Zara's new office wasn't really an office—it was more of a command station tucked just outside Damian Blackwood's lair.
Glass walls separated her from the executive floor, offering a full view of the Manhattan skyline and, through the tinted partition ahead, glimpses of Damian himself, pacing or speaking into his phone with the clipped intensity of a man who never repeated himself.
Her desk was immaculate. Too immaculate. A matte-black monitor blinked to life as soon as she sat, and a biometric scanner replaced any login screen. Beneath the glass surface, her reflection stared back—poised, alert, but aware of the weight in the air.
A small brass plaque read Z. Blake – Executive Secretary, like it had always belonged there.
Zara leaned back slightly, taking it in.
No HR orientation. No welcome email. Just a position. A title. A test.
She'd barely touched the keyboard when the door to Damian's office swung open.
"Inside," he said.
No please. No glance. Just a command tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared back into the shadowed interior.
Zara rose, smoothing her blouse with a flick of her wrist before following. She stepped into the room as if it might bite.
The curtains were drawn halfway now, dimming the light. Damian stood near a credenza of gleaming decanters—none of which he touched. He was staring at a file in his hand, but his voice cut the air as she entered.
"Are you allergic to anything?"
The question threw her.
"No," she said cautiously.
"Good. You'll need to keep up."
He tossed the file onto the table and nodded toward a sleek chair in front of him.
"You'll receive every internal schedule before it's uploaded to the executive system. That means you'll often know where I am before my own COO does. You will not gossip. You will not ask questions about who I meet. You will not speak to my brother. Ever."
Zara blinked. "You have a brother?"
"Unfortunately."
He circled to his desk and leaned against it, arms folded. "Do you understand what discretion means here, Miss Blake?"
"It means I keep my mouth shut and my eyes open."
That earned a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—in his eyes. Or approval.
"There's a burner phone in your drawer. It will light up once a day with the codeword 'Indigo.' When it does, you'll cancel my next two appointments, regardless of who they are."
"What if it's the mayor?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He tilted his head. "Especially if it's the mayor."
Zara didn't ask what 'Indigo' meant. Not yet. But a slow question began to unspool in the back of her mind. What kind of CEO needs a codeword to disappear?
"You'll get used to the pressure," Damian added, watching her like she was a chess piece he hadn't quite placed. "Or you'll crack."
"I don't crack," she said, chin lifting.
He moved then—just one step, but it brought him closer than comfort allowed. Close enough to see that his gray eyes were darker than they looked across a room. Stormy. Calculating.
"You will," he said softly. "Everyone does."
Zara felt her pulse spike. But she held her ground.
"I've lived through worse."
That stopped him. Just for a second.
His gaze held hers, and something unspoken passed between them. Not understanding, exactly—but recognition. A flicker of knowing.
Damian straightened and walked to a narrow cabinet built into the wall. He pulled out a file marked Redline – Confidential, flipped it open, and handed it to her.
"Your NDA. Sign it."
Zara scanned the lines. Three pages in, she stopped.
"This clause says if I breach confidentiality, I owe you ten million dollars."
"Yes," he said simply. "That's the discount. I charge journalists twenty."
Her lips twitched. "And if you breach my trust, do I get ten million?"
He gave her a look that was either insulted or intrigued. "If I breach your trust, Miss Blake, it will be by design."
Her pen paused mid-signature.
"And you think that makes it better?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he slid a gold fountain pen across the desk.
Zara signed.
The moment she dotted the final line, Damian reached for the file and snapped it shut.
"Your real work starts tomorrow. I expect you here by seven."
"That's early."
"You'll learn," he said. "This company doesn't run on comfort. It runs on control."
As she turned to leave, he added, "Oh—and Zara?"
She looked back.
His voice dropped to something quieter, silkier. "I hired you because you're smart. And brave. But I kept you because I think you're dangerous."
Her breath caught.
"To who?" she asked.
He smiled. "We'll find out."