Mara arrived at Vale Industries at exactly 7:42 a.m., clutching a paper cup of the cheapest coffee she could find and praying her mascara hadn't smudged from the sleepless night.
A polished blonde from HR met her at reception.
"Miss Whitlock? Right this way. Mr. Vale's assistant desk is on the sixty-second floor. Private elevator only."
Private elevator.
Of course.
The ride up was silent except for the soft classical music that felt like mockery. When the doors slid open, Mara stepped into a world of black glass, chrome, and arctic air-conditioning.
The assistant station sat directly outside a pair of smoked-glass double doors.
A single sleek desk. One monitor. No personal items.
It looked like a punishment.
HR lady gave her a tight smile. "Mr. Vale will be in at eight. He hates tardiness, small talk, and flavoured creamer. Good luck."
She left Mara standing there like a lamb at the altar.
At 7:59 the elevator dinged again.
Mara's stomach dropped into her shoes.
He stepped out.
Same man from the rain.
Same man from the lobby yesterday.
Same man she'd told to shove ten thousand dollars up his entitled ass.
Only now he was wearing a midnight-blue suit that cost more than most cars, hair still damp from a shower, eyes colder than the marble floor.
Rowan Vale.
Her new boss.
He stopped two feet away, hands in his pockets, and looked her over slowly (head to toe, clinical, predatory).
"Miss Whitlock," he said, voice low and lethal. "I see the universe has a sense of humour after all."
Mara's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He didn't wait.
He simply walked past her, pushed open the smoked-glass doors, and disappeared inside.
The doors stayed open just long enough for her to glimpse the vast office beyond: floor-to-ceiling windows, black desk the size of a small island, city sprawled beneath him like he owned every brick.
Then the doors closed with a soft, expensive click.
Mara stood frozen until her new work phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Coffee. Black. 60 seconds.
She ran.
The rest of the day was a specially designed hell.
8:03 – Coffee delivered. He took one sip, grimaced, poured it into the trash in front of her. "Again. Properly this time."
8:27 – She spilled a stack of reports while trying to balance seventeen urgent tasks. He didn't yell. He simply stared until she wanted to disappear.
9:15 – Conference call with Tokyo. She accidentally left herself unmuted while whispering "shit" under her breath. Dead silence on the line. Rowan's eyes flicked to her: arctic.
11:40 – knocked once, and because the universe truly hated her, she pushed the door open without waiting.
Bad timing.
A brunette in a crimson dress was straddling his lap on the leather sofa, skirt rucked high, Rowan's hand buried in her hair, mouth on her throat.
The woman's head was thrown back, moaning softly while his other hand slid slowly up her thigh.
They weren't having sex.
But they were five seconds away from it.
Mara froze, her tray of files crashed to the floor.
Rowan lifted his head.
His eyes were black with irritation and something hotter.
He growled one word "Out!."
Mara scrambled to pick up the papers, cheeks burning, and fled.
A senior manager walking past gave her a sympathetic wince. "Rule number one: knock and wait. Rule number two: pray he's in a good mood. Rule number three: there is no rule three."
She spent the next six hours convinced she would be fired by sundown.
Every employee she passed gave her the same pitying look.
"First day with Mr. Vale?"
"How are you still breathing?"
"I lasted four days. You'll be fine… maybe."
Lunch was a protein bar eaten standing up because Rowan needed revised projections in twenty minutes.
By 7 p.m. her feet ached, her head throbbed, and she had rewritten the same presentation four times because he kept changing one slide.
At 7:42 the intercom finally crackled.
"My office."
Mara walked in ready to be destroyed.
Rowan was alone, jacket off, tie gone, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms.
He looked unfairly gorgeous and infuriatingly perfect.
He didn't speak at first.
Just watched her stand there like a prisoner awaiting sentence.
"You're still here," he said finally.
"I… yes, sir."
"Tomorrow will be worse," he warned.
"I can handle it."
He studied her for a long moment.
"We'll see."
He turned back to his computer, dismissing her.
Mara was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her cold.
"Oh, and Miss Whitlock?"
She turned.
Rowan didn't look up from his screen.
"Next time you interrupt me with a woman on my lap, don't drop the files.
Just watch quietly.
You might learn something."
Her face flamed.
She fled.
Outside his office, she leaned against the wall, heart hammering so hard she could hear it.
She hated him.
She feared him.
And the worst, most terrifying part?
The heat that had pooled low in her belly when she saw his hand on that woman's thigh hadn't gone away.
Not even a little.
Some tiny, traitorous part o
f her was already wondering what his hands would feel like on her skin. Oh God! Mara!!!.