For a place filled with so much glass and light, Cross Enterprises held an atmosphere that was icy and sharp — like walking into a crystal palace designed to shatter anyone who didn't belong.
Arielle wasn't sure what possessed her to come back.
Maybe it was desperation. Maybe pride. Maybe the fact that she hadn't been able to sleep all night, Damien Cross's voice echoing in her head.
"You're in over your head."
Maybe she was.
But she wasn't a coward.
She arrived fifteen minutes early the next morning, wore her cleanest uniform, and tied her hair back in a tight bun. The air was tense as she rode the service elevator, passing floor after floor of corporate perfection, until she stepped onto the executive level again — the floor where gods walked in suits and she was nothing but a shadow beneath them.
She barely had time to grab the mop when a voice stopped her cold.
"You. In here."
It was him.
Damien Cross stood outside his office, expression unreadable, hands behind his back. No assistant. No warning. Just those two words.
She blinked, unsure if she heard correctly.
"I… I'm just here to clean," she managed.
"And I'm telling you to come in."
Something about the way he said it made her stomach flip. Not from fear — but from confusion. Why was the CEO of one of the most powerful corporations in the city speaking to her, again?
She stepped into his office. It was silent, sterile, and utterly magnificent. The view alone could steal breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the entire skyline, the city stretched beneath like a conquered empire.
He gestured to a seat.
She hesitated.
"I didn't ask you to sit for decoration," he said coolly. "You're now under a revised assignment."
Her brows furrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I've spoken with Maintenance. You'll no longer be doing standard floor cleaning. From today onward, you're to report directly to me. You'll be my personal assistant during off-peak hours. Temporary. Six weeks."
Arielle stared. "I'm not qualified for that."
"You clean things. You follow orders. You don't talk unless spoken to." He leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on hers. "That makes you better than half the applicants I've seen."
Her chest rose and fell. "Why are you doing this?"
Damien paused.
He wasn't about to say the truth. That she'd gotten under his skin. That he didn't like how she stood there, proud and stubborn, even when everything in this building screamed she should feel small.
Instead, he said simply, "I have my reasons."
She wanted to walk out. Her pride told her to run.
But her mother needed medicine. Their rent was due in two weeks. And whether she liked it or not, six weeks under Damien Cross meant more money than six months of mopping floors.
She nodded once. "Fine."
He smiled — not kindly, not warmly — but like he'd just won a silent battle.
"Good," he said, rising from his chair. "You start now."
—
Later that afternoon…
Arielle's new responsibilities felt bizarre. She organized files she didn't understand. Took notes in meetings she wasn't allowed to speak in. Served coffee to people who refused to meet her eyes — unless it was with disgusted curiosity.
And all the while, Damien kept watching her.
Not in a leering, inappropriate way. But in a quiet, unsettling way — as if she were a puzzle piece that didn't belong in his box but still intrigued him all the same.
Once, she caught him watching her as she reached for a pen on his desk. Their fingers brushed — barely — but the contact sent a strange jolt up her spine. She pulled back instantly.
He didn't speak, but he didn't look away either.
The silence between them stretched long and heavy.
Finally, she couldn't take it.
"You do realize I'm not going to sleep with you, right?" she said bluntly, crossing her arms.
Damien raised an eyebrow. "That's… bold."
"I'm here to work. Not to be your office entertainment."
He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Trust me, Miss Hayes, I don't mix business with pleasure."
She frowned. "Then why bring me here?"
His expression shifted — just slightly. Something softened in his jaw, but it was gone too quickly.
"Because you interest me," he said simply.
Her heart thudded, confused. "That's not a good enough reason."
He leaned in slightly, voice low. "I'm not asking for your approval. Just your cooperation."
She didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her silence said more than words ever could.
And he liked that.
—
Later that evening…
As Arielle finished sorting files and stepped out of his office, whispers followed her like smoke.
"She's his assistant now?"
"The cleaner's daughter?"
"Probably sleeping her way to the top."
Arielle bit down on her tongue.
She had done nothing wrong — yet the entire office had already written her story for her.
But as she passed Damien's door and caught his gaze through the glass, her spine straightened.
Let them talk.
She hadn't come here to be liked. She had come here to survive.
And if surviving meant working under a man who looked at her like she was an unsolvable equation… so be it.
But deep down, a voice whispered:
Be careful, Arielle.
Because workplace romance wasn't just forbidden — it was dangerous.
Especially when the man at the top was known for destroying anything that got too close.
And she? She was getting dangerously close.