Bound To The Ruthless CEO

CAMILLE

“If he asks you why you’re applying for a job below your qualification, do not try to act smart. Just look him dead in the eye and lie like your life depends on it. Because honestly? It kind of does.”

That was the last piece of advice Damian gave me before I took the fake identity from him and walked to the Alder Global Tower.

Now, standing on the eighty-second floor, with my feet throbbing in cheap three-inch pumps I bought on clearance, I realized two things. First, Damian was completely right. Second, no amount of advice could have prepared me for the icy, terrifying nightmare that was Silvan Alder.

The air up here was too cold, and the smell of cologne that costs probably more than my entire apartment rent. It was so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Adjusting the collar of my navy blazer, which was slightly too tight around my shoulders, but was the only professional thing I owned that didn’t look like it came out of a bargain bin. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Just stay calm, you are not Camille Bernerd, but Camille Martin. An ambitious twenty-three-year-old girl who just really, really wants to work for the biggest corporate empire in Verona City.”

Three years ago, my life had fallen apart. My dad was a logistics executive, a very good and honest man who worked with Alder Global. But someone framed him for embezzlement, ruined his company, and dragged my family name through the mud. The stress put him in a hospital bed, and six months later, his heart gave out. The man who orchestrated the takeover that swallowed my father’s life work was sitting right behind the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway: Silvan Alder.

I hated him, even hearing his name disgusted and lit a fire of rage in me. All I wanted was to destroy him and his empire, I didn't even care about the payment.

“Miss Camille?”

I jolted slightly. A man built like a concrete wall stepped out of the corner office. He was wearing a tight dark suit that fit his massive shoulders perfectly. His hair was cropped short, and his eyes scanned me with the kind of sharp, cold intensity that made me feel like he was checking me for hidden weapons.

“Mr. Alder will see you now,” The intimidating guy said before inviting me in.

“Thank you,” I offered a polite smile that looked more like a nervous twitch. Standing up, smoothing down my skirt and walking past him.

Oh My Goodness! Earlier I had thought the hallway and elevator were impressive, but Silvan's office was on a whole different level. It was huge, with the entire back wall made of glass, offering a view of the City and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The room had black marble floors, a massive dark wood desk, and almost no personal items. It didn't quite look like an office where a human being worked, but it was impressive.

Silvan Alder was sitting behind a big mahogany desk, not looking up as I walked in, busy on his laptop as his fingers moved in an absorbing way.

At thirty-three, Silvan Alder was, unfortunately, the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life. He had thick, dark hair brushed back neatly, sharp and defined jaw line, and broad shoulders that fit perfectly on the custom black suit he wore. But there was something dangerous about him. You could feel this strong aura in the room, he radiated power and absolute control.

“Sit,” he instructed, his fingers still typing rapidly.

I walked over to the leather chair across his desk, sitting down and placing my hands calmly on my lap.

Finally, he closed the laptop and looked at me. I froze, air catching in my throat at the sight of him. The man before me was striking. His gray eyes were not cute; they looked like a fictional villain, but looked captivating in the light. Locking onto mine, unblinking and completely empty of any human warmth.

“Camille Martin,” he said smoothly, reading off a paper. “Twenty-three years old. Top of your class at Verona International Business. Two years at a mid-tier logistics firm in Switzerland. Outstanding references. A completely flawless record.”

“Yes, Mr. Alder,” I tried keeping my voice steady despite the rapid beat in my chest "I believe my background makes me an ideal fit for your executive team.”

He leaned back in his leather chair, bringing his hands together, steppling his long fingers under his chin. A tiny, dangerous curve appeared at the corner of his mouth, which didn't look like a friendly smile. It was the smile of a cat watching a mouse run into a corner.

“That's the problem, Miss Camille,” he said quietly. “Your record is too good. A woman with your grades and your analytical skills doesn't apply to be a personal assistant. You apply for a junior analyst position where you can make six figures within two years. So tell me... why are you here?”

Why am I here?

I gripped the hem of my clothes trying to stay calm. Damian had warned me about this.

“I prefer direct execution, sir,” I answered, looking him dead in the eye. “Analysts sit in quiet rooms looking at numbers that happened six months ago. An executive assistant works directly with the person making the decisions. I want to see how real power operates.”

He didn't move. He just stared at me. The silence in the room stretched out for five seconds, maybe ten. It was so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner. Most people would have fidgeted or looked away. The girl who interviewed right before me had left the waiting room with red eyes, looking like she was on the verge of tears.

But I couldn't afford to break. If I broke, my dad’s memory remained tarnished forever.

“Real power?” Silvan repeated softly, leaning more closer. “Or direct access?”

A cold drop of sweat traced down from my hair to the back of my neck, but I kept a composed posture.

“Access means nothing if you don't know what to do with it, Mr. Alder,” I responded letting a tiny bit of sharp attitude slip into my tone. “And if you just want someone who brings you cold coffee and cries every time you raise your voice, you should probably hire someone else.”

He was slightly taken aback but masked it up before slowly leaning forward, resting his forearms on the heavy desk. Suddenly, he was much closer. Up close, I could perceive his scent, a mix of expensive cedarwood and tobacco. It was intoxicating, and it made me furious.

He studied my face like a complex puzzle he was trying to solve. I knew what he was doing. He knew I was hiding something, but didn't know what yet, and he could feel the friction.

“You have a lot of nerve,” he murmured.

“I call it competence, sir.”

“Is that what it is?” Silvan tapped on the desk twice, his gray eyes never leaving mine. “Most people who come into this room are terrified of me. They tell me what they think I want to hear. You, on the other hand, are looking at me like you want to fight me.”

I scoffed inwardly, “I don't want to fight you, Mr. Alder, I just want the job.”

He didn't say anything for another long moment. Then, he pulled a printed resume toward himself and wrote a single word across the top in blue ink.

“You start on Monday,” he said flatly. “Seven o'clock in the morning. If you are one minute late, do not bother coming up the elevator. You'll be fired before you reach your desk.”

My goodness! This had worked easier than I planned. I had expected another ten minutes of brutal questioning. I'd prepared answers for my family history, my previous address, and high school grades—everything.

“I won't be late,” I answered, keeping my tone professional. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

“Don't thank me yet,” he retorted, looking all serious again.

“Now, let's discuss your compensation,” he rested his hand on the desk. “The base salary for my primary executive assistant is two hundred and forty thousand Swiss francs annually. You will receive a full health package, a company card for all executive expenses, and a performance bonus paid quarterly at my discretion.”

My jaw nearly hit the black marble floor. Two hundred and forty thousand francs?!

That was more money than my father had even made at the peak of his career. It was enough to pay off my apartment rent for five years, buy a decent car, pay off the debts and still have money left over.

Okay, okay, I knew I had boasted of not caring about the salary, but damn!

Composing myself quickly, I was supposed to be a polished business graduate, not a broke girl from the East side who could barely afford her share of the rent.

“That... is more than generous, Mr. Alder!,” I exclaimed, forcing my voice to stay dead flat so he wouldn't hear the shock shaking my chest.

“It's not generosity, Miss Camille. It's the price of absolute availability,” he rebutted, his gray eyes still fixed on me. “When I call, you answer. When I travel, you pack. You belong to Alder Global twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If that salary doesn't buy your complete loyalty, then nothing will.”

Loyalty? To him? Never.

“Understood, sir,” I muttered, nodding in acknowledgement.

He stood up from his desk. He was six-foot-three inches, towering over me so completely that his shadow fell right across my lap. He buttoned his black jacket slenderly, then stepped out from behind the desk and walked toward me.

Every instinct in my body screamed at me to lean back, but I forced myself to stand up and face him.

He stopped just two feet away from me. Up close, his physical presence was almost overwhelming.

“You came into my office expecting to play a game, sweetheart,” his voice dropping into this dangerous, low whisper that gives me goosebumps. “But you need to understand something right now. In my world, if you try to play with the devil... you don't just lose the game. You give up your soul.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile right back at him. “Good thing I didn't bring my soul to work today, Mr. Alder.”

A faint, almost invisible flicker of amusement crossed his steel-gray eyes. He didn't say another word. He just pointed toward the heavy glass door. “Monday. 7:00 AM.”

I turned around, keeping my head held high, and walked out of his office, though my knees felt like jelly. My heels clicked against the polished floor, every step feeling heavier than the last until the heavy doors finally shut behind me.

Now what was that? Sweetheart?

The intimidating guy from earlier, whose name I didn't know yet, was standing right outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his massive chest. As I passed him, he gave me a long, lingering look.

“Good luck, Miss Camille,” he said, smirking. “You're going to need it.”

Now, was that a mockery or a compliment?

I didn't respond and just kept walking until I reached the elevator bank, pressing the down button, and stepping into the empty metal box, waiting for the doors to close completely.

The second the silver doors shut, I heaved a deep sigh of breath, which I didn't notice I was holding. My hands trembled so badly that I could barely hold my phone.

I typed a quick text to Damian: I got the job. 240k salary.

Three seconds later, my phone buzzed with his reply: Are you sure about this, Cam? Money or not, once you're in his circle, there's no easy way out. Silvan Alder is cunning.

I looked at my reflection in the polished steel wall of the elevator. My cheeks were slightly flushed, but my hazel eyes looked fierce and clear, my thoughts drifting to my dad's tired face in that cold hospital room before he died, the bank letters, the auction signs on our front lawn, and the way the news treated my family like common criminals.

Silvan Alder must have thought he was pulling me into his trap, he thought I was just another weak girl he could scare into submission, but he had no idea what he was in for.

I typed back to Damian: Let him try.