The first rays of Monday morning light cut through Isabella's apartment windows like an accusation. She'd been awake since four, had changed outfits three times, and had nearly called in sick twice. Now, standing in the lobby of Cross Global at 7:58 a.m., she wondered if it was too late to fake her own death.
For Lily. You're doing this for Lily.
The elevator ride to the executive floor felt like ascending to a guillotine. Her new ID badge—Isabella Chen, Director of Market Analysis—hung heavy around her neck. The laminated photo showed a woman trying to look confident and failing. When the doors opened with a soft ding, Isabella stepped out into what could only be described as controlled chaos.
The executive floor was all glass and steel and impossible standards. Assistants moved like synchronized swimmers, their heels clicking in rhythm. Phones rang with discreet chimes. Through open doors, she caught glimpses of offices that probably cost more to furnish than she'd earned in her entire previous job.
"Miss Chen." A woman materialized at her elbow—thirty-something, severe black suit, hair in a bun so tight it had to cause headaches. "I'm Patricia, Mr. Cross's executive assistant. He's expecting you in his office. Now."
Isabella followed Patricia through the maze of corridors, very aware of the curious glances from other employees. Whispers followed in their wake:
"That's the new director?"
"I heard she came from nowhere…"
"Wait, isn't she too young to—"
Patricia stopped at a familiar mahogany door and knocked once, brisk and efficient.
"Enter." Alexander's voice, muffled by wood and distance, still sent a shiver down Isabella's spine.
The office looked different in morning light. The windows now showed the city waking up—delivery trucks double-parked, professionals clutching coffee cups, the slow pulse of Monday beginning. Alexander sat behind his desk, already in shirtsleeves despite the early hour, reading something on his tablet.
He looked up. Met her eyes. And for a heartbeat, she saw it again—that flash of something vulnerable, almost wounded, before the mask snapped back into place.
"Sit." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Coffee?"
"No, thank you."
"Suit yourself." He poured himself a cup from a French press, movements precise. "We're starting with the Thornton account. They're threatening to move their portfolio to Goldman Sachs. I need a full market analysis of their current holdings, projections for the next fiscal quarter, and a strategic brief on why staying with us is their smartest move. On my desk by noon."
Isabella blinked. "That's… that's at least twenty hours of work."
"Then I suggest you work quickly." He slid a thick folder across the desk. "All their current data is in here. Patricia will give you access to our research databases. Questions?"
About a thousand. Starting with: Are you punishing me on purpose, or is this just how you operate now?
"No questions," she said instead.
"Good. Get started."
Dismissed. Isabella stood, folder in hand, and made it halfway to the door before his voice stopped her.
"Isabella."
She turned. He was standing now, silhouetted against those damn windows again, backlit like some vengeful angel.
"Don't disappoint me."
The words hung in the air like a threat and a plea tangled together.
By six p.m., Isabella's eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets. Her coffee had gone cold three hours ago. The office outside Alexander's domain had slowly emptied—first the junior staff, then the middle managers, then the senior executives, until only a skeleton crew of workaholics remained.
Isabella's desk—a sleek glass and chrome affair positioned strategically where Alexander could see her if he glanced up—was buried under reports, market analyses, and notes scribbled on every available surface. The Thornton account was a labyrinth of holdings, tax shelters, and risk assessments that made her head spin.
She was deep in a particularly complex derivatives analysis when a shadow fell across her keyboard.
"Still working?" Alexander's voice, close enough to make her jump.
Isabella looked up to find him standing beside her desk, jacket off, tie loosened, reading glasses perched on his nose. The glasses were new. They made him look distinguished, intellectual, and unfortunately even more attractive than she remembered.
Not helpful, Isabella. Not remotely helpful.
"Almost done with the preliminary analysis," she managed. "I'll have the full brief by—"
"It's eleven p.m., Isabella."
She glanced at the clock on her computer screen. He was right. The last five hours had evaporated like water on hot pavement. "Oh. I didn't realize—"
"Clearly." He was reading her screen now, leaning close enough that she caught his scent again—that sandalwood cologne mixed with coffee and something uniquely him. His proximity made her skin tingle with cellular memory. "This is good work. Better than good." He straightened, and was it her imagination, or did he look grudgingly impressed? "But you're dead on your feet. Come to my office. We'll go over what you have so far."
It wasn't a request.
Isabella followed him into his office, hyperaware of the empty floor around them. They were alone. Completely alone on the executive level, with Manhattan glittering fifty-three floors below like scattered diamonds.
Alexander gestured to the small conference table by the windows. "Walk me through your findings."
She did, pulling up charts on her laptop and explaining market trends and risk assessments as he listened with absolute focus. The city lights painted his face in shifting shadows. Once, when she was explaining a particularly complex trend, he leaned forward, and their shoulders almost touched.
"Interesting," he murmured. "Most analysts would have missed that correlation."
The praise shouldn't have warmed her. It did anyway.
They worked for another hour, Isabella's exhaustion replaced by the familiar thrill of solving a complex puzzle. This was what she was good at—finding patterns, making connections, seeing the story behind the numbers. Alexander asked sharp questions that made her think, challenged her conclusions in ways that strengthened her arguments.
For a few minutes, it almost felt like Hong Kong again. Late nights in his apartment, Chinese takeout cooling on the counter while they debated market theory, his eyes lit with genuine interest instead of cold suspicion.
Then her phone buzzed. Isabella glanced at it reflexively—a text from her mother: Lily's asking about you again. When are you coming home?
Isabella's heart clenched. She'd missed bedtime. Again. Lily would be asleep now, clutching the stuffed rabbit Isabella had given her.
"Problem?" Alexander's voice had cooled.
"No." Isabella silenced her phone, but not before Alexander's sharp eyes caught the screen.
"Personal call at midnight?" Something shifted in his expression. "Boyfriend waiting up?"
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I just— I need to get home. It's late."
Alexander stood, and suddenly he was too close, deliberately invading her space. "Five years, Isabella. You walked away without a word. Now you're here, in my company, working for me, and I still know nothing. Not where you've been. Not what you're hiding. Not who you're texting at midnight."
His hand came up, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin near her cheek. Isabella's back hit the edge of the conference table. Trapped.
"Tell me why you left," Alexander demanded, his voice low and rough. "Give me that much. I deserve at least that."
Isabella's throat constricted because your mother threatened to destroy my family. Because I was pregnant and terrified. Because I loved you too much to let you sacrifice yourself for me.
"I can't," she whispered.
Wrong answer. Alexander's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His hand dropped. "Then we have nothing more to discuss tonight. Go home, Isabella."
She fled.
Tuesday was worse. Alexander dropped another stack of reports on her desk at seven a.m. On Wednesday, he had her sit in on a merger negotiation, then demanded a ten-page analysis by the end of business. Thursday, she barely saw him except for terse emails with subject lines like "URGENT" and "NEEDS REVISION."
By Friday, Isabella had worked sixty-eight hours in four and a half days. Her apartment had become just a place to shower and change clothes. Her mother was growing increasingly worried about how little she saw Lily. And Alexander…
Alexander watched her like a hawk, studying prey.
She felt his eyes on her constantly, whether she was at her desk or walking to the bathroom. When she grabbed coffee from the break room, Patricia told her, in a moment of unexpected sympathy, that Mr. Cross had never paid this much attention to any employee before.
Isabella wasn't sure if that was better or worse than being ignored.
Friday at six p.m., everyone else had left. Isabella was packing her laptop, dreaming of a weekend with Lily, when Alexander's door opened.
"My office. Now."
Dread pooled in her stomach as she entered. Alexander stood by his desk, holding a folder she recognized immediately—personnel files. Her personnel file.
"I need to talk to you about Saturday," he said, not looking up. "The Blackwood gala."
Right. The gala she'd tried to forget about. "What about it?"
"My mother called today." His voice was carefully neutral. "She's… curious about my date. I may have implied we've been seeing each other for a while."
Isabella's eyebrows shot up. "You what?"
"It was either that or endure another lecture about settling down and providing heirs." Now he did look at her, and something dark flickered in his expression. "You'll need an appropriate dress. Patricia will take you shopping tomorrow. Company expense."
"I can buy my own—"
"I know you can." He cut her off. "But you'll be representing Cross Global. I need you to look the part." He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, "There's a specific dress I'd like you to wear. Blue. Cobalt blue. Do you still have it?"
The blood drained from Isabella's face.
The cobalt blue dress. The one she'd worn to their first formal event in Hong Kong. The one he'd helped her zip up, his fingers trailing down her spine, before making them two hours late to dinner. The one she'd worn the night before everything fell apart.
"I don't have it anymore," she lied.
Alexander smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Pity. Find something similar then. And Isabella?" He moved closer, invading her space again. "Saturday night, you're mine. My date, my employee, my… what did we use to call it? My partner." His hand came up, fingers trailing along the edge of her sleeve in a gesture that was both possessive and heartbreakingly familiar. "I suggest you remember how to play the part."
Before she could respond, his phone rang. He answered it without breaking eye contact.
"Mother." A pause. "Yes, she'll be there." Another pause, longer this time. "Her background? Perfectly acceptable. Why do you ask?"
Isabella watched his face change as he listened to whatever Victoria Cross was saying. His jaw tightened. His free hand clenched into a fist. When he finally spoke, his voice was ice.
"I'll see you Saturday."
He ended the call and stood in silence for a long moment, staring at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.
"Alexander?" Isabella ventured.
His head snapped up. When he looked at her now, she saw something new in his expression—not just anger or suspicion, but calculation. Like he was solving a puzzle and didn't like the picture emerging.
"Saturday," he repeated. "Eight p.m. I'll send a car for you." He turned away, dismissing her. "Wear that blue dress, Isabella. You remember the one."
She did. God help her, she did. And so, apparently, did he.