"And deep down, I knew—walking into his office meant giving up control I didn't even know I had.
The polished chrome doors of the elevator slid open with a whispered chime at the seventy-eighth floor. It was 5:45 a.m. The executive wing of the D'Angelo Company was silent, gleaming under the stark fluorescent lights.
Every surface, from the marble floors to the steel fixtures, looked flawless—except me. My cheap flats clicked against the hard floor, the sound echoing like my pulse: fast, frantic, and entirely out of place.I'd only taken three steps when the silence shattered.
"My office. Now. Do not make me wait.
"The intercom crackled with his voice—Kieran D'Angelo. A single line of dominance that stopped me in my tracks. I found his office door and pushed it open, my hands shaking slightly.He was by the window, the rising sun backlighting his formidable silhouette against the cityscape.
He didn't turn immediately, but I felt the weight of his presence, heavy and cold."Ms. Duval," he said, his voice the same dark velvet I remembered from yesterday.
"You're twelve minutes early. And the blazer needs to go. Now."
He finally turned, his gaze cutting right through my worn blazer and second-hand skirt. "I pay attention to details, Ms. Duval. Everything and everyone who enters this space reflects on me. Including your first impression."
His words weren't cruel, just surgical, cutting away my pride. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to stand tall.He gestured with a lean hand toward a long, flat box on a side table.
"A professional wardrobe has been arranged. Fifteen minutes. Be ready."The tone was an order, not a courtesy. It was the first act of control, masking itself as help.
"Y-yes, Mr. D'Angelo," I stammered, picking up the box. It was heavy, and I felt the weight of intrigue drop into my stomach. I escaped to the opulent, marble-bright private washroom attached to the executive suite.
Inside the box was a perfectly tailored pencil skirt, a silk blouse, and sophisticated, low-heeled pumps. They were expensive. I changed quickly, the fine fabric a stark contrast to my usual rough cotton.Everything fit. Exactly. He'd planned for me before I'd even arrived. My pulse hammered. Power and humiliation collided.
I pinned my hair up professionally, applying just a hint of lip gloss.I stared at my reflection. The woman in the mirror didn't look desperate. She looked polished. She looked owned.
Back in the office, the pace was relentless. It was a trial by fire that lasted hours. Emails piled up, dictations were spat out at impossible speeds, and phone calls required a perfect, immediate memory for names and numbers.
Kieran D'Angelo demanded perfection and expected failure. But I didn't fail.Around ten a.m., he called me in to review a complex merger report.
He leaned over the massive desk, pointing to a graph. His sleeve brushed mine as we both focused on the data. For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to slow. A flicker—heat, shock, gone before it began. I sucked in a sharp breath, my heart stuttering in my chest, but I immediately snapped back to business, hiding the reaction.
A ghost of a satisfied smirk touched his lips before he turned back to the report. He had noticed I hadn't flinched.Later, I was delivering another file—a stack of sensitive contracts I needed his signature on. I moved quickly, trying to keep up with the impossible rhythm of the day.
"Here are the Tillman contracts, sir," I said, placing them on his desk.As I reached to move a different folder, my hand brushed his. He didn't just ignore it; he reacted. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around my wrist, dragging my hand—and my body—forward. I stumbled, falling forward with a gasp, landing heavily on top of him in his chair.
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" I gasped, scrambling to stand up immediately, my face burning with mortification.But his hands found my waist, holding me firmly in place. My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked up.
My green eyes met his intensely blue ones. The shock was immediate and paralyzing. It was like staring directly into my son's eyes. The same vibrant, unforgettable shade.He watched my reaction, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my hip through the expensive fabric of the new skirt.
The air in the room became charged, thick, and suddenly impossible to breathe.He hadn't just given me clothes; he'd drawn the first line of a contract that didn't need signatures.
He might own the office, the company, maybe even the city—but he wouldn't own me.At least, that's what I told myself as I sat captive in his lap, staring into the familiar blue eyes of a stranger.
"Do you really think you can survive a day in my world without breaking, Ms. Duval?"
The question wasn't just about work. It was about me. And in that moment, I knew—I was already in too deep.