Chapter One
Fuck. Millionaire. CEO’s.
Not literally.
Well …
No. Definitely not.
Glaring through the unreasonably tinted window of her boss’s hundred-story high-rise office, Sylvie Hart mulled over her decision to take the executive assistant position. Necessity. Vanity. Poverty. How she still had a job was beyond her. Too slow, Hart. Too messy, and too many questions.
She gnawed on the inside of her cheek, her thumb rhythmically circling her cuticle, searching for a piece of skin to pick.
Elias-fucking-Ambrose.
Brooding, dark-haired god, but still a rich, entitled, asshat. How anyone needed that level of wealth would never make sense to her. Especially when she lived in a rat-infested apartment with a mild case of black mould. If you could even call it mild.
“Hart. What the hell are you doing in here?” She flinched at his throaty tone and spun, hiding the tremor of her hands by clasping them at her front. The glass doors to his office swung shut with a heavy crack.
“Sorry I—”
“Have you already forgotten our conversation from this morning?”
The performance management meeting. Not really a conversation but a lecture, one that took her right back to her school days getting dressed down by the headmaster for fighting.
“I hadn’t, sir, but yesterday you told me to bring you the Jurin contracts,” she replied, gesturing to the stack piled on his obnoxious orewood desk. “They arrived ten minutes ago.” She tried to keep her voice even, but his powerful aura had it straining. He was too beautiful. It was sick. Even a glance at his glacial blue eyes had her insides twisting into knots.
She swallowed, scanning his office again as he regarded her. The room, which resembled a small house aesthetically, was neatly adorned with a three-seater charcoal couch, perfectly dressed in cushions and a sage throw, a copper-accented coffee table, and a tidy kitchenette. She hadn’t snooped but was certain the closed door in the back corner hid an en suite bathroom, considering he often passed her office with damp hair and the mouthwatering scent of expensive cologne on clean skin.
He could live there if he wanted to. She wanted to.
Ambrose strode past her with a grunt and picked up the top file on the freshly printed stack. She faced him as he flicked through the pages with a tight jaw.
“I didn’t hire you to stand there and watch me read, Hart.”
Sylvie ground her teeth so hard they squeaked. Why had he hired her? Dozens of viable candidates with better clothes and better references had waited outside his office, but he’d chosen her. Worse, he’d picked her on the spot, even making her fetch him coffee. Black, no sugar. Boring.
She wove her shaking hands behind her back until the fastenings at her breasts pulled, her lacy white bra peeking between the buttons. Shit.
His gaze flickered towards her a fraction before she released her hands and clenched them at her sides. She shouldn’t have stolen her roommate’s clothes. While Fern had the superior wardrobe, her tiny chest always caused issues for Sylvie around the bust.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded, dropping the papers and placing his palms flat on the desk. His pale forearms sported thick veins popping out from the pressure of his rolled sleeves.
Dear gods. Don’t look.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll go now,” she said, dropping her gaze to the floor and gliding to his glass doors, praying her ankles didn’t buckle in her heels as she sensed his gaze drilling into her back.
With rounded shoulders, she gripped the metal door handle, wincing at its coldness before glancing back one last time. Even after four weeks under his scrutinising gaze, she still wanted him to do dirty things to her. She always got over her work crushes after a few conversations and harmless flirtations, but this felt different.
He was different.
Don’t get sucked in. He’s just hot.
His dark curls brushed his forehead as he stared her down. Even at their distance, she still shrank under his shrewd gaze.
“Speak, Hart.”
She swallowed and cleared her throat. “Just—just let me know if you need anything else.” Then she added, “Sir.”
He blinked and turned around, using his hand to wave her away. If she didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn an unfamiliar bulge pressed at the front of his tailored suit pants. No, it was just her imagination. An imagination she needed to get out of the fucking gutter. Two smut-filled books a week really wasn’t helping her case, but it didn’t take a sexual deviant to acknowledge that he looked damn good in black.
Not wanting to tempt fate and risk a scolding, she wrenched the door open and hurried from his office, passing more rooms resembling aquariums until she reached the last one. She slowed her steps, letting her heart calm.
Positioned right by reception and the elevators, the room offered little privacy, but it was hers. Clutter and files on both walls surrounded her second-hand desk and computer setup. Wires wove like vipers from her monitor to the sockets, often curling into her rolling chair wheels and stalling them. She’d likely look a complete mess to any passerby, with papers strewn about and coffee stains all over her workspace. The remnants of a rubber band ball she’d broken, and a pile of unwound paperclips found their home there too. She sighed. No wonder Mr. Ambrose hated her. They didn’t have many visitors, but when they did, she was always on display. The clueless assistant, just trying to stay ahead in an industry that wanted to burn her.
“Sylvie! Over here,” Natalie called from the front desk, where the transparent panels lay covered in various magazine covers. Gold media exclusives with Sterling city’s most eligible bachelors posed on the front in impeccable suits, hands clasped to show off their pure gold rings, watches, and perfect tans, which were impossible in this city. Even her naturally golden skin had become washed out from the perpetual drizzle.
“What’s all this?” she asked, fingering the glossy papers. Where was he?
“Don’t touch anything! I’m making an inspiration board,” Natalie whispered, snatching a picture of some silver lingerie and gluing it to a cream piece of paper.
“Okay, I’m gonna go then.” She had so much to do. Cleaning up her desk was first on the list.
She was already half turned when Natalie waved her hand, beckoning her closer again. “I was gonna ask you if you received any emails from a sh—a man named Rowan Hex.”
Natalie’s whisper invoked a shiver.
Sylvie flipped through her mental log of work emails from that morning and the day prior and shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry."
Natalie pulled a face and stuffed her inspiration board into a manila folder before sliding it between a black concertina file at her feet.
“Who is that anyway?” Sylvie asked, crossing her arms to hide the adrenaline-fuelled tremor still present from her Ambrose encounter.
Natalie scrunched her nose. “Just someone wanting to reach out. Offer some investment opportunities for the business.”
“This business?”
“Yup.” Natalie popped the p and smiled. “He’s gonna get me a better position. I could ask him to help you, too.”
“Oh.” Sylvie glanced at Ambrose’s office with a frown. She was lucky to even have a job, and this paid far better than her previous retail position. After another six months of frugality, she could even afford a new apartment sans the rats.
She backed up a step. “I’m good, thanks.” Best not to be caught discussing her boss’s business lest she get fired on the spot. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Don’t worry,” Natalie said, grinning again, “he’ll like the change. Believe me.” She used her pointed acrylic nail to pick between her teeth, then ran her long tongue across them.
Dubious. But Sylvie smiled with pressed lips. “Okay, well, I should get back to work. I’ll let you know if I get an email from anyone with that name.”
Natalie’s wolfish grin followed her as she turned and scampered back to her office, trying to ignore the tingling down her spine.
* * *
“Delete. Delete. No. Delete all.” Sylvie’s emails never stopped coming. Providing Elias Ambrose with club and hotel sales reports, contractors’ requests, and planning meetings with ridiculously influential people were only a few of her responsibilities, and she barely understood any of them. A few of her messages even appeared written in code—or at least she hoped—as the contents were gibberish to her untrained eye.
“Artefact signature traced: 54.16199, 70.04486. Wolf retrieval equipment located and destroyed.”
She searched the numbers on Gold’s search engine and found the location in the middle of the Western Ocean. When she asked Natalie about it, she seemed just as clueless.
The mention of artefacts, though, made her wonder if Ambrose was doing some shady, secret antique dealings. She watched far too many crime shows, but the thought of him being a thief helped ebb her desire for him each time they spoke.
Sighing, she sent another hotel sales report to the printer, hoping it was the one Ambrose wanted. Oasis Hotels. He said he needed the sales numbers and nothing else, so she triple-checked that the select page to print was sixteen and closed her eyes as the copy darted from her printer.
Her nose scrunched at the scent of the burning ink. Airdropping would be so much faster and less wasteful, but Natalie had already warned her not to bother Ambrose about trivial conveniences. That time, it was about ordering a coffee machine instead of forcing her to take a stomach-twisting trip eighty floors down to the communal staff room. Apparently he preferred traditional methods. It wasn’t worth the scolding.
From her window, the company’s name reflected at her mockingly from the twin building opposite. Another one of his. Ambrose Horizons. She rolled her eyes. Grumpy millionaire playboy names every building he buys after himself and lives in his office. “And I’m obsessed with him,” she whispered, burying her head in her hands.
Grow up. Sylvie rolled back in her chair, swiped up the paper, and marched to the door. After this, she could clock out and head home. No more emails, no more grumpy asshat bossing her around.
The clack of ferocious typing echoed through the corridor, and Sylvie stilled. What the hell could Natalie be writing? She was the most leisurely—correction—lazy person Sylvie had ever met. Fern would correct her again and call the behaviour “efficient.” However, Fern was also lazy, so Sylvie didn’t consider her words often.
Before returning to the dungeon Elias called an office, Sylvie wandered to Natalie’s desk. Even as she neared, the touch-typing on Natalie’s baby pink keyboard picked up speed. Her fingers moved so quickly they blurred, and Sylvie scoffed, startling Natalie right out of her writing.
“Shit! You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were Ambrose.”
Sylvie laughed. “With that insane typing, I’m surprised the entire building hasn’t come up here to see what you’re doing.”
“Really?” At Natalie’s wide eyes and quivering lip, Sylvie’s grin fell.
“Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Natalie pressed the escape key a dozen times and pulled her inspiration board out again, tucking her white-blond hair behind her dainty ears. She fingered the images on her lap and jiggled her leg. “Nothing, nothing. Just take your papers and go before he—”
Her words died in her throat, eyes widening as her head lifted, staring over Sylvie’s shoulder.
Without turning, Sylvie knew the motherfucker was behind her. The hairs on her nape stood, and she spun too fast, losing her balance on Fern’s favourite stilettos, the force throwing her nose-first into his rigid torso.
“Son of a—”
