Then I will win it

For three full seconds, Amara considered running.

It was a ridiculous thought. She was standing on the forty-second floor of a glass tower in a navy blazer she'd ironed twice, and there was nowhere to run except back into an elevator full of people who'd seen her walk in. So she did what she had done in every terrible interview of her life. She lifted her chin and pretended her knees weren't made of water.

"Mr. Whitlock," she said. "Good morning."

Julian Whitlock studied her for a long moment. Then he walked around his desk, unhurried, and gestured at the chair across from it. "Please. Sit."

She sat. He didn't. He leaned against the edge of the desk with his arms folded, close enough that she caught that faint scent of cedar again, and she hated that her pulse noticed it.

"Let's be clear about something," he said. "I didn't know who you were on Saturday."

"Neither did I," Amara said. "Who you were, I mean. Daniel never mentioned his brother was the CEO."

"Daniel doesn't mention me at all, if he can help it." A flicker of dry humor crossed his face. "Which is probably why you're sitting in my office and not a security guard's."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a compliment. You kissed a stranger to ruin your ex's night. That takes nerve." His eyes held hers. "I happen to like nerve. I just don't like surprises in my own building."

Amara's cheeks burned, but she refused to look away. "It was one kiss, Mr. Whitlock. One drink. We didn't even exchange names. As far as I'm concerned, Saturday never happened."

"Agreed."

She blinked. She had braced for an argument. "Agreed?"

"Completely. You're an employee. I'm your employer. What happened at midnight stays at midnight." He pushed off the desk and walked back around it, and the distance between them felt, absurdly, like a door closing. "Now. About your first assignment."

She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. This was fine. This was great. This was a man with the emotional range of a filing cabinet, and she could work for a filing cabinet. She straightened in her chair, ready to be professional.

Then Julian slid a thick folder across the desk, and the label on it made her stomach drop.

HALLORAN HOTELS: BRAND RELAUNCH.

"That's the biggest account in the company," Amara said slowly. "That's not a junior assignment."

"No."

"Daniel was leading that account."

"He was." Julian's expression didn't change. "As of this morning, he isn't. I've moved him to regional reporting. You're taking the lead under my direct supervision."

Amara stared at him. "Is this because of me? Because if this is about Saturday, I don't want a favor, and I certainly don't want to be the reason your brother—"

"Ms. Bennett." His voice was quiet, and it stopped her cold. "I read your portfolio before I ever flew home. The Marlowe campaign. The rebrand you did for that dying bookstore chain. Three other firms ignored you, and I didn't. Your name was on my desk two weeks before you walked into that party." He paused. "Daniel's reassignment has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that he cost this company four million dollars last quarter and lied about it."

The room felt very still.

"I don't give people accounts as favors," Julian finished. "I give them accounts because I need them to win."

Amara didn't know what to do with that. It was the nicest and most terrifying thing anyone had ever said to her, and it had been delivered in the tone of a weather report.

"Then I'll win it," she heard herself say.

Something shifted in his expression, small and fast, like the corner of a page turning. "Good. You have a meeting with the Halloran family on Thursday. I'll walk you through the file at noon." He glanced at his watch. "That will be all."

She stood, gathered the folder against her chest, and made it all the way to the door before he spoke again.

"Ms. Bennett."

She turned.

"For the record," he said, not quite looking at her, "that wasn't a terrible kiss."

Amara opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You said Saturday never happened."

"It didn't." The corner of his mouth lifted, barely. "I'm only commenting on a hypothetical."

She left before she could say something she'd regret, and she was halfway down the hall, cheeks hot, folder crushed to her ribs, when her phone started vibrating in her pocket.

Once. Twice. Then constantly.

She pulled it out. Forty-one notifications. Her heart sank as she opened the first one, a message from a coworker she'd never met: OMG is this you??

Attached was a link to a gossip page called The Penthouse Report. The headline read: WHITLOCK HEIR'S NEW YEAR'S KISS: WHO IS THE MYSTERY WOMAN IN GREEN?

Underneath it, in perfect, glittering detail, was a photo of Amara in Julian Whitlock's arms, taken from the staircase at the exact moment the fireworks went off.

And in the corner of the photo, half-hidden in the crowd, holding up a phone and smiling, stood the woman in the gold dress.

The caption beneath it made Amara's blood run cold.

Sources say Daniel Whitlock's ex was hired by his brother within hours of the kiss. Coincidence?

She hadn't been hired within hours. She'd been hired three weeks ago.

But no one would believe that.

Behind her, the elevator chimed. She turned just as the doors slid open, and Daniel stepped out, pale, furious, and holding a copy of the same article. He saw her and his whole face changed.

"Amara," he said, almost gently. "We need to talk. Because I know something about my brother that you don't. And once you hear it, you're not going to want to work for him."