The clock ticked loudly in the quiet office.
6:57 a.m. Sharp.
Ava stood at the door of Damien Vale's inner sanctum. The glass walls reflected the city skyline behind her, its light dim and gray in the early hour. She smoothed her blouse, adjusted the tight waistline of her pencil skirt, and inhaled deeply.
This wasn't just about looking the part—it was about playing it.
Confidence. Control. Charm.
The three C's Elena drilled into her before every high-risk assignment.
The scanner beeped. The frosted-glass door slid open.
And there he was.
Damien Vale stood at the massive window overlooking the city, dressed in black slacks and a crisp shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His tie lay discarded on a nearby table, and a cup of black coffee steamed beside a stack of open folders.
"You're early," he said without turning around.
"I'm precise," Ava answered.
He turned. Their eyes locked. Something passed between them—hot and sharp like an electric spark.
"Sit," Damien said, gesturing to the chair by her new desk.
Ava took her place, crossing one leg over the other.
He leaned on the edge of his own desk and regarded her with an unreadable expression. "This job has... expectations."
"I'm adaptable."
"You'll need to be."
He picked up a small remote and dimmed the blinds. The city view vanished behind dark glass.
"Three rules," he said. "Non-negotiable."
She readied her pen, as if she were just another secretary taking notes.
"One: Never lie to me."
Her stomach twisted. Rule one and already, she'd broken it.
"Two: Never enter the archive room. It's restricted for a reason. The key is on my wrist," he added, tapping a sleek black band she hadn't noticed until now.
Ava's eyes lingered on the bracelet. Sleek, polished… encrypted.
"And three…" He stepped toward her. Slowly. Deliberately.
"No distractions. No flirting. No sex."
Ava blinked. "You said that like it's been an issue."
"It has."
He stopped in front of her, arms crossed.
"Let's get this clear, Ms. Sinclair: I don't sleep with my employees. I don't tolerate games. If you're here to climb your way into my bed instead of your job title, I suggest you resign now."
Ava stood, meeting him at full height.
"I don't mix work and pleasure, Mr. Vale. And I don't need your bed to succeed."
Damien tilted his head, just slightly. A flicker of something dark danced in his eyes—amusement? Or challenge?
"Good," he said. "Because I hired you for your mind."
"Of course."
A brief pause. Their eyes stayed locked longer than they should've.
And then, the door opened.
Vincent Hale, Damien's head of security, stepped in. Clean-cut, sharp jaw, steel eyes.
He eyed Ava like a predator sizing up its prey. "So this is the new hire."
Ava offered a hand. "Ava Sinclair."
Vincent didn't take it. Just nodded. "I'll be running your background today."
Ava smiled sweetly. "Knock yourself out."
As he left, Damien gave her a knowing glance. "He doesn't like new people."
"I can be very likable."
"I'm sure."
They both knew they were lying.
Later that day, in the privacy of the women's restroom, Ava pressed her earring.
"Elena. I'm in."
Her handler's voice crackled in. "He buy it?"
"He laid down the rules."
"Let me guess—no sex?"
Ava laughed softly. "He looked at me like he already broke his own rule."
"Stay focused, Ava. One mistake and you're not just fired—you're buried."
"I know what I'm doing."
But when she returned to her desk and found Damien watching her from his office window, her throat went dry.
Because for a second…
She wasn't sure if she was the predator—or the prey.
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