The glass tower of Blackthorn Enterprises stabbed the skyline like a blade, catching the morning sun and turning it into something blinding, merciless. Arabelle Vey stopped at the curb, breath catching in her chest as she tilted her chin upward.
She had seen the building in newspapers, on TV, in whispered stories from her college classmates. But standing here at the foot of it, with her scuffed heels wobbling against the pavement and her too-thin blazer clinging to her arms it felt less like a company headquarters and more like the gates of a world she didn't belong to.
Her stomach twisted. She checked her watch. 7:45 a.m. Fifteen minutes before her first day officially began. Fifteen minutes before she stepped into the den of the most feared man in the city: Damian Blackthorn, CEO, billionaire, and the kind of man whispered about like a ghost story.
Arabelle inhaled deeply, clutching her bag closer. You need this job. You don't get to be afraid.
Her debts didn't care about fear. The hospital bills for her mother's lingering illness didn't care about fear. Survival didn't care about fear.
She pressed through the revolving glass doors, shoulders stiff, trying not to notice how the marble-floored lobby seemed designed to make people like her feel small. Everything gleamed chrome, glass, polished stone. Men and women in sleek suits swept past, their shoes clicking confidently, their perfumes leaving trails of money and power in the air.
Arabelle walked up to the front desk, nerves rattling her voice. "I—I'm starting today. Secretary to Mr. Blackthorn. Arabelle Vey."
The receptionist gave her a practiced smile, tapping the keyboard. "Yes. You're expected." Her eyes flicked briefly over Arabelle's thrift-store blazer and nervous posture, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Top floor. Twenty-third. Mr. Blackthorn likes punctuality."
"I'm early," Arabelle murmured.
"Then he'll like that." The receptionist's smile sharpened. "He notices everything."
Arabelle's heart skipped.
The elevator ride felt eternal, the numbers blinking upward one by one. She caught her pale reflection in the mirrored walls: wide hazel eyes, lips pressed thin, brown hair in a too-neat bun that already threatened to unravel.
"You look like prey," she muttered to herself, cheeks flushing. "You need to look like you belong."
But how did you look like you belonged in the empire of a man like Damian Blackthorn?
The elevator chimed, doors sweeping open.
The top floor was… silent. Too silent. No chatter, no footsteps. Just an expanse of glass-walled offices, polished wood floors, and the steady hum of the city far below.
A woman in a pencil skirt intercepted her immediately, posture stiff, face expressionless. "Arabelle Vey?"
"Yes."
"Follow me. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't sit unless instructed. Don't make mistakes."
The words landed like strikes, and Arabelle swallowed, nodding quickly.
The woman led her down a hall to a set of double glass doors so tall they seemed designed to intimidate. She pushed one open and gestured Arabelle inside.
Arabelle stepped in.
The office was enormous, half glass, half shadow. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, while dark wood and steel anchored the room in power. But it wasn't the room that froze her breath.
It was the man behind the desk.
Damian Blackthorn.
He didn't look up right away. He was writing something his pen sharp against the page, movements precise. He wore a tailored black suit, the kind that whispered money in its stitching. His hair was black, short, perfectly in place. His jaw was cut sharp, his presence sharper.
When he finally lifted his gaze, it was like being struck. Cold grey eyes, piercing and unreadable, locked on her.
Arabelle's knees weakened.
"You're early." His voice was deep, controlled, carrying an edge that could slice through steel.
"Yes, sir," Arabelle managed, her throat dry.
His gaze swept her slowly taking in her too-thin frame, her plain blouse, her nervous hands gripping her bag. His expression didn't flicker, but she felt it. Judgment. Disappointment. Interest. She couldn't tell which.
"Your name."
"Arabelle Vey."
"Background."
She blinked. "E excuse me?"
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "Your background. Education. Experience. Everything. I don't hire shadows. If you're going to sit outside this office, I will know you better than you know yourself. Speak."
Her cheeks burned. "I… studied business administration at Hartwell College. I graduated with honors. I've worked as an assistant at two firms before this, but…" she hesitated, her shame bubbling up, "… I was laid off. Downsizing."
A pause stretched between them. His stare was suffocating.
"Why this job?" His tone sharpened.
Arabelle's lips parted. The truth slipped out before she could cage it. "Because I need it."
Silence.
Then unexpectedly he smirked. A cruel curve of lips, as though she'd amused him in a way most people didn't dare.
"Honesty," he said, voice cool. "Rare. Foolish. Dangerous. We'll see which for you."
Her chest tightened.
He stood suddenly, his height towering, presence overwhelming. He walked toward her slowly, like a predator circling. She froze, pulse hammering.
He stopped a foot away, close enough that she caught the faint scent of expensive cologne wood, smoke, something darker.
"Rule one, Miss Vey." His voice dropped lower. "You will not lie to me. Ever. Do you understand?"
She nodded quickly.
"Rule two." His eyes narrowed. "You will not make mistakes. I do not forgive them. I do not repeat myself. If you fail me, you will not only lose this job you will wish you had never walked into this building. Understand?"
Her throat closed, but she forced out: "Yes, sir."
"Good."
He stepped back, returning to his desk. "Your desk is outside. You will manage my schedule, my communications, and my time. You will be silent unless spoken to. Invisible unless required. Fail me once, you're gone."
Arabelle's fingers trembled around the strap of her bag.
"Yes, Mr. Blackthorn."
His eyes cut back to her. They lingered. Grey and sharp and unreadable. For a moment, she thought she saw something flicker there curiosity? Or maybe calculation.
"Dismissed."
Arabelle exhaled shakily and turned, nearly stumbling as she left his office.
Her desk was sleek, impersonal, facing the glass doors of his office. She sat down slowly, breathing hard, her hands still trembling.
It was only her first day, and already she felt like prey dropped into the lion's den.
But beneath the fear, a spark burned in her chest.
Something told her that this man, this job, this world it was going to change everything.
Forever.