The first week at Cross Enterprises felt like stepping into a storm that never paused. Aria had expected long hours, but not the relentless pace Damien Cross demanded.
Her mornings started before sunrise. She arrived with coffee still too hot to drink, only to find Damien already at his desk, reviewing contracts as if the night had never touched him. He dictated schedules faster than she could write, corrected mistakes she hadn't yet made, and spoke in clipped sentences that left no room for argument.
And yet, she argued anyway.
By Thursday morning, she'd lost count of how many times she had bit back the urge to tell him he was impossible.
"This report," he said now, holding up a file she had prepared, "is thorough, but you buried the figures that matter on page six. I shouldn't have to hunt for numbers."
Aria folded her arms, heat rising in her cheeks. "I followed the template your previous assistant used."
"Then it's fortunate you're not my previous assistant," he replied coolly, sliding the file back across the desk. "Redo it."
She took the folder, biting down on her retort. He had a way of speaking that made even her best work feel like a half-finished puzzle. But as she turned to leave, he added, "And Miss Bennett?"
She looked back.
His gray eyes pinned her like a hawk's. "Perfection isn't optional here. It's the minimum."
Something in his tone — not cruel, but absolute — both infuriated and fascinated her. She gave a stiff nod and walked out before he could see the flush spreading down her neck.
By lunchtime, she was still reworking the report, tapping her pen hard enough against the desk to leave dents in the paper. Who does he think he is? she thought bitterly, even though she knew the answer: Damien Cross, billionaire CEO, man who built an empire from nothing, perfectionist who didn't know the meaning of enough.
Her phone buzzed. A message from him.
Conference room. Ten minutes. Don't be late.
Her pulse quickened. She gathered the revised file and hurried down the corridor.
When she entered the conference room, Damien was already there, standing at the head of the long mahogany table. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing strong, tanned skin. He glanced up as she entered, expression unreadable.
"You're on time," he said. "Good."
"I did redo the report," she offered, placing it in front of him.
He flipped through it with quick, precise movements. "Better." Then, almost as an afterthought: "You learn fast."
Her lips parted in surprise. It wasn't exactly praise, but coming from him, it felt like the sun breaking through a storm cloud.
The meeting began, board members filing in with practiced efficiency. Aria took notes as Damien commanded the room with the same intensity he used on her — sharp, controlled, magnetic. When he spoke, people listened. When he dismissed a point, it died without argument.
She should have been focused on her notes, but her gaze kept drifting to him — the curve of his jaw, the way his hand tightened on the pen, the quiet authority in his posture. Every movement seemed calculated, yet natural, like power was part of his anatomy.
At one point, his eyes flicked to hers across the table. Just for a second. But the air between them shifted, heavy and charged. She looked away quickly, heart hammering.
The meeting stretched into late evening. By the time the last executive left, the city outside the windows glowed with lights. Aria stacked her papers, ready to escape, when Damien spoke.
"Stay."
The word froze her mid-step. She turned slowly, uncertain. "Sir?"
"I want to review the merger documents with you. It'll take an hour."
She hesitated. Her stomach ached with hunger, her eyelids felt like lead. But something in his tone — not quite a request, not fully a command — made her nod.
He gestured toward the chair beside him. "Sit."
Aria took the seat, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him. He slid a stack of documents her way. "Tell me what you see."
She scanned the page, frowning. "The numbers look clean, but… the language in section four is vague. It could be twisted in arbitration."
His lips curved faintly. "Good. Most would miss that."
She glanced at him. "Then why test me?"
"Because I need to know if you're sharp enough to keep up," he said simply. "And you are."
Her pulse stumbled. He was close now, close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, close enough that his cologne — cedar, leather, and something darker — wrapped around her like a net.
Their eyes met. For a moment, silence roared louder than the city below.
"Mr. Cross…" she began, but the words tangled on her tongue.
His gaze dropped, fleetingly, to her lips. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rougher. "Damien. When it's just us."
Her breath caught. "That doesn't seem professional."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "Neither does the way you look at me, Miss Bennett."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to deny it, but he leaned back, breaking the spell. "Go home. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be worse."
Dismissed again. But this time, the dismissal carried something else — something that set her blood humming as she gathered her things.
As she left the conference room, Aria knew two things with dangerous certainty: Damien Cross was impossible. And she was already in far too deep.