CH.2

MARILYN

The corporate headquarters of Reign Conglomerate was less a building and more a monument to absolute power.

Rising fifty stories above the skyline, the tower dominated the financial district like a monolith of glass, casting its shadow over every rival empire in the city.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire metropolis, making the space feel like a glass castle suspended in the sky, looking down on everything and everyone below.

I clutched the manila envelope to my chest, its sharp corners pressing into my ribs through my thin blazer.

My best friend Chloe worked as a corporate consultant and pulled every string she had to get me past the tight security at the entrance and into this fortress.

'He is cold-hearted and completely ruthless. He never does anything for free. You absolutely can’t go near that man.'

Her warning still rang in my ears.

But Bernard's frantic plea drowned her out. 'Agree to anything. Save my life.'

At the side of the sprawling, obsidian-floored lobby sat a massive reception desk carved from a single slab of dark marble.

A receptionist in a tailored designer suit tapped on a sleek tablet, completely ignoring the world.

“Excuse me.” I tightened my grip on the envelope. “I am Marilyn. I have an appointment with Mr. Reign.”

The receptionist stopped typing. Her gaze moved from my pale face to my messy hair, then settled on the wrinkled envelope in my hands.

A sneer curved her lips.

“Let me guess. You are a desperate charity case.” She returned to her screen. “He doesn’t usually waste time on trash like this.”

I bit my lower lip until I tasted blood but stayed quiet. I couldn’t afford to be turned away at the gates of power.

The intercom on her desk suddenly buzzed with a sharp beep.

The receptionist tapped a button, listening silently to whoever was on the other end of the line. Her arrogant smirk instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of absolute deference.

“Yes, sir.” She released the button, her eyes darting back to me with a sudden, sharp edge.

She picked up her desk phone and barked into the receiver. “Station two guards at the executive elevator. Escort Miss Marilyn up to the CEO’s private floor immediately.”

Moments later, two towering men in slate-gray suits flanked me, their silent, imposing presence guiding me past the private security check-points and straight up to the apex of the tower.

When the elevator doors slid open, the grandeur of Conall’s executive floor took my breath away.

The entire level was a study in monochromatic wealth and absolute intimidation.

Polished black obsidian floors mirrored the brushed platinum wall panels, and rare abstract sculptures stood like silent sentinels against walls of glass. There was no clutter, no warmth—only cold, immaculate luxury.

Directly outside the massive double doors of Conall’s private suite sat a secondary desk, and I was instantly met with another pair of unfriendly eyes.

The woman sitting behind the polished wood looked like she had stepped out of a high-fashion editorial.

Tall and reed-thin, she wore a high-collared black silk blouse tucked into tailored, high-waisted trousers that swept the floor.

Her dark hair was cut into a sharp, chin-length bob that framed razor-sharp cheekbones. Dark plum lipstick gave her thin lips a cruel edge, making her disgust clear before she even spoke.

“Come with me.” Her tone was ice as she stood.

She led me toward the far end of a long, broad corridor.

The office was a marvel of modern engineering, lined entirely with smart-glass that currently shimmered with a translucent frost.

The clouded panels completely sealed off the workspace, keeping everything hidden from the outside world exactly as privacy demanded.

She gave a light knock on the doors, then stepped aside, leaving me standing alone before the tightly shut entrance.

My stomach lurched.

I placed my hand on the polished brass handle, pushed open the towering doors, and stepped into the dim, high-ceilinged office.

The doors clicked shut behind me, sealing out the rest of the world.

Standing beside a massive desk of reclaimed mahogany, lit only by the fading afternoon sun piercing through the towering glass walls, was a man.

He wasn't an old, bitter corporate tyrant.

Who on earth spread the rumor that he was an old, repulsive creep?

The man before me was broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, and wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that looked carved on his frame.

His jaw literally looked like it had been chiseled from solid marble.

And then he turned to look at me.

I completely froze in place. My breath trapped in my throat, and the world around me went dead quiet.

His eyes locked on mine and a gasp escaped me.

Those eyes. They were striking blue, cold and bright, radiating a terrifying authority that made me forget what I’d planned to say.

In that moment, I understood why people called him the devil of Wall Street.

It wasn't because he was ugly or mean. He looked like a real devil. Dangerously beautiful, the kind who owned empires and crushed anyone who dared to cross him.

My legs weakened.

I couldn't move or speak as it finally registered that I was standing in the heart of the beast, and the devil was staring right at me.