I sit with my legs folded outside an opaque glass door. The silence of this upper floor is unsettling—eerily removed from the levels below, where desks clutter the open plan and all white noises are drowned out.
Down there, the air hums with ringing phones and overused coffee machines. Up here, it's clinical. Too clean. Too quiet. A place for whispered deals and sharpened smiles.
My hands rest in my lap, steady but alert.
The building's modern design feels cold—steel edges, black-tinted windows, and plain white walls. It's sharp and stylish, perfect for a real estate empire, but there's no warmth in it.
Everything looks clean and expensive, but also distant—like it was built more for power than people. The door swings open and a woman steps out. She's brown-skinned with sleek black hair clipped precisely at her shoulders. Her eyes scan me over the rim of narrow glasses.
"Are you Miss Kinsley?" Her voice is crisp, formal.
I nod, rising smoothly to my feet. She steps aside with a motion of her hand, and I glide past her through the door.
Iinside mirrors the hallway: minimalist, clinical, deliberate. White walls. Grey carpet. A desk polished to a mirror shine. The only color comes from a single potted plant tucked near the window—perhaps an attempt to soften the edges.
I take a seat as she follows and claims the chair opposite mine.
"Good morning. It's nice meeting you. I'm Mrs. Kent, the company's executive secretary." Her gaze holds mine like a challenge. That steady, calculating stare—the kind that tests for cracks.
I meet it with a pleasant smile, polished but empty. "Allesha Kinsley. It's a pleasure."
Her mouth pulls into something close to a smile, and she opens a slim folder. "Let's get started, shall we?"
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The door clicks shut behind me, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. The hall is still deserted, muffled by the plush carpet and too much air conditioning. I take two steps back before pivoting to leave—then suddenly crash into something solid.
Or someone.
I blink, dazed. My head throbs lightly as I raise a hand to my temple. A firm grip catches my wrist and steadies me.
Of course. How cliché.
His touch is careful. Not possessive, not clumsy—just… steady. Like he's done this before.
"You okay?" The voice is warm, deep, lined with concern.
I lower my hand, looking up—and there he is.
Makai Huxley.
Up close, he's even more disarming. Tall, with rich brown skin that stands out against the cold white walls, and eyes that narrow with genuine worry. The man exudes control without trying.
"All good," I mutter. He releases my wrist slowly, and for some inexplicable reason, the world feels colder once he does.
We hold eye contact for a few seconds too long.
"I've never seen you around before," he says, tipping his head slightly like he's studying me from a better angle.
"That's because I'm new," I say, smoothing the front of my blouse and extending a hand. "Allesha Kinsley. I have the honor of being your new assistant. Pardon my clumsiness."
His face stays mostly unreadable, but there's the faintest flicker in his eyes—a spark of quiet amusement.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Kinsley."
I smile. "No need for the formalities. Call me Allesha."
He nods, but doesn't offer his name in return. Interesting.
"Well, Allesha," he says, rolling the name slowly off his tongue like he's tasting it, "you officially start tomorrow."
Even though it catches me off guard, I nod. "Noted."
And just like that, he walks away—long strides, confident shoulders, perfectly tailored suit brushing against him like it was made for his bones. I stand frozen until he disappears around the corner.
No one warned me Makai would be like this.
The men I normally destroy are: Predictable. Arrogant. Repulsive. They wield power like a weapon and expect everyone to bleed on command.
But Makai… seems different.
He didn't look at me like I was property. Didn't ogle. Didn't smirk.
How am I supposed to do something so cruel to a man who might actually have something good in him?
When I make it back to my penthouse, I have to dig deeper—past Tylon's data sheets and beyond surface-level press releases. The media paints him as a polished gem: young mogul, charitable, scandal-free. A publicist's dream.
That should make him easier to read… but instead, it makes me more curious about what's festering beneath his polished facade.
Tylon thinks he's hiding something. And if Tylon believes it, then it has to be true.
Because Tylon doesn't seem like the type who wastes time chasing shadows.
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I parking lot is so full and huge, I had to park a distance away from the entrance. The afternoon sun is warm, making beads of sweat trail down skin. I hate sweating!
I dart across the lot and head for my rented white honda. To my surprise, there's someone in the passenger seat. The shadow isn't evident because my windows are highly tinted but I have a keen eye.
It's a necessity in my line of work. The ability to be quick and sharp. If I wasn't …then it's safe to say I'd be in prison by now.
I take precaution, opening my door while my hand clutched the taser in my purse.
"What is wrong with you!" I hiss, holding my chest as I slide inside. "Do you enjoy giving people heart attacks, Vaughn, or is this just some twisted hobby of yours?"
He's reclining casually, glasses pushed up on the bridge of his nose, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"What were you thinking about accepting this target?" he asks without even a greeting.
"What are you talking about? I just nailed the interview," I say, settling in my seat, and pulling the seatbelt across my upper body.
He turns his head slowly to look at me, and there's something grim in his eyes. "You want to target Makai Huxley?"
"Got hired to do it."
"There's a difference between hired and manipulated, Zuri. Do you even know who the man is?"
I grip the steering wheel, trying not to let his tone get under my skin. "I met him today. He was polite. He didn't recognize me, I mean how could he? The only people who know me are those who hunt me and I don't look anything like who they are looking for. "
Vaughn sighs heavily, rubbing his temple. "You think that means anything? Men like him don't show their cards. What if he's playing the same game you are?"
"I don't doubt my ability."
"It's not about your ability." He turns toward me, serious now. "It's about who you're playing with. Tylon doesn't care if you get caught. He's using you."
He says it like a fact. Like he knows something I don't.
"I understand that there will always be risks," I say, narrowing my eyes. "I'm always up for the thrill."
Vaughn leans closer and tilts my chin so I'm forced to meet his eyes. They're softer than his tone—deep brown and full of worry.
"Zuri. You don't need this. You don't need to help Tylon because you sure as hell don't need his money."
I blink, suddenly aware of how risky this is. This surely isn't what I need right now after my last mission. I should be laying low.
"I signed a contract," I whisper, my voice steadier than I feel, "I can't just back out."
His hand falls away slowly, "Fuck. Did it occurred to you that you're using a fake identity to apply at this high-end business facility?"
I lick my lips, "I guess I'll have to trust your skillset."
"It's obvious that you think this is a joke," Vaughn says through gritted teeth.
I chew on my lower lip, my anxiety hightened as if it's beginning to consume me, "I guess we'll just have to see."