Fire, Reset

"I’m offering you a job.”

She blinked.

He smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

    “Executive assistant. High compensation. Full access. Proximity guaranteed.”

Zara stared.

“You want me under your nose?” she asked, voice dry.

“I want you under control.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s an opportunity.”

“To be your secretary?”

“To see how long you can lie without slipping.”

She stood, closing her file. “I’m not interested in playing games.”

Cassian rose too, stepping around the table.

“Who said anything about games?” he asked, stopping in front of her. “This isn’t about fun, Zara. It’s about leverage.”

She didn’t move.

“You’re dangerous,” he said softly. “And I want you where I can see you.”

Her heart kicked harder.

But she looked up and met his eyes with steel.

“Fine,” she said. “But you’re not the only one watching.”

She walked out without looking back.

And Cassian Wolfe, the man who didn’t chase anyone, already knew:

He wasn’t going to stop until she unraveled completely.

The badge clipped to her lapel read: Z. Moretti, Executive Assistant to the CEO.

It might as well have said: keep your enemies close.

Zara followed Leona down a hallway made of floor-to-ceiling glass and tension. Everything gleamed—polished wood, chrome fixtures, carefully curated art that probably cost more than her entire fake trust fund.

“This way,” Leona said crisply, heels echoing.

Zara nodded, walking in silence. She could feel eyes on her from the open glass offices. Men and women in tailored suits glanced up as she passed—curious, calculating. Some with curiosity. Some with fear.

She was used to it.

The glass doors at the end of the corridor slid open with a whisper.

Inside: Cassian’s office.

It was colder than the rest of the floor. Sleek. Shadowy. The view from behind his desk swallowed the skyline. The man himself stood with his back to the window, sleeves rolled up, cufflinks discarded on the desk.

As if he wanted her to see his restraint undone.

“Morning,” he said without turning.

“Still pretending we don’t know each other?” she asked.

Cassian turned. Smiled faintly. “We don’t. Not really.”

Zara walked to her desk—set slightly off to the side of his, a deliberate angle. She sat, placing her bag down with perfect composure. “You’ll find I’m excellent at pretending.”

“We’ll see.”

Leona lingered awkwardly in the doorway. “I’ll... leave you two to it.”

Cassian didn’t respond.

The doors slid shut.

Silence.

Zara powered on her work tablet. “Shall we begin the workday, Mr. Wolfe?”

His voice was calm. “First item on the agenda: my calendar. Schedule the following—lunch with board member Ellison, Thursday at two. Move the Oppen deal call to next week. And cancel the dinner with Hadley.”

“Is Hadley your date?”

“She was.”

Zara didn’t look up. “So I should also delete her contact?”

“No,” Cassian said, stepping closer. “Keep it. She might get jealous.”

Zara gave him a flat look. “You’re really committed to being inappropriate.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Don’t confuse the two.”

Cassian smiled. “Would you prefer I lie?”

She leaned back in her chair. “I prefer boundaries.”

“I prefer control.”

They stared at each other.

He didn’t blink.

Neither did she.

This was how it would be, then.

No yelling. No overt threats. Just the slow tightening of screws neither of them wanted to admit existed.

He broke the silence first. “There’s a file I want you to review.”

“Which department?”

He walked around the desk and handed it to her.

It wasn’t labeled.

Zara took it slowly.

Opened the cover.

Inside: a surveillance photo—grainy, black and white. Her. From the party. Wine-red dress. Alone on the rooftop.

Her throat went tight.

She didn’t show it.

“Security flagged you,” Cassian said softly. “The angle’s terrible. Most wouldn’t have noticed.”

“But you did.”

“I always notice the things I regret.”

Zara closed the file and looked up at him.

“And what do you regret more?” she asked. “Kissing me?”

He leaned in slightly.

“Letting you leave.”

The second Zara stepped through the apartment door, Emilio’s voice came sharp from the kitchen.

“Well?”

She tossed her bag onto the couch and kicked off her heels. “He gave me the job.”

Emilio blinked. “Wait—you actually took it?”

“I told you I would.”

“I didn’t think you’d follow through. I thought you’d come to your senses after a strong cup of coffee and a panic spiral.”

Zara rolled her eyes and pulled her hair out of its tight twist. “It’s the best way to stay close. His office is practically a fortress of confidential files and buried history. I need access. This gives me access.”

“You mean he gave you access.”

Zara looked at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Emilio crossed his arms. “It means you’re not just walking into his building anymore. You’re walking into his space. His rules. His tempo.”

“Then I’ll learn the rhythm.”

“You’re not hearing me.” He stepped closer. “This man already wants you. And not in a ‘we had fun, goodbye’ kind of way. You said it yourself—he doesn’t let go.”

Zara dropped onto the couch, head tilted back.

Emilio kept going. “Z, guys like him don’t lose control. And when they do? They don’t forget who gave it to them.”

“I know.”

He stared at her. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting to get burned?”

She didn’t answer.

He sat beside her.

“I need you to promise me something.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

“Still no.”

“Promise me,” Emilio said, softer this time, “that if this gets messy, you walk away.”

Zara closed her eyes.

When she opened them, her voice was low.

“I don’t know if I can.”

Steam curled around her in the shower, fogging the mirror, filling the air.

Zara stood beneath the water, hands braced against the tile.

The city lights bled through the small bathroom window—blurry and golden.

She could still feel his eyes on her. The way he’d leaned close, that damned smirk he wore like armor. The file with her photo. The comment—I always notice the things I regret.

It hadn’t been a flirtation.

It had been a warning.

Or a promise.

Or both.

She turned off the water and toweled off in silence.

As she reached for her robe, her reflection caught in the fogged mirror.

She hesitated.

Stared.

And whispered to the empty room:

“I should’ve never kissed him.”