Chapter One
Ambitions of Amira
I've always believed ambition is both a curse and a blessing. It keeps you moving when you're exhausted, keeps you hungry when you should be satisfied. And in my case, it keeps me staring at a man I should never want, wondering if ambition has finally driven me insane.
Julian Archer.
My boss.
My obsession.
He doesn't even have to try. The way he commands a room, the effortless authority in his voice, the way those hazel-blue eyes cut across the table and pin you down — it's enough to make every woman in the building go quiet for just a moment. And I'm supposed to take notes, answer calls, organize his schedule like the loyal secretary I am. Instead, half the time, I'm memorizing the shape of his jaw when he's deep in thought.
I shouldn't admit this. I shouldn't even let the thought form. He's married, untouchable, the golden man on the top floor. And me? I'm just Amira. A girl with a résumé full of half-started jobs and a mind full of dreams too big for the cubicle I escaped.
But I can't help myself.
The office whispers about him like he's a legend. The prodigy who turned a failing firm into a powerhouse before his thirty-fifth birthday. The man who negotiates billion-dollar deals before lunch and looks like he walked out of a magazine spread after. To them, he's a story. To me, he's temptation in its rawest form.
This morning, I told myself I'd keep it professional. No lingering stares. No stolen moments. Just crisp notes, steady voice, perfect secretary. But when Julian Archer brushed past me in the hallway, close enough that I caught the subtle scent of his cologne — woodsy, clean, dangerously masculine — my vow cracked in half.
He didn't even notice me pause. He never does. And maybe that's the problem. My ambition doesn't want to settle for invisible. Not in this office. Not in this city. And definitely not when it comes to him.
The question is… what would it cost me to finally be seen?
The knock on my desk jolted me out of my daydream.
"Ms. Rivera," Julian's voice said, low and deliberate.
I looked up too fast, almost guilty, like a student caught cheating on an exam. And there he was, standing at the edge of my desk — not across the conference table, not striding through the office with a phone glued to his ear, but right in front of me. Close enough that I could see the faint green glint threading through the hazel of his eyes.
"Yes, Mr. Archer," I managed, my voice steadier than I felt.
He laid a folder on my desk. His fingers brushed the wood — long, lean, steady. "I'll need these revised before the investor meeting. Numbers are solid, but the presentation is too… cautious. Make it bolder. More decisive."
I nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, praying my face didn't betray how much my chest was thudding. "Understood. I'll get it back to you by noon."
Julian's gaze lingered a second too long, sharp and assessing. He had a way of looking at you like he was dissecting every thought before you even spoke. "That's ambitious timing."
A corner of my mouth tilted up, almost involuntarily. "Ambition seems to be what you hired me for."
The faintest flicker of something — amusement? surprise? — brushed across his features. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. He straightened, buttoning his suit jacket. "Then don't disappoint me."
And just like that, he was gone, moving down the hall with that predatory grace that made people step aside without realizing it.
I exhaled slowly, realizing I'd been holding my breath the whole time.
The rest of the office hummed around me, but in my head, everything was amplified: the echo of his voice, the weight of his glance, the ridiculous thrill that he'd noticed my ambition — even if only in passing. It was scraps, I knew. A married man with a wife so polished and perfect she could be carved from glass wasn't going to look twice at his secretary. And yet…
Scraps can feed a starving heart.
I opened the folder, scanning the numbers, highlighting weak spots, and already envisioning ways to punch them up. This was where I thrived — not just in doing the work, but in owning it. I wasn't hired to be wallpaper. I wanted him to see that. Maybe not as a woman yet, but at least as someone who mattered.
Half an hour later, I was deep into restructuring the proposal when a shadow fell across my desk again. My pulse leapt, stupidly hopeful, but it was only Kendra, one of the other assistants. She leaned against my cubicle wall, eyes sparkling with the kind of gossip that traveled faster than emails in this office.
"Mr. Archer came by your desk," she said, too casually.
I kept my eyes on the screen. "He gave me a project."
"Mmhmm. He doesn't usually hand things off directly. Usually sends it through the managers."
I shrugged, pretending not to notice the way her brows arched. "Maybe he wanted it fast."
"Or maybe he wanted you." Her whisper carried just enough volume to make my stomach twist.
I shot her a sharp look, lowering my voice. "Don't start rumors."
Kendra smirked, holding up her hands. "Relax, I'm teasing. But girl… if it were me? I'd let him ruin me six ways from Sunday. That man is—"
"Kendra," I hissed, but the laugh slipped out before I could stop it. She was outrageous, but she wasn't wrong.
She winked. "Careful, Amira. Men like him? They don't just ruin your body. They ruin your whole life."
Her words lingered long after she sauntered back to her desk. And I hated how much they thrilled me.
By noon, I had the revised proposal printed and polished. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I approached Julian's office. The door was ajar, the faint sound of his voice threading out — smooth, commanding, the cadence of someone negotiating.
I knocked gently and peeked in. He was standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear, one hand in his pocket. The city sprawled out behind him, glass and steel reflecting the midday sun. He caught my eye, gave a slight nod, then motioned me in while continuing his call.
I walked forward, every step deliberate, and set the folder on his desk. He broke his gaze from the skyline just long enough to glance at the cover page. A subtle arch of his brow told me he approved of the changes — even without a word spoken.
Then his voice sharpened into the phone. "No, that's not acceptable. You'll find a way to close by Friday, or I'll find someone else who can."
The steel in his tone sent a shiver down my spine. This was the Julian Archer the world feared and respected: uncompromising, relentless, unshakable. And yet, when he ended the call and turned to me, there was something almost softer in his eyes.
"You work fast," he said.
I held his gaze, emboldened. "I work smart."
That earned me a ghost of a smile. Not wide, not indulgent — but enough to feel like sunlight breaking through clouds.
For a second, silence stretched between us, charged and heavy. I knew I should leave, turn on my heel and walk out before I made a fool of myself. But my ambition wouldn't let me.
"Mr. Archer," I said carefully, "I know I'm just your secretary. But I could do more. With projects like this, I mean. I can handle the work."
Julian studied me for a long moment, and I swore my knees might give out under the weight of that stare. "Ambition," he murmured, almost to himself. Then louder: "We'll see if you're ready for more."
I walked out of his office trembling, not from fear, but from exhilaration. Because for the first time, I wasn't just Amira the secretary. For one fleeting second, I was Amira the possibility. And that was dangerous.
So dangerous, it made me want him even more.
The apartment was quiet when I unlocked the door. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made my thoughts echo louder than they should. I dropped my bag on the counter, kicked off my pumps, and let out the sigh I'd been holding since five o'clock. My feet ached, but not nearly as much as my brain did from replaying every second in Julian Archer's office.
That man's voice was still in my head. Low, steady, commanding. Even when he was just giving instructions, it wrapped around me like velvet. I leaned against the fridge, closed my eyes, and tried not to picture the way he looked at me when I placed the folder on his desk—like he saw me, but then blinked it away as if it never happened.
I poured myself a generous glass of cabernet and perched on the edge of my couch, scrolling mindlessly through my phone while waiting for my girls. We had a standing Thursday night ritual: wine, takeout, and whatever scandal we felt like dissecting. Tonight, though, I already knew the scandal would be me.
The knock came fifteen minutes later, followed by three voices bursting through my doorway before I even said come in.
"Where's the wine?" Tasha called, kicking her heels off the second she stepped inside. She was the loudest and the boldest of the three—dark curls bouncing, hoops swinging, energy enough to power a whole city block.
"Already in motion," I said, holding up my glass. "Glasses are in the cabinet. Help yourselves."
Behind her was Janelle, calmer, softer, the kind of friend who gave you truth with a hug. And last was Kiera, my wildcard—playful, reckless, the one who'd flirt with the waiter just to prove she still could.
They spread across my living room like they owned it, opening containers of Thai food and pouring drinks until the place smelled like basil, garlic, and cheap merlot. I sank into the couch with them, tugging a pillow into my lap.
"So," Kiera said, leveling me with a look before she'd even taken a bite. "How's Mr. Fine-As-Hell Boss today?"
I nearly choked on my sip of wine. "Excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb," she teased, grinning like a cat. "Julian. Archer. Your boss with the jawline that could cut glass. Did he give you more paperwork to shuffle, or did he finally give you the look?"
I shook my head, heat crawling up my neck. "We're not doing this tonight."
"Oh, we are absolutely doing this tonight," Tasha jumped in. "Girl, you've been in love with that man since your first week there. Don't even try to deny it."
"I'm not in love with him," I protested. "I just… admire him. Professionally."
"Professionally?" Janelle raised an eyebrow, sipping slowly. "Is that what we're calling daydreaming about his hands all over your—"
"Janelle!" I gasped, throwing a pillow at her. She laughed, catching it before it hit her wineglass.
"I'm just saying," she went on. "You light up every time you talk about him. And it's not just about how good he is at running that company."
Kiera leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. "What's he wearing lately? Tell me it's still those tailored suits."
I groaned into my pillow. "Why are you all like this?"
"Because we care about you," Tasha said, pointing at me with her chopsticks. "And because you're wasting your time pretending you're content being his secretary when we all know you want to be so much more than that. You're ambitious, Amira. You don't play small anywhere else in your life, so why are you playing small with him?"
The words stung, mostly because they were true.
I sipped more wine, avoiding their eyes. "He's married."
"And?" Kiera said without hesitation.
"And?" I repeated, gaping at her. "That's not a small detail!"
"I didn't say it was," she countered. "I'm just saying men in his position… marriages aren't always what they look like from the outside. You said it yourself—half the time he looks like he's carrying the weight of the world. Maybe that includes her."
Janelle frowned, but even she didn't disagree. "It's risky, Amira. But so is everything worth having."
They all looked at me then, three sets of eyes shining with mischief, curiosity, and concern. My heart hammered.
"You guys are crazy," I muttered, trying to laugh it off.
"Maybe," Tasha said. "But you deserve to feel alive. When's the last time you actually let yourself want something without talking yourself out of it?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. I couldn't answer it. Not honestly.
They filled the silence themselves—imagining what it would be like if I just went for it. Kiera joked about me "accidentally" brushing against him when I set papers down. Tasha suggested staying late one evening, giving him the chance to notice me outside the nine-to-five walls. Even Janelle, sweet voice of reason, admitted that sometimes fate needed a little nudge.
The conversation turned spicy fast, like it always did when wine was flowing. They painted scenarios that made my face burn: me straddling his lap in that sleek leather office chair, him pinning me against the glass wall where anyone could walk by, his hand undoing the very buttons I nervously avoided undoing myself.
"Stop," I whispered, half-mortified, half-thrilled.
"Why?" Tasha shot back. "Because it's too real? Because you've thought about it yourself?"
I hid behind my glass, but they already knew the answer.
We laughed until our stomachs hurt, until the food was gone and the bottles were empty. By the time they left, my apartment smelled of takeout and perfume, my cheeks ached from smiling, and my mind buzzed louder than it had all week.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror after cleaning up, toothbrush dangling in one hand, staring at the woman reflected back. My hair was messy, my makeup smudged, but my eyes… my eyes looked different. Alive.
Tasha's words rang in my ears: You don't play small anywhere else in your life, so why are you playing small with him?
I set the toothbrush down, leaning closer.
"Maybe it's time," I whispered to myself. My voice was quiet, but the conviction underneath it scared me. Excited me. "Maybe it's time to stop waiting to be chosen."
I pressed my lips together, tasting the last hint of wine, and smiled.
Tomorrow, I decided, things were going to change.