The sound of rushing water was the last thing Emilia expected to hear that morning. Well, rushing water and Chloe's devilish giggle. A second later, something cold, wet, and utterly merciless splashed across her face. She shot upright with a gasp, her hair plastered to her cheeks, nightshirt clinging to her shoulders like seaweed to a rock.
"Chloe!" Emilia sputtered, wiping water from her eyes as her best friend stood over her, clutching an empty jug like a victorious warrior after battle. "What the hell?!"
Chloe smirked, unbothered by Emilia's outrage. "You wouldn't wake up. And my arm was getting tired shaking you. So—" She gestured to the jug. "Hydration therapy."
"Hydration therapy?" Emilia asked, glaring through dripping lashes. "This is assault. You're lucky I'm not pressing charges."
Chloe plopped down on the bed beside her, utterly ignoring the puddle of water now soaking the sheets. "You should be thanking me. You've got a big day ahead of you, sleeping beauty."
Emilia groaned and flopped back against the damp pillow. "The only big day I had planned was sleeping until noon and binge-watching that drama you got me hooked on. Remember? The one with the rich guy who secretly owns, like, half the city?"
Chloe leaned in, her eyes sparkling with that dangerous glint that always preceded trouble. "Well… now you get to live your own drama. And this one comes with an actual rich guy."
Emilia sat up slowly, suspicious. "Chloe… what did you do?"
"I got you a job."
The words hit Emilia like a punch and she blinked. "A job? Chloe, I didn't even apply anywhere—"
"Exactly," Chloe interrupted, holding up a finger. "Which is why you should be grateful I took the initiative. This isn't just any job, Emilia. This is the job."
Emilia narrowed her eyes. "Define 'the job.'"
Chloe grinned like the cat that stole the cream. "Executive assistant to Damien Blackwell."
The name made Emilia pause. She didn't know him personally, but anyone who read a business magazine, or even glanced at a gossip column, had seen it before. Damien Blackwell — CEO of Blackwell Enterprises, one of the most powerful corporations in the city. Billionaire. Untouchable. Rumored to be colder than the arctic and sharper than a knife.
Emilia stared at her friend in disbelief. "You want me to work for Damien Blackwell? Chloe, that man probably eats assistants for breakfast. I've heard he's gone through six in the last year."
Chloe waved a hand dismissively. "They were weak. You're not. Besides, his last assistant… well, rumor says she quit after having a nervous breakdown."
"That's supposed to reassure me?" Emilia muttered.
Chloe ignored her sarcasm. "It's a golden opportunity, Em. You're smart, organized, and you have that thing—" She snapped her fingers. "That ability to keep a straight face when people are being insufferable. You're perfect for this."
Emilia looked away, the weight of Chloe's words sinking in. She had been out of work for three months now, her savings thinning like ice in spring. But working for Damien Blackwell… The thought alone made her stomach twist. She didn't do well around men like him — powerful, intimidating, the kind of man who could crush you without raising his voice.
And yet… she also couldn't ignore the glimmer of curiosity that crept in.
Chloe took her silence as a victory. "Good. You start today. Nine sharp. Wear something that says 'I'm competent but also terrifying if crossed.'"
Emilia blinked. "Today?!"
Chloe grinned. "You're welcome."
---
Two hours later, Emilia found herself standing in front of Blackwell Tower, the tallest building in the city, its glass facade reflecting the morning sun like a mirror to the heavens. She swallowed hard.
Inside, the lobby was a cathedral of modern architecture — marble floors, steel beams, a chandelier that looked like frozen lightning suspended in midair. Employees in sleek suits moved with purpose, their expressions set, as though they were part of some grand machine that couldn't afford a single faulty gear.
"Emilia?" a voice called.
She turned to see a woman in a pencil skirt and perfectly tailored blazer striding toward her. "I'm Jessica. HR. Come with me."
No small talk, no smile — just efficiency. Emilia followed her into a private elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soundless hiss. As they ascended, Jessica rattled off instructions in a clipped tone. "Mr. Blackwell values punctuality, discretion, and precision. You will manage his schedule, handle his correspondence, and ensure his time is never wasted. Fail in any of these, and you won't last a week."
Emilia forced a polite nod, though her palms were damp. "Understood."
The elevator opened to the top floor, where everything was quiet. Too quiet. The air here felt heavier, as if the atmosphere itself was aware that power lived on this level.
Jessica led her to a set of double doors and knocked once before pushing them open.
The office was a cathedral of shadows and glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline. The furniture was sleek, black, and impossibly expensive. And behind the massive desk, Damien Blackwell looked up.
He was exactly as the rumors described — tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that seemed to consume the room. His suit was charcoal, perfectly cut, his tie knotted with precision. His eyes, a piercing gray, locked onto her like a hawk spotting prey.
"This is your new assistant," Jessica said.
Damien's gaze swept over Emilia in a single, assessing glance. "Leave us," he told Jessica. His voice was low, smooth, but it carried an authority that brooked no argument.
The moment the door clicked shut, he leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Emilia Clarke," he said, as if testing the weight of her name. "Tell me why you're here."
She straightened her shoulders. "Because your company offered me a position."
A flicker of something — amusement? — passed through his eyes. "Is that so? Most people in this building fight tooth and nail for the chance to work for me. You sound… reluctant."
Emilia chose her words carefully. "I believe in doing my job well, Mr. Blackwell. Whether or not I wanted it is irrelevant. If I'm here, I'll do it right."
His lips curved — not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. "We'll see."
He stood, moving with the fluid precision of a predator, and came around the desk. Standing this close, his presence was almost overwhelming. He handed her a sleek tablet. "Your first task: reschedule my meeting with Voss Industries. And do it without making it look like I'm avoiding them."
She hesitated. "Voss Industries?"
His eyes hardened. "They're competitors. And not to be trusted. Learn that quickly."
Something in his tone told her there was more to that rivalry than simple business competition.
As she turned to leave, she could feel his gaze lingering — not in a way that felt personal, but as though he was calculating every possible weakness she might have.
Outside his office, Emilia exhaled slowly. She had a feeling working for Damien Blackwell would be like walking a tightrope over a pit of knives.
And somewhere, far below, shadows were waiting.