"What do you mean?" she breathed.
Delan stepped back, a strange, dark glint dancing in his eyes. "Since you 'stole' my time by making me deal with this security breach, you're going to give it back. Every day, until I decide your debt is paid, you belong to the Executive Suite. To me."
"Doing... filing? Coffee runs?"
Delan's smile grew, sharp and beautiful. "Nothing so mundane. You're going to be my personal assistant. But an assistant to Delan Vane must look the part. I find your current attire... offensive to my aesthetic."
He walked over to a tall, sleek wardrobe built into the office wall. He pulled out a garment that made Avana's heart stop. It was a dress of crimson silk, so delicate it looked like liquid blood, with a hemline that was aggressively high and a neckline that promised to be dangerously low.
"Put this on, Avana," he commanded, his voice dropping an octave into a territory that felt like a physical weight.
"I... I can't. That's—it's not professional, it's—"
"It's a way to keep your record clean," Delan interrupted, leaning in so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. "Unless you'd rather explain that sapphire to the authorities? Choose, Avana. Disappear into a cage of iron... or stay here and let me see who you really are."
The air in the office grew stifling as Delan gestured toward a private, marble-lined dressing room in the corner. The silk felt impossibly light in Avana's trembling hands, a sharp contrast to the heavy dread settling in her gut.
"I'll be waiting right here," Delan said, returning to his desk. He picked up a silver fountain pen, but he didn't look at his blueprints. He simply watched her.
Avana scurried into the dressing room, the heavy door thudding shut like a death knell. Inside, the scent of expensive cologne was overwhelming. She fumbled with the buttons of her oversized cardigan, her skin prickling in the cool air of the vents. Every sound from the other side—the scratch of his pen, the rustle of paper—felt like he was right there with her.
Why am I doing this? she thought, her eyes stinging.
The silk was cold against her skin. It clung to every curve she had spent years trying to hide under baggy sweaters. The dress sat high on her waist, the hem brushing her mid-thigh in a way that made her feel naked. Finally, she stepped into the high heels he had provided, her legs shaking so much she nearly toppled over.
"Avana?" Delan's voice came from the other side of the door. "Don't make me come in there to help you."
"I'm... I'm coming," she whispered.
She pushed the door open. The late afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the skyscraper, catching the shimmer of the red silk. She kept her knees pressed together, her hands desperately trying to tug the skirt lower, but it wouldn't budge. She refused to look up, her face burning a deep, humiliated crimson.
The silence lasted too long. It was the silence of a man admiring a masterpiece.
Finally, the floor creaked. Delan approached, his footsteps slow and deliberate on the hardwood. He stopped so close she could see the polished shine of his Italian leather shoes.
"Look at me."
Avana slowly raised her gaze. She expected to see mockery. Instead, she found his expression uncharacteristically tight. His pupils were blown wide, his dark eyes scanning her from the exposed collarbone down to her bare, trembling legs.
"You look..." he started, his voice rough. He reached out, his fingers catching a stray lock of her hair and tucking it behind her ear. His touch was electric. "...exactly as I imagined."
Avana gasped, her heart hammering. "Can I... can I sit down now? Can I start the filing?"
"No," Delan whispered, his gaze dropping to her lips. He let go of her hair, but the tension didn't break. "A personal assistant to the CEO needs to be visible. Walk to the window and back. I want to see if you can handle the attention this role requires."
Avana realized then that this wasn't just about the necklace. This was a stage, and Delan was a director who had become obsessed with his lead. She took a tentative, shaky step, the silk rustling against her thighs. She felt exposed, even though they were forty floors above the rest of the world.
"Sit," he finally said, gesturing to a small glass table near his own desk. "My schedule for the architectural gala is a mess. You're going to help me organize the guest list."
He handed her a tablet and a stylus. As she sat, the dress rode up even further. She tried to pull it down, her face flaming.
"The names are on the left," Delan instructed, his voice drifting across the desk. "The investors, the city planners, the rivals. They must be grouped by net worth. If you make a mistake, you start the list over."
Avana began to type. Her hand was trembling so much the stylus slipped.
"Your focus is slipping, Avana," Delan remarked. Suddenly, he was there, looming over her shoulder. He didn't stay back. He leaned down, his chest nearly brushing her back, and reached around her to steady her hand on the tablet.
His hand was large and warm, completely enveloping hers. The contact sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.
"Breathe," he whispered into her ear. The scent of him was intoxicating. "If you're this nervous over a guest list, how will you handle the rest of my demands?"
"I'm... I'm trying, Mr. Vane."
"Are you?" His grip tightened slightly, guiding her hand across the screen. "Because you seem more focused on the fact that I'm touching you than the task. Is it the clothes, Avana? Do they make you feel... vulnerable?"
Avana couldn't answer. She was hyper-aware of the weight of his body behind her and the terrifying realization that she wasn't pulling away.
"There," he said, releasing her but remaining close enough that his breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck. "Now, continue. But every time you lose your focus, I'll add another hour to your 'service.' Understood?"
Avana nodded fervently. As she worked, she could hear him pacing. Every now and then, she heard the soft click of a camera shutter.
She froze. "Are you taking photos, sir?"
"Documentation," he replied smoothly, though there was a hint of a dark smile in his voice. "In case you decide to stop being such a 'model intern.' Now, don't stop. The gala won't wait, and neither will I."