First Day, First Test

Amara’s POV

The thing about skyscrapers is… they look so beautiful from the outside. But when you’re inside—when you’re a small, trembling intern riding the elevator to the top floor—they feel suffocating.

My first official day at Cruz Holdings, and my heart was already trying to leap out of my chest. The polished elevator walls reflected my anxious face: wide eyes, pressed lips, hair I had tried to tame three times this morning but still refused to behave.

I clutched my employee badge like it was a golden ticket. I’d gotten the internship. Somehow. Against all odds. Even against Damian Cruz himself.

“Breathe, Amara.” I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible over the hum of the elevator.

When the doors slid open, the office exploded into motion. Assistants carried stacks of folders, phones rang nonstop, executives strode past like soldiers on a mission. No one lingered. No one wasted time.

I felt like an imposter in my thrift-store blazer and wobbly heels.

“Amara, right?” A cheerful voice snapped me out of my panic. A woman about my age, sleek pencil skirt, hair in a perfect bun, held out her hand. “I’m Clara. One of the junior associates. You’re with me today.”

Relief washed over me. “Hi, yes. Thank you. It’s… a little overwhelming.”

Clara laughed softly. “You’ll get used to it. First rule: keep your head down and don’t get on Mr. Cruz’s bad side.”

My throat went dry. Too late for that.

Clara handed me a stack of files. “First task—deliver these to the CEO’s office. He’s expecting them.”

Of course. On my very first day, the universe decided to throw me straight into the lion’s den.

The folders weighed a ton as I carried them down the hall. Every step echoed like a drumbeat. My palms grew slick with sweat. Then I saw it: the door with the engraved nameplate.

Damian Cruz, CEO.

My lungs forgot how to work. But there was no turning back. I inhaled deeply, balanced the files, and knocked.

“Come in.” his voice called, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.

I pushed the door open. Damian sat behind his massive desk, storm-gray eyes flicking up from his computer to land directly on me.

The air shifted.

“Ms. Lopez,” he said evenly, like he was tasting the name. “Right on time.”

I swallowed hard. “Here are the files you requested, sir.”

He gestured lazily. “Set them down.”

I crossed the room, heels clicking on polished marble, and placed the folders neatly on his desk. My hands trembled, but I forced them to still.

When I straightened, his gaze lingered too long. Calculating. Amused. Dangerous.

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, “are you always this nervous, or is it just me?”

Heat flared up my neck. “I—I’m not nervous.”

One eyebrow arched. “Lying already? Bold.”

My lips parted, ready to defend myself, but no words came out. He leaned back, watching me like a puzzle he fully intended to solve.

“Get used to being tested, Ms. Lopez,” he murmured. “You’ll find I don’t make things easy.”

And just like that, he turned back to his computer, dismissing me without a glance.

I left his office on shaky legs, pulse thundering in my ears.

One thing was clear: Damian Cruz wasn’t just my boss. He was my storm. And I had no umbrella.

---

Damian’s POV

Interns come and go. Most blur together—wide eyes, nervous stammers, too eager to please. Forgettable.

But not her.

The moment Amara Lopez walked into my office, I knew fate had a cruel sense of humor. Coffee Girl. The same clumsy, stubborn girl who ruined my suit and dared to talk back in a crowded café now stood in my territory, clutching folders like they were a shield.

Her eyes betrayed her nerves, even as she tried to mask them. The stiff shoulders, the shaky breath. Fear leaves cracks, and I’ve made a career out of spotting them.

And yet… when I pressed her, she didn’t fold. She lied. Poorly, but still.

Not nervous.

Ridiculous. Of course she was. But she had the audacity to stand there and pretend otherwise.

Most people bend under my stare. They shrink. They beg to impress me. But Amara Lopez—this reckless intern—keeps trying to stand tall. That almost makes her dangerous.

Almost.

I leaned back, letting the silence stretch, letting her sweat under my gaze. Watching her squirm was more entertaining than the board meeting I’d canceled this morning.

But then she fired back—well, not with words, but with that stubborn set of her jaw. That tiny flicker of defiance. The same spark I’d seen in the café when she’d told me maybe I should learn how to say “excuse me.”

The corner of my mouth almost curved. Almost.

As she left, her perfume lingered faintly in the air—something light, floral, annoyingly distracting.

I turned back to my computer, but my focus was broken. My mind replayed her voice, her expression, her attempt at bravery.

No, Amara Lopez wasn’t like the others. She was a spark.

And sparks in the wrong place always lead to fire.