Applicant In Pink
The room was too quiet for comfort.
Bria crossed her legs, her silver pump dangling lazily from one foot. The silk of her pink mini dress whispered with every shift, but her smile was steady. Controlled. Lethal.
Across the sleek, glass desk, Quinn Wixx didn’t move. He just stared.
Not at her legs. Not at the tight curve of her waist.
At her eyes.
Most men underestimated her. Most men didn’t survive her.
But Quinn Wixx?
He was different.
Calculated.
Unreadable.
A machine in a perfectly tailored suit.
“You’re not here for art,” he said finally, his voice cold enough to frost the air between them.
She tilted her head, letting a glossy curl bounce over her shoulder. “I like colors. And chaos. Art is just both in disguise.”
His jaw tensed, just for a second. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But she did.
“I read your file,” he continued. “Top of your class. Industrial engineering. Two years at a weapons tech firm before disappearing.”
Bria blinked slowly, still smiling. “I like to reinvent myself. Don’t you?”
Silence again. It stretched like a loaded gun between them.
Then he stood. Walked around the desk. Came close.
Too close.
Bria didn’t flinch. She’d killed men at closer range.
He stopped in front of her, his voice low now, dangerous. “If you’re here to play games, Miss Valez, don’t. I’m not the type to lose.”
She looked up at him, all sugar and satin.
“Neither am I, Mr. Wixx.”
Bria was a trained interrogator—questions, pressure, and judgmental stares were child’s play.
She wasn’t just elite.
She was exceptional.
She could lie under torture and smile while doing it.
So when she aced the panel interview without breaking a sweat, she wasn’t surprised. What did catch her off guard was the announcement of a second interview—this time, with the CEO himself.
Mr. Quinn Wixx.
She’d read the file. Ruthless. Emotionless. Private. A man who rarely interacted with new hires—much less conducted interviews. Something about this wasn’t standard procedure.
As she stepped into his sprawling, high-rise office, it was like walking into a different world. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls revealed the glittering skyline, while minimalistic black and chrome interiors screamed wealth and power.
Cold. Controlled. Just like him.
Quinn Wixx was the kind of man who didn’t need to speak to command a room—he owned it the moment he stepped in.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and sculpted like the cold statues in European galleries, he wore power like a second skin. His perfectly tailored suits—always black or deep navy—clung to a lean, athletic build honed not just in boardrooms but likely in combat training most billionaires pretended to dabble in.
His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, always clean-shaven. High cheekbones and a Roman nose gave him a regal, intimidating presence, made more piercing by those steel-gray eyes—eyes that didn’t just look at you, but through you, stripping away your lies before you could speak.
Dark, slightly tousled hair added a touch of disobedience to an otherwise calculated look, while his deep voice carried the weight of someone used to obedience.
He was a storm behind glass—controlled, beautiful, and dangerous.
Bria was the kind of woman people underestimated—until it was too late.
Standing at 5’7" without heels, she had the kind of figure that turned heads in every direction—curves in all the right places, honed not by vanity but by a life of physical training. She moved like silk on a blade—graceful, fluid, but with the coiled danger of someone who could kill you before you blinked.
Her skin was smooth, sun-kissed with a golden glow that made pink her signature color—not because it was soft, but because it was disarming.
She wore her hair long, usually curled and styled like a vintage doll, with tiny ribbons or clips to complete the illusion. But behind the doll-like perfection were eyes that told a different story—honey-brown, sharp, always calculating, and more alert than any soldier in a war zone.
Bria was beauty engineered for deception. Sweet smile. Deadly soul.
She looked like your dream.
She moved like your fantasy.
And she struck like your worst nightmare.
Before sitting, she subtly slipped a tiny listening device under his table’s edge—a move so smooth it looked like adjusting her pump.
Quinn didn’t bother with pleasantries. He was seated behind a sleek obsidian desk, eyes unreadable as he pushed a single envelope toward her.
She raised an eyebrow. Was this it? Had she already passed?
Keeping her expression cool, Bria opened the document. But what she found inside wasn’t an employment offer. It was a marriage contract.
Her pulse skipped.
Elegant gold embossing on creamy paper, sealed and notarized in advance. It was detailed, clinical… and far too real.
“I’m applying for a job in your company, not in your mansion,” she said flatly, placing the paper down.
Quinn didn’t flinch. “I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
She stared at him, her training flickering in the background, reading every twitch of his face. There was none.
“You’re an orphan. You have no debts, no dependents. You don’t need to work hard. One year of your life—just one—and in return, you’ll have access to the following benefits…” He leaned back, as though listing off groceries:
A monthly stipend of 1 million, deposited directly to her chosen account.
Unlimited access to his private luxury penthouse and modern mansion—with staff, car, and driver.
Health and life insurance under the Wixx Family Enterprise.
A platinum business card tied to a private account. No limit.
After divorce, a 20 million settlement and ownership of one condo unit under his name.
And—if she chose to remain employed—an open-ended contract in any department she desired.
“One year of your time,” he said smoothly. “After that, you’re free. No obligations. If you want to keep working here, no one will stop you. If you want to disappear with your millions, I won’t chase.”
Her lips parted. “Secret marriage?” she asked, tone cautious.
“Not necessarily,” Quinn replied. “But if you want to be discreet, we can be. You’ll never be obligated to attend social events or post anything public. I need a wife on paper. Not a performance.”
He checked his watch. “I’ll give you five minutes to decide.”
Bria stared at the contract. Her mission was to get close. This was closer than close.
Marriage. To her mark.
But she didn’t hesitate.
“No need,” she said, picking up the pen and signing in one fluid motion.
Quinn nodded once. “Good. My assistant will process the marriage certificate. You’ll be escorted home.”
Bria rose to her feet, masking the flicker of chaos behind her eyes.
Mission status: married to the enemy.
Target acquired.
