Ava Lane's fingers shook as she smoothed the crumpled newspaper clipping. Sweat had blurred some of the ink, but the headline was still legible: Secretary Position - Drake International - $120,000 starting salary.
One hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
The figure made her head swim. It was more money than she had ever imagined seeing in her life.
Her scuffed sneakers squeaked across the marble as she entered the Drake International building. The lobby soared above her — glass, steel, immaculate — every surface whispering of wealth. She thought of her mother's medical bills and felt certain that this place cost more than her family owned.
She did not belong here.
"Miss Lane?" A woman in a flawless white suit approached; her heels tapped like a metronome. "I'm Patricia, Mr. Drake's assistant. You're here for the interview?"
Ava nodded, suddenly conscious of the loose threads on her thrifted blazer. "Yes, I—"
"Follow me."
The elevator climbed to the fiftieth floor with a long, suspended hum; Ava felt as if she were being lifted into either heaven or hell — she couldn't tell which. Her mother's voice echoed in her memory: Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I'll be fine. But she knew the truth — the bills kept arriving, and her mother grew weaker because they couldn't pay for everything. This job was her only chance.
Stepping out, she saw a waiting area that resembled a gallery. Six other women sat in leather chairs, immaculate and composed, each one seemingly more put-together than the last — designer bags, polished hair, expensive suits. Ava's stomach dropped.
"Have a seat," Patricia said curt, and Ava obeyed. "Mr. Drake will see you shortly."
Candidates were summoned one after another. Each who returned looked diminished — some with tear-streaked faces, others furious.
"Sarah Mitchell," Patricia called. A blonde in a powerful red suit disappeared behind the mahogany doors and returned twenty minutes later pale and shaken.
"Good luck," Sarah murmured as she passed Ava. "He's… intense."
After two hours, Patricia finally looked up from her desk. "Ava Lane."
Ava rose with legs made of jelly. This was it — the one shot to save her mother.
The office beyond the doors belonged on film. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city. A massive desk dominated the room, and behind it sat a man who made Ava forget to breathe. He was not merely good-looking; he was striking — dark, perfectly styled hair, a precise jaw, and eyes so penetrating they seemed to strip away pretenses. His suit was black and immaculate, likely worth more than her wardrobe.
But it was his gaze that froze her: it felt calculated, predatory, sizing her up.
"Sit," he commanded in a low, authoritative voice.
She sank into the chair opposite him, acutely aware of every inhalation.
"Lucien Drake," he said without offering his hand. "And you are...?"
"Ava Lane," she whispered.
He didn't glance at her résumé or ask about experience. He simply watched her, and the silence stretched taut until she could no longer hold it.
"I know I'm not qualified," she blurted. "I haven't worked as a secretary, and I don't have the clothes the others had. But I learn fast, I work harder than anyone, and I really need this job."
A thin expression — almost a smile — crossed his face. "Why do you need it?"
His question threw her. "I… what?"
"The job. Why do you need it so badly?"
She flushed. "That's personal."
"Everything about you would be personal to me if you worked here," he said. The tone had an edge; something in it suggested this was no ordinary employment.
Her mother's pale face hovered in her thoughts: so small and stubborn, fighting a battle they couldn't afford. "My mother is sick," Ava admitted. "She needs surgery. We can't pay for it. The bills are crushing us."
Lucien leaned back, regarding her like a specimen under inspection. "How sick?"
"Cancer." The word left a metallic taste in her mouth.
"And you would do anything to save her?"
Alarm flashed through her, but she had no alternative. "Yes. Anything."
He rose and walked around the desk, taller up close than she'd expected. Stopping before her, she had to tilt her head up to meet him. "The position isn't merely a secretary," he said softly. "You would be my personal assistant. Available to me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You'd manage my calendar, my calls, my meetings. You'd travel with me. Dine with me. Live by my rules."
Ava's heart drummed in her chest. "What kind of rules?"
"My rules." His eyes were winter-cold. "You would belong to me, Miss Lane. Completely. In return, your mother would receive the finest medical care money can buy. You would have a penthouse, a car, a new wardrobe — everything you could want."
"I don't understand."
He bent slightly so his face was inches from hers; she could smell a sharp, expensive cologne. "You will," he murmured. "The question is: are you brave enough to say yes?"
Her thoughts spun. It was not an ordinary offer. It was dangerous — something darker than a typical job. But her mother's face returned, and whatever pride she carried felt small beside the possibility of saving her.
She met Lucien's dark eyes and saw a reflection of an uncertain, frightening future — and one that still offered hope.
"Yes," she whispered.
His smile was sharp and final. "You're hired," he said, voice soft but absolute. "But you'll belong to me."
The words landed like a blow. What had she just agreed to? It was already done. She was his.