The Test

Amara’s POV

If day one at Cruz Holdings had been nerve-wracking, day two felt like running a marathon with no finish line. I barely had time to sip water before Clara was piling tasks on me—printing reports, answering emails, and double-checking spreadsheets. Every time I thought I was catching up, another file landed on my desk like an avalanche waiting to bury me alive.

But nothing terrified me more than the message that popped onto my screen around noon:

“CEO’s office. Now.”

My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might be sick. Clara glanced over, spotted the email, and gave me a sympathetic wince.

“Good luck,” she whispered. “He’s… intense.”

That was putting it mildly.

I forced my legs to move, clutching my notepad like it was body armor. The hallway stretched before me like a tunnel leading straight to hell. Each step echoed on the marble floor, taunting me with the reminder that I was about to face the man I’d humiliated in a café just days ago.

When I knocked, his voice came sharp and smooth, like the edge of a blade. “Come in.”

I obeyed, the door clicking shut behind me. He didn’t even bother to look up from his laptop.

“Close the door.”

The command left no room for argument. I obeyed again, my throat dry.

Finally, he raised his gaze, and my lungs forgot how to function. Those storm-gray eyes locked on me, pulling me apart piece by piece.

“Ms. Lopez,” he said evenly, as if tasting the name. “You survived your first day. Impressive.”

Was that… a compliment? Or the prelude to an execution?

I swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir.”

He didn’t smile. Instead, he slid a heavy stack of documents toward me. “I need numbers cross-checked. Three departments. Sixty pages. Errors are unacceptable.”

I blinked at the mountain of papers. “By when?”

His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More like a warning. “By the time I finish lunch.”

My brain screamed impossible. Sixty pages in an hour? It was a setup. He wanted me to fail. He wanted proof that I didn’t belong here.

But his expression told me clearly: arguing was not an option.

“Yes, sir.” I whispered, scooping up the documents with shaking hands.

---

Back at my desk, I attacked the papers like my life depended on it. My eyes darted over columns of numbers, searching for discrepancies. My hand cramped, my pen nearly tore through the pages, and still I pushed forward.

By the time Clara stopped by, I was cross-eyed and muttering numbers under my breath.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, concern etched on her face.

“I will be,” I muttered, not looking up. “I have to be.”

I didn’t let myself think about food, water, or the ache spreading down my spine. I thought only about the pages. About survival.

When I finally marched back into Damian’s office, I laid the corrected stack on his desk with as much confidence as I could fake.

He barely glanced up. His eyes flicked to the clock, then back to me. “You were five minutes early.”

Relief rushed through me—then died instantly at his next words.

“Not bad.”

Not bad? That was it? My blood boiled. He wanted me angry. He wanted me to snap. To break.

Instead, I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin. “Thank you, sir.”

For the first time, his eyes softened. Just a flicker. Like I’d surprised him. But then the mask slid back into place, cool and unyielding.

“Dismissed.”

I left his office on shaky legs, adrenaline still rushing through me. He hadn’t broken me. Not yet. And if he thought he could, he had another thing coming.

But even as I walked away, I knew this was just the beginning.

---

Damian’s POV

I don’t hand out tests lightly. But something about Amara Lopez demanded one.

Most interns crumble when given an impossible task. They whine, they fold, they run crying to HR. I half expected the same from her.

But she didn’t fold. She worked.

Through the glass walls of my office, I saw her hunched over the papers, jaw tight, pen moving like a weapon. Her lips moved as she whispered numbers under her breath. Her eyes blazed with determination, the kind I rarely saw in people twice her age.

She reminded me of a cornered animal—small but vicious, refusing to go down quietly.

When she returned, the corrections were sharp. Clean. Efficient.

Five minutes early.

I could have dismissed it as luck, but luck doesn’t explain the fire in her eyes when she thanked me. That stubborn defiance hadn’t dimmed—it had sharpened.

Interesting.

Most people in this building fear me. They stammer, they obey, they trip over themselves to avoid disappointing me. Fear is useful. It keeps the hierarchy intact.

But Amara… she resents me. She hides it well, but not well enough. And strangely, I find myself enjoying it.

It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that—like I wasn’t untouchable, like I was just another obstacle to overcome.

Dangerous thought.

I reminded myself who I was—the man who built empires, who didn’t waste time on interns who would be gone in three months.

And yet, when she walked out, I caught myself wondering what her next move would be.

Because Amara Lopez wasn’t here to fade into the background.

She was here to test me.

And I wasn’t sure yet if I wanted her to pass… or fail.