
My spirit tightens at that word.
Different.
He cannot possibly mean what I feel when he looks at me. He's talking about personality. Skills. Office behavior.
Right?
"Do you always explain your decisions this much?" I ask.
"No," he says simply.
"So why me?" I push.
"I just did," he says. "You don't have to like the answer for it to be the truth."
I bite the inside of my cheek.
This man is beyond frustrating.
---
DAMIEN — POV
She wants a neat answer.
Humans always do.
They want logic and structure; they want boxes to slide themselves into and reasons to cling to. They don't want instinct. Or hunger. Or the simple fact that sometimes a predator looks at a field of faces and sees only one worth chasing.
She doesn't need to know that when she ran earlier, something in me thrilled.
She doesn't need to know that when our eyes met in that open office, the air tasted different.
She certainly doesn't need to know that the light in her — the thing buried under her skin like a sleeping star — flared for just a moment and left my darkness both irritated and fascinated.
So I give her the half-truth.
Her education.
Her portfolio.
Her interview.
Her "potential."
All of that is true.
It's just not the entire equation.
I watch her as she struggles with my explanation. She thinks I'm still hiding something — and she's right. I am. But she has no idea just how much.
She is tense, but not collapsed. She's scared, but not submissive. She talks back. Not defiantly enough to be reckless, but enough to be interesting.
And whatever part of her recognizes what I am…
It makes her wary.
She doesn't tremble in the usual way. It's not attraction. It's rejection.
Her spirit presses against mine like two magnets turned the wrong way.
It only makes me want to turn them around.
---ASHLEY — POV
"So that's it?" I ask, folding my arms. "HR metrics and potential?"
He leans back again. "Do you want there to be more?"
"Honestly?" I say. "I don't know. The thought that you just spun a corporate algorithm and I lost is not comforting."
"You didn't lose," he says. "You were selected."
"For a job nobody else wanted," I shoot back.
"That's your interpretation."
"It's correct."
He regards me over steepled fingers.
"You're nervous," he says. "You're angry. You feel cornered by your contract, and you don't trust me."
"You missed 'my soul hates your entire existence,'" I mutter.
His brows lift. "Pardon?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "Continue enjoying your psychoanalysis."
He watches me for another few seconds.
"It might help you," he says slowly, "to stop thinking of this as personal."
"That's hard when you specifically picked me."
"That was a business decision."
"You keep saying that," I snap. "You keep throwing that word at me like it's some shield that makes everything okay."
He tilts his head. "Would you rather I lie? Tell you it's fate? That I saw you and felt some sudden, spiritual pull?"
For a split second, my heart stops.
He doesn't know how close he is to the truth. Or maybe he does. I can't tell. His tone is flat, almost mocking.
I force my voice to stay steady. "No. I don't want you to say that."
"Good," he says. "Because I don't believe in fate. I believe in opportunity."
He pulls open a drawer and takes out a black folder. Thin, sleek, precise.
He places it on the desk between us, turning it so it faces me.
"Your contract," he says. "Revised."
My chest tightens.
"I already signed one," I say.
"This is an addendum," he replies. "It formalizes your role as my Personal Assistant."
He opens it briskly, revealing neatly printed pages.
"There," he says, tapping a section. "Revised annual salary. Triple your current pay. Performance bonus. Private health plan upgrade. Company credit card. Travel allowance."
My jaw slackens before I can stop it.
"That's…" I swallow. "That's a lot."
"I do not underpay people I intend to use," he says.
I grimace. "You have a talent for making generosity sound like a threat."
"Reality," he corrects. "Not threat."
My eyes scan the numbers again in disbelief. The salary alone is more money than I've ever imagined actually earning. The benefits read like something from another life.
I drag my gaze down the page.
Then I see it.
> Confidentiality & Loyalty Clause — PA Grade