The glass tower of Cross Enterprises stretched into the New York skyline like it owned the very air around it. Polished steel and mirrored windows reflected the morning sun, a beacon of untouchable success. Aria Bennett stood at the foot of it, clutching her slim leather portfolio so tightly her knuckles ached.
Breathe, she reminded herself. She had prepped for weeks, rehearsed every possible question, pressed her one good suit until the seams looked sharp enough to cut. Still, her heart pounded as if it wanted to leap from her chest and escape onto Fifth Avenue.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Girls like her — daughters of small-town mechanics with secondhand degrees and résumés stitched together with part-time jobs — didn't usually land interviews with billion-dollar corporations. But fate, or luck, or something in between, had cracked open a door. And Aria wasn't about to let nerves slam it shut.
Inside, the lobby gleamed in marble and chrome, its vastness swallowing her up. Men and women in designer suits strode past, their heels clicking like ticking clocks. A receptionist with a diamond smile checked her in and directed her to the top floor.
The elevator ride felt endless. Each floor number blinked past like a countdown to something monumental. By the time the doors opened to the executive level, her palms were damp, and she had to wipe them against her skirt before stepping out.
The hallway stretched long and silent, lined with glass offices that looked more like art galleries than workplaces. At the end was a door of dark mahogany, its brass plate engraved:
Damien Cross — Chief Executive Officer
Her breath caught. This is it.
The assistant outside his office, a perfectly coiffed brunette in a tailored dress, looked her up and down with a faint arch of a brow. "You're Aria Bennett?"
"Yes," Aria said, hoping her voice didn't tremble.
"Mr. Cross will see you now."
The assistant opened the door, and Aria stepped into a room that seemed to hold its own weather system.
The office was enormous, walls of glass overlooking the city's sprawl. Sleek black furniture, abstract art, and the faint scent of leather and cedar created an atmosphere both modern and intimidating. And behind a desk that looked carved from obsidian sat Damien Cross.
He didn't stand as she entered. He didn't need to. Power radiated from him even in stillness.
He was younger than she expected — mid-thirties, perhaps — but carried himself with the sharp authority of someone who'd been shaping the world for decades. His hair was dark, cut short in precise lines, and his suit, charcoal with a subtle sheen, molded to a body that suggested he did more than just sit behind a desk. But it was his eyes that unsettled her most — cool gray, steady, unyielding.
"Miss Bennett," he said, his voice smooth but clipped. "Sit."
It wasn't a request.
Aria obeyed, sinking into the chair across from him, careful to keep her posture straight.
He glanced down at her résumé. "Columbia graduate. Administrative experience at two firms, though neither lasted more than a year." His gaze flicked up, pinning her. "Why?"
Aria swallowed. "The first company downsized. At the second, I—" she hesitated, then told the truth, "—I realized I wasn't growing, and I wanted more responsibility."
A faint quirk touched his mouth, not quite a smile. "Ambitious."
"I prefer determined," she countered before she could stop herself.
For a heartbeat, silence pressed heavy between them. Then something flickered in his eyes — amusement, perhaps, or intrigue.
"Most applicants," he said slowly, "try to impress me with rehearsed lines about loyalty and teamwork. You speak like someone with a spine."
Her cheeks heated. "I don't believe in wasting time — yours or mine."
The air shifted. The city stretched endlessly behind him, but Damien Cross felt like the center of gravity in the room. His presence pulled at her in ways that made her chest tighten.
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Tell me, Miss Bennett. Do you know what it means to work for me?"
"I know you demand perfection," she said. "And I know that perfection isn't handed out — it's earned."
For the first time, he smiled — a small, dangerous curve of his lips. "Careful. Flattery doesn't work on me."
"It wasn't flattery," she replied softly. "It was fact."
Again, his gaze locked on hers, long enough to make her pulse stumble. She had the absurd sense he could see straight through her — through every layer of nervous confidence, down to the raw truth she tried to hide.
Finally, he stood, moving around the desk. He was tall, towering over her as he came to stand by the window. The skyline framed him like a king surveying his empire.
"You'll start Monday," he said, as casually as if he were ordering coffee.
Aria blinked. "I— I got the job?"
He turned, and the faintest smirk touched his mouth. "Unless you've changed your mind?"
Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "No. I'll be here."
"Good." His tone softened, though his eyes did not. "I expect long hours. Loyalty. Precision. Working for me is not easy, Miss Bennett. It's consuming. You will either rise or break."
The weight of his words pressed against her chest, but instead of fear, she felt something else — a spark, sharp and alive.
"I don't break easily," she said.
For the briefest second, silence hung between them, electric. His gaze flicked to her lips before returning to her eyes, and she felt her breath hitch. Then, just as quickly, his expression shuttered back to cold professionalism.
"Monday. Don't be late."
And with that, she was dismissed.
Aria left the office with her pulse racing, her mind a storm. She had the job. She should have been elated. But all she could think about was the way Damien Cross had looked at her — not as an employer sizing up a hire, but as a man fighting something he hadn't expected to feel.
And deep down, she knew: this was only the beginning.