Arielle stared at the reflection of herself in the mirrored elevator panel.
Blouse borrowed from her mother. Shoes a size too tight. Hair neatly pinned, but still falling out of place by the hour. No amount of straightening or pressing could make her look like she belonged on the executive floor of Cross Enterprises. Not when everyone else walked around like they had stocks in the building itself.
The truth weighed heavier than her shoulder bag.
She was a cleaner's daughter… now assistant to a billionaire CEO. She didn't belong in his world — not in looks, not in experience, and definitely not in name.
But he kept her here anyway.
Damien Cross hadn't fired her. Hadn't replaced her. Hadn't even warned her again.
He just… watched.
Always watching.
And it made her skin prickle with awareness.
---
That morning…
"Sit," Damien commanded, barely looking up from the contract in his hand.
Arielle obeyed, quietly settling into the chair across from his desk. She kept her eyes down. His gaze was too sharp. Too unreadable.
"I need you to review this file for me. Page seven has the merger stats. I want you to rewrite them for clarity by noon."
Her eyes flicked to the thick folder he'd tossed her way.
"I don't… I'm not trained in this," she said carefully. "I've never studied finance or legal terms—"
"Then learn." His voice was cool, devoid of patience. "You're smarter than the role you're pretending to play. Don't insult us both."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
There was no room for negotiation here. No kindness. Just commands.
Power. Absolute and sharp as a blade.
She glanced up, just briefly, and saw the way he leaned back in his chair — perfectly composed, waiting to see if she'd flinch, break, or walk out.
Instead, she picked up the file.
She would figure it out.
Because she had no choice.
---
An hour later…
Arielle sat in the lounge down the hall, pen in hand, scanning the numbers until her head spun. Terms like "liquidation preference" and "non-dilutable equity" made her temples throb.
But she refused to fail.
Somehow, being Damien Cross's assistant wasn't just about money anymore.
It was about proving that she wasn't the weak girl people assumed she was.
Suddenly, a voice interrupted her thoughts.
"You're really doing the CEO's grunt work now?"
It was Leila, one of Damien's senior assistants. A woman with sleek hair, red lips, and heels that clicked like gunshots on tile. She crossed her arms, smirking.
"I guess it pays to be... interesting to the boss."
Arielle clenched her jaw. "I'm doing my job. Just like you."
"No, sweetie. I got here with a degree and a decade of experience. You got here with a mop and a pretty face." Leila's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Just remember—when he gets bored, you'll go right back to where you came from. If you're lucky."
Arielle didn't respond. What could she say?
The words stung because deep down, a part of her feared they were true.
Damien could end her employment with a word.
And she'd be back to cleaning toilets by midnight.
That was the truth of their world — his words created opportunities, hers meant nothing.
---
Back in the office…
She returned the file before noon, pages neatly annotated, bullet points rewritten with clarity she had barely scraped together through online searches and notes.
He took the file silently, brows lifting slightly as he flipped through.
"You used real-world analogies for the projections," he said.
"I figured you wanted it simplified. I wasn't sure if it was… too informal."
"It was smart," he said.
The compliment stunned her.
Damien rarely gave praise. And when he did, it felt… heavy. Like currency.
"You're learning fast," he added.
"Because I have to," she replied before she could stop herself. "Because if I don't, I'll be nothing more than the cleaner's daughter who sat in your office for six weeks and left the same way she came in."
He looked up at her then — really looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes. Something unreadable.
"You think that's what people see?"
"I know that's what they see," she said. "I hear them whisper. They think I'm a joke."
"And what do you think you are?"
She stared at him, her throat tightening. "Trying."
Damien was silent for a long moment.
Then he said, softer than usual, "Sometimes… trying is more than enough."
The silence stretched, different now. Not cold. Not sharp.
Something shifted in the air between them.
For a moment, it felt like the glass wall between their worlds thinned.
---
Later that evening…
Arielle remained at her desk sorting reports long after most of the staff had left. Her back ached. Her head throbbed. But she wanted to stay ahead. Wanted to be worthy of this strange opportunity.
The door to Damien's office opened. He stepped out — jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
She looked up, startled. "I thought you left."
"I had a call." He paused. "Why are you still here?"
"I'm working."
"You should go home."
"I will. Just—"
Her pen rolled off the desk. She reached to catch it but misjudged and nearly fell off the chair.
Damien caught her by the wrist, steadying her.
The contact was brief — but electric.
They both froze.
His fingers were warm against her skin. Too warm. Too close. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She looked up at him — and saw something unguarded in his eyes. A flash of concern. Or was it something more?
She jerked her hand back.
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
He said nothing at first. Then: "You don't need to apologize for being human."
"But you treat everyone like they're not."
His eyes narrowed. "Is that what you think?"
"That's what it feels like."
Damien's jaw tensed.
He didn't deny it. Because it was true.
Power had always been his weapon. His shield. And he wielded it over others without remorse.
But with her… it didn't work the same way.
She didn't cower. She didn't beg. She looked him in the eye like an equal — even when she clearly wasn't.
And somehow, that made him want to keep her near.
Even if he didn't know why.
"I'll have a driver take you home," he said abruptly, stepping back.
"That's not necessary."
"It's not a request."
There it was — the imbalance. Always in play. Always tilting the scale.
His words were commands. Hers were suggestions.
He held the keys to everything — her paycheck, her position, her future.
And maybe… her heart.
No. She shook her head as she packed her bag.
That way led to disaster.
She wasn't the kind of girl who could survive love with a man like Damien Cross.
He could crush her with a whisper.
But even as she walked to the private elevator, heart pounding from the brush of his fingers… she knew it was already too late.
The imbalance wasn't just in their titles or bank accounts.
It was in how deeply she already felt the shift inside her.
And how impossible it would be to stop it now.