SLOANE
The penthouse office was colder than I expected. Not in temperature, though the air-conditioning hummed sharp enough to sting the back of my throat—but in the way the space seemed designed to keep people at a distance.
High ceilings, dark wood floors that swallowed sound, steel beams that framed the windows like a cage. The skyline stretched out behind him, all glass and storm clouds, but Alexander Vaughn didn't need the view to dominate the room. He was the view.
He didn't rise when I stepped inside. He didn't extend a hand. He just sat behind that massive desk like a man carved out of control, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth as if he'd already won a game I hadn't agreed to play.
I kept walking, my boots thudding softly against the polished floor, my face blank. He wanted to study me—fine. Let him.
"Ms. Cole," he said, voice low and deliberate, words drawn out like smoke. "I've heard things about you."
"Good," I answered. "Then we can skip introductions."
That smirk deepened, like he enjoyed the bite in my tone. Most men didn't. Most men thought they could cow me with charm or authority. Alexander Vaughn seemed amused.
"Straight to business," he murmured. "I like that. In that case—conditions."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, gaze sharp as glass. "Non-negotiable: you move in. You follow schedules. You follow my rules. You do not interfere with my business unless I tell you to. And you do not question me."
I folded my arms. "I just questioned you."
His eyes narrowed, but not in anger—in intrigue. "And yet here you stand."
"Your rules are convenient," I said flatly, "but they're not mine. My methods are mine alone. I decide how to neutralize threats. I keep my own contacts. And you—" my gaze locked on his, cold, steady, unflinching—"you're a client. That's it. Nothing more."
A beat of silence passed. Somewhere outside, thunder cracked against the skyline, rattling the glass.
Then Vaughn smiled. Not wide, not warm—slow, dangerous. "You are… refreshing."
I didn't return it. I didn't move at all. Stillness was its own weapon, and I wielded it like a blade.
He pushed a stack of papers across the desk. "Contracts. Read them, sign them. We start tomorrow."
I took my time scanning the pages. Every clause, every loophole, every line meant to bind me. Nothing jumped out. Still, I made a point of flipping through slower than necessary, letting silence stretch between us. He wanted obedience. He would get patience instead, and patience unsettled men like him.
Finally, I signed, the scratch of the pen loud in the cavernous office. Sliding the papers back, I said, "Effective immediately, you have a bodyguard. Don't mistake that for a servant." Something which every human I've ever worked for did, mistaking me for their servant.
Vaughn leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. He looked maddeningly comfortable, like he'd orchestrated every word of this exchange. "I suspect you'll be difficult."
"Not difficult," I corrected. "Precise."
He studied me, that damn smirk refusing to fade. "Tomorrow morning. Six a.m. sharp. You'll be at the front entrance, ready to move in. Punctuality is the first test, Ms. Cole. Don't fail it."
"Tests go both ways," I said.
His eyes lit with something sharper than amusement. "So they do."
I turned on my heel, boots striking the floor, and didn't bother saying goodbye. He wasn't owed one.
---
The elevator ride down felt longer than it was. My reflection in the steel doors looked exactly how I wanted it: cold, unreadable. My pulse was steady, but my mind was anything but still.
Alexander Vaughn. All power and arrogance, wrapped in suits worth more than most people's apartments. He had presence, I'd give him that. But presence was a performance, and I'd seen enough men hide behind performances to know better than to be impressed.
Still… he was dangerous. Not because of his money, not even because of his enemies. Dangerous because he thought control made him untouchable.
That kind of thinking gets people killed.
The elevator chimed. I stepped out into the lobby, ignoring the receptionist's quick, darting glance. Outside, the city greeted me with drizzle and neon. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, the cold sinking into my gloves, and started walking with no destination in mind. I needed the distance. I needed air.
A block away, I ducked into a late-night café. The place was almost empty, save for a pair of college kids with laptops and an older man sleeping into his newspaper. I ordered a black coffee and claimed a booth by the window, sliding into the cracked leather seat.
The café smelled like burnt espresso and wet coats. My booth was tucked away in the corner, half-shadowed, perfect for watching without being watched.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over the cracked screen for a moment before typing: Alexander Vaughn.
The results came back in a flood—dozens of articles, images, financial reports. His face was everywhere, and it annoyed me instantly. The man looked like a brand. Tailored suits, sharp jawline, a smile that was more blade than warmth. The kind of aura that cameras ate up.
I scrolled.
CEO of Vaughn Enterprises.
Net worth: obscene.
Philanthropist, visionary, ruthless strategist.
The praise was endless, all dressed in the kind of glossy language reserved for men too rich to fail. But beneath that shine, the cracks showed.
"Security Breach at Vaughn Gala Leaves Guests Shaken."
"Anonymous Threats Sent to Vaughn Family Estate—Police Investigation Ongoing."
"Senator's Campaign Fund Linked to Vaughn Enterprises: Conflict of Interest?"
Buried stories, half-redacted, smothered before they could spread. Someone had made sure of that.
I kept digging. The threats cropped up every few years, a pattern so obvious it almost looked choreographed. Bomb threats at events, stalkers taken down before they got within a hundred yards of him, even a suspicious car accident involving one of his executives. Vaughn came out untouched every time. A man charmed by luck—or protected by something darker.
I leaned back, frowning at the glow of the screen. Men like him didn't inspire loyalty; they inspired desperation, envy, obsession. Someone always wanted a piece.
Then came the personal dirt. And it was plentiful.
"Vaughn Spotted with Model Serena Clarke at Monte Carlo Yacht Party."
"Heiress Amelia Devereaux Ends Engagement with Alexander Vaughn: 'Irreconcilable Differences.'"
"Mystery Woman Seen Leaving Vaughn Penthouse at Dawn."
Dozens of women. All beautiful, all disposable. Each one painted in the press as some glamorous fling until the cycle repeated. And the engagement? That one had teeth. Amelia Devereaux wasn't just any heiress—her family had power, too. For her to walk away from him said more than any headline could.
I shut off the phone screen, the reflection in the black glass catching my scowl.
So this was the man. A billionaire playboy with a god complex. Arrogant enough to think he could buy protection, arrogant enough to assume I'd bend to his conditions.
And yet, there was something else. The threats weren't smoke. They were real. If anything, he attracted danger like blood in the water. The scandals might have been cleaned up, but someone had clearly been gunning for him for years.
And Vaughn knew it. That's why he looked at me the way he did in that penthouse—calculating, assessing. Not curiosity. Not interest. He'd already had me dissected by his people, run every record and database until there was nothing left but the bare facts.
Not that he'd find much.
My life on paper was a skeleton stripped clean—service records, training credentials, jobs that didn't list names. Personal life? A void. Because I made it that way. I wanted it that way.
And if that unsettled him? Good.
I tapped the phone against the table once, sharp. Vaughn wasn't someone I admired. He wasn't even someone I respected yet. He was a liability wrapped in money and power, and liabilities got people killed.
The rain outside picked up, streaking the glass with neon. My reflection in the window looked like a ghost, half here, half gone.
Tomorrow, I'd walk back into his world. But I'd be damned if I let myself get pulled into his orbit.
Because Alexander Vaughn wasn't a man worth following. He was a man worth watching.
And watching was what I did best.