Arielle wiped her damp palms on her skirt for the third time that morning, then reached for the espresso order she'd written on a sticky note. Double shot, oat milk, no sugar. Damien's exact preference. If she made even a single mistake, he'd notice — not with words, but with that chilling, unreadable stare that made her feel about two inches tall.
She'd been his assistant for two weeks now.
Two weeks of walking on eggshells.
Two weeks of decoding corporate jargon and dodging office whispers.
Two weeks of pretending the man behind the desk didn't make her pulse race every time he looked at her like she was the only thing worth seeing in a room full of gold.
And somehow… she was still here.
Still trying.
Still drowning.
But today felt different. The air was strange — tense, as though something unseen had been stirred beneath the surface of her carefully managed world.
---
Damien had felt it too.
He leaned against the glass wall of his office, arms crossed, eyes fixed not on the skyline, but on the girl at her desk.
Arielle Hayes.
Everything about her screamed modesty — her quiet voice, her conservative clothing, the way she always bowed her head slightly when speaking to higher-ups. She didn't push. Didn't play games like other assistants. Didn't flirt, demand, or even try to impress.
But she was impressive.
Brilliant, fast-learning, grounded.
And full of secrets.
Damien had sensed it early on, but now… it gnawed at him.
Her last name. Hayes.
Something about it scratched at the edge of his memory, as though it belonged in a place far removed from bleach buckets and janitor closets.
He opened his desk drawer and slid out a thin folder. It was still sealed. He'd had her background quietly checked two days after making her his assistant.
He hadn't opened it yet.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe because he was afraid of what he'd find.
Maybe because he didn't want to justify the pull he felt toward her with logic or facts.
But Damien Cross wasn't a man who tolerated the unknown.
And Arielle… was a storm wrapped in silence.
---
Downstairs, across the city…
In a quiet room of a nearly forgotten nursing home, a woman coughed violently, clutching her chest. Margaret Hayes, Arielle's mother, blinked at the nurse standing nearby.
"Did the mail come yet?" she asked weakly.
The nurse shook her head. "Not yet, Ms. Hayes."
Margaret nodded faintly and turned her face to the window.
It had been over twenty years since she'd left that world behind — the wealth, the scandal, the name.
She'd spent every day since shielding her daughter from it.
But secrets, like roots, always find a way to grow.
And if Damien Cross had noticed Arielle… it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down.
---
Back at Cross Enterprises…
Arielle returned to Damien's office, careful to knock before entering.
"Your coffee, sir."
He looked up slowly, taking the cup without a word. She waited for the usual nod of dismissal.
But instead, he said, "Shut the door."
She hesitated, heart skipping a beat.
Something was off.
She shut the door behind her and turned back to him. He was already circling his desk, his expression unreadable.
"Where did you grow up?" he asked.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'm asking a question, Miss Hayes."
Her lips parted, unsure how to answer. "Um… in a small neighborhood. Outside the city."
"Parents?"
"My mother raised me alone."
"No father in the picture?"
"No."
Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.
"You ever attend private school?"
She shook her head. "No. Public all the way through."
"Interesting."
She frowned. "Why are you asking me this?"
Damien didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked to the side of the office and retrieved something from a drawer — a slim, black folder.
The very one he'd been avoiding all week.
He dropped it onto the table between them.
"This is your background file."
Her heart stilled. "You… you had me investigated?"
"I investigate everyone who works near me," he replied calmly. "Standard practice."
"Right," she said stiffly. "Standard, of course."
But it hurt.
Even if it made sense, it hurt that he didn't trust her — that he felt the need to dig into her life like she was a threat.
Or a criminal.
"I haven't opened it," he added, softer. "Not yet."
"Why not?" she whispered.
"Because I didn't want a file to tell me who you are."
She looked at him — really looked — and saw the conflict there. The war between the businessman and the man behind the mask.
"And now?" she asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he slid the folder away and said, "You can go."
She didn't move. "Do you think I'm lying to you?"
"I don't know. But I think there's more to you than a mop and a paycheck. And I don't like loose threads in my world."
Arielle's throat burned.
She wanted to scream that she wasn't hiding anything.
But wasn't she?
Hadn't her mother always told her not to ask about the past?
Not to question the missing half of her bloodline?
Not to dig?
And now here she was — trapped in a glass tower beside a man who might hold more of her story than she ever guessed.
She turned toward the door, heart pounding.
But before she left, she said quietly, "I'm not who you think I am."
Damien didn't respond. Not with words.
But his eyes followed her out, burning with questions.
And maybe something else.
---
That night…
Arielle found her mother sitting in the living room with a worn photo album on her lap.
"You're home early," Margaret said, smiling faintly.
Arielle hesitated before sitting beside her.
"Mom…" she began, voice trembling. "Can I ask you something? About my father."
Margaret stiffened.
"Arielle—"
"Please. I just… I feel like I'm being pulled into something I don't understand. And today, Mr. Cross… he said things. Asked questions. Like he knew something."
Margaret was silent for a long time.
Then, slowly, she opened the photo album to a page that had long been taped shut.
A photo fell into Arielle's lap.
A man.
Sharp jaw. Steel-gray eyes. Dark hair.
The resemblance was instant.
It was him.
No — not Damien.
But close.
The same bloodline.
Same name.
"That's Richard Cross," her mother whispered. "Your father."
The room spun.
Arielle clutched the photo, heart thunderous.
Damien Cross wasn't just her arrogant, infuriating boss.
He was the son of the man who abandoned her mother.
The heir of the family that left them behind.
She had walked into the lion's den without even knowing it.
And now she was too deep to turn back.