Temptation

The glass doors to Blackthorne Tower slide open with a pneumatic whisper that screams money, and I’m pretty sure I forget how to breathe.

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting the strap of my thrifted leather portfolio. “Don’t screw this up, Milla. Just… don’t.”

The lobby is all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, marble floors so polished I can see my own wide-eyed reflection staring back at me. Somewhere above, way above, ceiling lights glitter like distant stars.

I’ve been in New York for exactly three weeks, sleeping on a pull-out couch in my cousin’s studio in Queens, and this place makes every other building I’ve stepped into look like a cardboard box.

The receptionist behind the curved obsidian desk doesn’t look up from her computer. “Name?”

“Milla Hathorn. I have an interview with Michael Black. Ten-thirty.”

She clicks something, then gestures toward the elevators with a perfectly manicured hand. “Sixtieth floor. Don’t be late. Mr. Black despises tardiness.”

Great. No pressure.

My heels click too loud against the marble as I cross the lobby. My heart’s hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and I bite my lower lip. nervous habit, always has been.

The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and I step inside, punching the button for the sixtieth floor with a shaky finger.

The ride up is torture. I pull out my resume, creased from being shoved in my bag, and skim it for the hundredth time. BA in Business Administration, summa cum laude.

Three years of administrative work at a construction firm in Ohio. Blah blah blah. It sounds so small-town compared to this glass monument to capitalism. But I need this.

After finding my ex screwing my replacement in our bed, after emptying my savings just to afford the U-Haul drive east, after eating ramen in a studio that smells like my cousin’s gym socks, I need this.

The elevator stops.

The doors open onto a corridor that’s all charcoal carpet and muted art. I smooth down my pencil skirt, black, professional, hugging curves I’ve learned to downplay, and tug at the neckline of my blouse.

The scar on my left knee itches under my pantyhose, a phantom sensation from the bike accident when I was twelve. I ignore it.

A severe woman with a silver bun sits at a desk outside massive double doors. “Miss Hathorn?”

“Yes.”

“He’s waiting. Go in.”

I push through the doors, and the first thing that hits me is the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, the skyline stretching out like a kingdom. The second thing is the man standing in front of those windows.

Michael Black turns around, and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees.

He’s in his sixties, silver-haired, with the kind of posture that suggests he’s never slouched a day in his life. His suit is charcoal, tailored within an inch of its life, and his eyes, steel gray and assessing, rake over me with the efficiency of a barcode scanner.

“Miss Hathorn.” His voice is gravel mixed with authority.

“Mr. Black. Thank you for seeing me.” I step forward, extend my hand. He shakes it once, firm grip, then releases like he’s worried I might contaminate him.

He gestures to a chair. “Sit.”

I sit. The leather is cold through my skirt.

Michael Black settles behind his desk, a massive slab of black marble that probably cost more than my parents’ house, and opens a file. My file, presumably. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks.

“Your credentials are… adequate. Small town, small jobs. But the references check out. Reliable, they say. Punctual. Discreet.” He looks up, those gray eyes pinning me. “My son needs focus, Miss Hathorn. Not distractions. He’s been running wild since-,” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “He needs structure. Someone who won’t… excite him.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“He’s easily bored,” Michael continues, like he’s discussing a malfunctioning appliance. “Easily distracted by… glamour. Flash. I need someone plain. Reliable. Invisible, if possible. You come across as sensible. Grounded.”

Plain. Invisible. Sensible.

I should be offended, but I’m too desperate to clutch my pearls. “I’m very dedicated, Mr. Black. Whatever your son needs administratively, I can handle it.”

“He’s the CEO of this company,” Michael says, and there’s a weight to the words. “He’s also… difficult. The last three assistants quit within a month. The one before that lasted three days. Do you understand what I’m offering?”

A job.

A salary.

A foothold in this city.

“I understand,” I say, and I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds.

Michael studies me for a long moment, then slides a document across the desk. “The contract. Standard non-disclosure, non-compete clauses. Term of employment details on page three. Read it carefully, Miss Hathorn. Carefully.”

I should. God, I should. Every alarm bell in my head is ringing, read the fine print, Milla, remember what happened with the apartment lease, remember the storage unit fees you didn’t see coming, but Michael Black is staring at me with those impatient eyes, and the view from the sixtieth floor is spinning with possibility, and I’m so fucking tired of being careful.

I flip to page three. My eyes catch on the salary, holy shit, more than I’ve ever made, then the start date: September 1st.

Tomorrow.

There’s text about terms, about duration, but my brain is already calculating rent money, calculating freedom, calculating escape. It’s just a job. A year goes by fast. Faster when you’re not looking.

I sign my name with the pen he offers, a heavy fountain thing that feels ridiculous in my hand. I don’t read the paragraph above my signature. I don’t see the clause that locks me in for twelve months, ironclad, no early termination without penalties that would bankrupt me. I see the number at the top of the page, and I sign.

“Excellent,” Michael says, and for the first time, something like approval softens the hard line of his mouth. “Welcome to Blackthorne Enterprises, Miss Hathorn.”

He stands, and I stand with him, my legs shaky with relief.

“There’s one more thing,” Michael says, moving toward the door. “You should meet him. See what you’re getting into before tomorrow’s orientation.”

He opens the door and nods to the silver-bunned secretary outside. “Get Damien in here.”

Damien. The name echoes in my head. I’ve done my research. Damien Black, thirty-two years old, took over as CEO two years ago after his father stepped up to chairman. Playboy reputation. Endless string of models and socialites.

Scandals carefully buried by expensive PR firms.

The door to the office opens, and I stop breathing for the second time that day.

He’s tall. has to be six-three at least, with shoulders that fill the doorway and a presence that makes the massive office feel suddenly claustrophobic.

Dark hair, styled like he just rolled out of bed but somehow expensive about it.

A jaw sharp enough to cut glass, dusted with stubble that’s probably against dress code but somehow makes him look even more powerful.

He’s in a black suit, charcoal shirt, no tie, and everything about him screams untouchable and dangerous and what the fuck have I signed up for.

But it’s his eyes that root me to the floor.

Gray, like his father’s, but where Michael’s are cold steel, Damien’s are storm clouds.

Turbulent. Electric.

They lock onto mine with the force of a physical blow, and I feel it everywhere, my chest, my stomach, that traitorous pulse between my thighs that has no business waking up during a job interview.

Damien stops mid-step. His expression shifts from bored annoyance to something darker, sharper. His jaw ticks, a quick, violent spasm that he doesn’t bother to hide.

“Dad,” he says, and his voice is whiskey and gravel, rough in a way that makes my toes curl inside my sensible pumps. “What’s this?”

“Your new personal assistant,” Michael says. “Milla Hathorn. Starts tomorrow. Try not to scare her off before lunch.”

Damien’s eyes don’t leave mine. He takes a step closer, then another, until I have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact.

He smells like expensive cologne and something darker, something warm. He looms over me, radiating a hostility so thick I could choke on it.

“Dad’s new babysitter?” he asks, and there’s a sneer in his tone that should make me want to slap him. Should.

Instead, I feel my face heat. My lip finds its way between my teeth, nervous, aroused, I can’t tell the difference right now, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Something flashes across his face, there and gone, too fast to name.

Hunger?

Revulsion?

Both?

“She’s reliable,” Michael says, oblivious to the nuclear reaction happening three feet away. “Sensible. Not your usual type, thank God.”

Damien’s eyes snap back to mine, and they’re harder now. Colder. “No,” he agrees, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates against my ribs. “She’s definitely not my type.”

The dismissal should sting. It does, kind of, but it’s buried under the avalanche of want that’s flooding my system, chemical and stupid and undeniable.

I hate him already. I hate his perfect face and his cruel mouth and the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he scraped off his shoe.

I also want to know what he’d feel like pressed against me. Which makes me an idiot.

“I’m standing right here,” I say, and my voice comes out breathier than I’d like, but at least I’m speaking.

Damien’s eyebrow arches, there’s a faint scar there, I notice, a pale line through his right brow, and his lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Are you?”

He turns to his father, and I watch the muscles in his back shift under the expensive wool of his suit. “I don’t need a nanny, Dad. Fire her. Hire a robot. Hire a corpse. Anyone but this.”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Michael says, and there’s iron in his voice. “Miss Hathorn signed a contract. She’s yours for the year. Try to behave like a CEO, not a frat boy.”

A year.

The words echo in my head, but they don’t land. They don’t stick.

I’m too busy staring at the way Damien’s hands flex at his sides, watching him loosen his tie. a quick, angry jerk of fabric, and then his jaw ticks again, that telltale sign of his temper barely leashed.

When he looks back at me, the heat in his eyes has banked to something dangerous. Something that promises war.

“Fine,” he says softly. Too softly. “Welcome to Blackthorne, Miss Hathorn.”

He says my name like it’s a threat.

Like a promise of every awful, delicious thing that’s about to happen.

He doesn’t shake my hand.

He just stares at me for one heartbeat, two, letting the tension stretch between us until I’m sure I’m going to vibrate out of my skin.

Then he turns and walks out, the door slamming shut behind him with a crack that makes me jump.

The office goes quiet.

My heart is trying to break my ribs.

Michael clears his throat, already dismissing me as he moves back to his desk. “You’ll report to the sixty-first floor at nine a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. And Miss Hathorn?”

I manage to tear my eyes from the closed door. “Yes?”

“Wear something less…” He gestures vaguely at my outfit. “Distracting. My son has enough temptations without adding you to the list.”

Less distracting. I look down at my boring black skirt, my modest blouse. I’m practically wearing a nun’s habit.

But as I mumble my goodbyes and stumble toward the elevator, my hands shaking as I press the button for the lobby, I can still feel Damien Black’s eyes on me. Still feel the electric snap of that first look, the way his gaze devoured me even as he sneered.

Not his type, he said.

He’s a liar.

I saw it in the way his pupils blew wide. I felt it in the heat that poured off him, angry and raw and directed entirely at me.

The elevator doors close, and I slump against the mirrored wall, pressing cool palms to my flaming cheeks. Through the glass, the city sprawls out below, full of promise and danger.

I just signed a contract I didn’t read, trapped myself for a year with a man who looks at me like he wants to ruin me, and I’m already wondering what his mouth tastes like.

“Fuck,” I whisper to my reflection.

The girl staring back at me has wild eyes and bitten-red lips and the distinct look of someone who’s just jumped out of a plane without checking for a parachute.

The elevator drops, stomach-lurching fast, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life.

Or the most exciting one.