Elara Hart told herself a dozen times that morning that this was just a job.
A paycheck.
Rent money.
Student loan slayer.
It was not, under any circumstances, an audition for some glossy magazine romance where the heroine falls for her impossibly rich, ridiculously good-looking, dangerously smug boss.
Still, her legs wobbled a little when she stepped into the marble lobby of Kane Corp.
The place screamed money. Shiny floors you could see your soul in. Walls lined with abstract art that probably cost more than her entire apartment lease. Receptionists in sleek black blazers tapped away at their computers like they were operating NASA control boards.
Elara clutched her tote bag like it might save her from drowning in all that luxury. Deep breaths, Elara. You're not here to fangirl. You're here to work.
Except the problem wasn't the skyscraper, the intimidating lobby, or even the knowledge that Kane Corp practically ran half the city. The problem was Damien Kane himself.
Her new boss.
Her billionaire boss.
And the man whose face had starred in too many of her midnight Google image searches.
Not because she wanted to, of course. Strictly curiosity. Research, maybe. Okay fine—he had the kind of jawline that could cut glass, and his smirk had a bad habit of popping into her daydreams.
Professional, she reminded herself, shaking her head. This is work, not Wattpad.
"Elara Hart?" the receptionist said, with a smile that was a little too polished to be friendly. "Mr. Kane is expecting you. Thirty-second floor."
"Thirty-second?" Elara echoed weakly, because of course he would work at the very top of the tower. Where else would the king sit, if not the throne?
By the time the elevator dinged open on floor thirty-two, she'd practiced her polite assistant smile in the reflection at least five times. The doors slid apart, revealing a minimalist hallway of frosted glass and black steel. She followed the sign toward Executive Office – D. Kane, her heart thumping louder with every step.
The door was already open.
And there he was.
Damien Kane stood behind his desk, phone in one hand, suit jacket slung over broad shoulders like he'd stepped out of a GQ spread. His dark hair was perfectly styled, but not in a try-hard way—more like he rolled out of bed looking unfairly hot.
He didn't glance up right away. He was too busy speaking into his phone in that low, commanding voice that made Elara's insides twist.
"No, I said by Friday. If you can't deliver, I'll find someone who can." He paused, then added, "Good. Then we understand each other."
Click. He set the phone down. Only then did his eyes lift to her.
And wow.
Damien Kane's gaze was sharp, assessing, like he could peel back every layer of her in three seconds flat. His eyes flicked from her head to her scuffed flats, and one dark brow arched.
"You're late."
Elara blinked. "It's—uh—8:55. I was told to be here at nine."
"I prefer early," he said smoothly, like that settled the matter. "Punctuality is the bare minimum. Enthusiasm is optional."
Her jaw tightened. "Noted, Mr. Kane."
He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. "Sit. Let's get one thing clear—I don't tolerate mistakes. You'll handle my schedule, filter my calls, and make sure nothing wastes my time. Do that well, and you'll last longer than the last assistant."
Elara sat, trying to ignore the fact that his voice did things to her spine. "What happened to the last one?"
"She cried," Damien said simply. Then, with a shrug, "People tend to."
Something about the casual arrogance in his tone snapped her nerves right back into place. "Well," Elara said lightly, crossing her legs, "lucky for you, I only cry during Pixar movies."
For the first time, something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile, but close—like she'd surprised him.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Up ruined me for life. But everything else? I can handle."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her like she was a puzzle. "We'll see."
The way he said it, low and challenging, made her pulse jump. But she refused to squirm. She wasn't here to be intimidated by some billionaire with cheekbones carved by the gods.
"Do you have any questions before we begin?" he asked.
"Just one," she said sweetly. "Do I get hazard pay?"
Damien's lips quirked. "For what?"
"For surviving you."
The silence that followed stretched for a dangerous beat. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. A short, deep sound that somehow made the room feel warmer.
"Ms. Hart," he said finally, "you may just last longer than a week."
---
By the end of her first morning, Elara had already:
1. Spilled coffee on her own notes.
2. Accidentally double-booked two of Damien's meetings.
3. Caught him smirking at her three different times, which was frankly rude.
And yet, when she escaped to the bathroom for a mini pep talk in the mirror, she couldn't deny it—there was a thrill buzzing under her skin. Like she'd just signed up for the wildest rollercoaster of her life.
She was supposed to keep things professional. To follow her own golden rules:
No crushing on the boss.
No getting distracted by smirks.
And absolutely no thinking about how good he looked in that suit.
But rules were made to be broken.
And Elara had a sinking feeling that Damien Kane was going to break every single one.