Elena barely had time to drop her bag at her desk the next morning before the intercom crackled to life.
"Miss Carter. Inside."
His voice was as clipped as always, but she swore she heard something sharper today, like steel drawn across stone.
She grabbed her notepad and hurried in.
Alexander Frost stood by the window, jacket already on, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with precise movements. He looked as if he'd stepped out of a magazine spread: charcoal suit, silver tie, not a single crease out of place.
"You're coming with me," he said without preamble.
Her brows shot up. "Where?"
"Cavanaugh Tower. Business lunch." He finally turned, eyes cool and steady. "You'll take notes, observe, and stay silent unless I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Frost."
His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, sweeping from her neatly tied hair to the soft cream blouse under her blazer. She shifted under his scrutiny, heat rising in her cheeks.
"Bring the Westbrook file," he added. "And don't forget the numbers I quizzed you on yesterday."
Her pulse jumped. He remembered? She'd spent half the night memorizing those figures until they blurred in her mind. "I know them," she said quickly, hoping her voice didn't betray her nerves.
"Prove it later," he replied, already striding past her.
---
The car ride was silent.
Elena sat in the backseat beside him, hands folded tightly in her lap, the Westbrook file balanced on her knees. The city blurred past the tinted windows, but her mind was on overdrive. She couldn't shake the mix of dread and anticipation coiling in her chest.
Finally, she glanced sideways. He was scrolling through his phone, jaw set, utterly unreadable.
"Mr. Frost?" she ventured.
He didn't look up. "Speak."
"Is there anything I should… know? About these clients?"
That earned her a flick of his eyes. "The Westbrooks are old money. They'll smile while they measure your worth, then use it against you if you slip. Don't."
Elena swallowed. "Noted."
He studied her for a moment longer, as though weighing whether she was worth the effort, then returned to his phone.
---
Cavanaugh Tower was all polished marble and glass, the kind of place Elena had only ever seen in glossy magazines. The maître d' bowed as soon as Alexander walked in, ushering them toward a private dining room at the back.
Inside, two men and a woman waited. The Westbrooks.
"Elena, the file," Alexander murmured as they entered. She handed it over quickly, grateful her fingers didn't shake.
"Mr. Frost!" boomed the elder Westbrook, rising to clasp his hand. "Always a pleasure. And this must be your new assistant?"
Elena straightened, offering a polite smile. "Elena Carter. It's an honor."
The woman's eyes swept over her, sharp and assessing. Elena resisted the urge to fidget under the scrutiny.
Introductions were made, wine was poured, and the dance began.
Elena quickly realized Alexander wasn't exaggerating—the Westbrooks were sharks, their words laced with charm that barely concealed their hunger. They pressed for figures, for concessions, for anything they could twist to their advantage.
And Alexander? He was ice incarnate.
Calm. Precise. Ruthless.
When one of the Westbrooks tried to corner him on shipping costs, he countered with a smile so faint it was almost cruel, turning their argument inside out until they were nodding along as if it had been their idea.
Elena's pen flew across her notepad, trying to keep up.
Then it happened.
"Miss Carter," one of the men said suddenly, turning those predator's eyes on her. "Since you've been diligently taking notes, perhaps you can tell us the projected growth margin for Frost Enterprises this quarter?"
Her breath caught. This was a test—no, a trap. If she stumbled, it would reflect on Alexander.
She flicked her gaze toward him. He didn't intervene. He just leaned back in his chair, watching her with that unreadable expression, as if silently saying: Sink or swim.
Elena's heart pounded. She forced her mind back to the endless late-night memorization, the figures burned into her memory.
"Seventeen point four percent," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "With a projected increase to twenty by the end of Q4, assuming overseas expansion continues on schedule."
A beat of silence.
Then Alexander spoke, his tone like frost-edged steel. "Correct."
The shark-like smiles faltered, just for a moment, before the conversation flowed on.
Elena exhaled slowly, hiding her relief behind her notepad.
---
When the meeting finally ended and the Westbrooks departed, Alexander stood, buttoning his jacket.
"You remembered," he said as they walked back toward the waiting car.
Elena glanced up at him. "Of course. I told you I could handle it."
For the briefest second, something flickered in his gaze—not warmth, exactly, but acknowledgment. Approval.
Then it was gone, replaced by his usual icy composure.
"Don't let it get to your head," he said. "One correct answer doesn't erase mistakes."
Her lips twitched despite herself. "Then I'll just have to keep getting them right."
And for the first time since she'd met him, she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch—almost a smile—before he looked away.