Chapter 6: Another Billionaire Hits on Me!

Emily’s POV

Three days later, I stood across the street from the Valkyrie Industries tower, a sleek monstrosity of black glass and sharp angles that seemed to slice into the sky.

I gulped, the sound loud in my own ears. My hand tightened on the strap of my bag. Inside was my recorder, a list of carefully crafted questions, and a healthy dose of sheer terror disguised as determination.

You’re a journalist, I reminded myself, smoothing down the elegant, knee-length dress Chloe had helped me pick out. It was professional but with a subtle allure—a deep burgundy that complemented my skin tone and a neckline that was just low enough to be interesting without being obvious. Armor, again. This is just a story. He is just a subject.

I crossed the street, my heels clicking a steady rhythm on the pavement that I hoped conveyed confidence I didn't feel. The lobby was a cavernous space of black marble and chrome, echoing with a sterile silence. As I approached, a receptionist with a severe blonde bob and ice-blue eyes looked up.

“Name?” she asked without even looking up, her voice devoid of warmth.

“Emilia Carter. I have an eleven o’clock appointment with Mr. von Oberhaus.”

She typed something into her computer, her fingers flying over the keys. “Take the elevator to the penthouse suite. His assistant will meet you there.”

The elevator was silent, which didn’t help with my racing nerves. If I had more people surrounding me, I could pretend like I was this secure and independent woman, but instead, I felt like a rabbit.

Dammit, Jin Baek!

My stomach did a nervous flip. The doors opened directly into a lavish anteroom. Another assistant, this one a handsome young man in an impeccably tailored suit, gave me a practiced, neutral smile.

“Ms. Carter. Mr. von Oberhaus is concluding a call. If you’d please wait in the sitting room.” He gestured to an opulent room off to the side.

The “sitting room” was bigger than my entire apartment. Low-slung, modern white couches were arranged on a plush cream rug. One entire wall was a panoramic view of the city. Abstract art that probably cost more than a suburban house adorned the other walls. The air smelled faintly of expensive cigars and lemony polish.

I perched on the edge of a couch, my knees tightly together. I was a wreck. Every nerve was buzzing. I checked my recorder for the fifth time. I rehearsed my first question in my head.

My phone vibrated in my clutch purse, the sound jarringly loud in the hushed room. I fumbled for it, my heart leaping into my throat. It was Kevin, probably wanting a pre-game pep talk.

But the number on the screen wasn’t Kevin’s.

I couldn’t recognize it, but the fact that my call identifier (the free version, of course) told me it was a private number was enough for me to guess who it was.

A cold dread, entirely different from my interview jitters, washed over me. Jin and I weren’t in a relationship, this shouldn’t bother him, but the fact that they are sworn rivals means that he won’t be thrilled if he knows I’m here.

For my peace of mind, I decided to leave it to voicemail and put my phone on silent. After I was done, I would call him back.

The handsome assistant reappeared at the door, his smile still perfectly neutral. "Ms. Carter? Mr. von Oberhaus will see you now."

I stood on legs that felt like they'd turned to jelly, my clutch damp in my sweaty palm. Get it together, Emily. You're a professional. This is just a story.

I followed him through a set of double doors made of rich, dark wood and into an office that was the polar opposite of Jin's minimalist sanctuary. This room screamed power and possession. Mahogany bookshelves groaned under the weight of leather-bound volumes. Trophies from big-game hunts—a lion's head and a stag with impressive antlers—were mounted on the walls, their glassy eyes seeming to follow me. The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and old money.

And behind a massive, intricately carved desk sat Ilay von Oberhaus.

Kevin's description hadn't come close. He wasn't just tall; he was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and thickly built, his frame straining against the fine fabric of his white dress shirt. The cuffs were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with blond hair. His hair was a shock of wheat-gold, swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and a strong, stubborn jaw. But it was his eyes that arrested me. They were a pale, piercing grey, like chips of winter ice, and they were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

He didn't stand. He simply leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, a slow, appraising smile spreading across his face. It was a predator's smile.

"Ms. Carter," he said, his voice a low, rumbling baritone with a faint German accent. It was somehow both cultured and utterly primal. "Please, come in. I must admit, I was intrigued by your request. A journalist who has just bagged Baek Jin wants to talk to me about my... art collection." He chuckled, a deep, rich sound. "The angle is... creative."

I forced my feet to move, my mind scrambling to remember my carefully prepared opening line about Expressionism. But all I could see were those muscles, those cold grey eyes, the sheer overwhelming physicality of him. He was nothing like Jin's lean, controlled intensity. This was raw, brute force.

I stopped in front of his desk, my mouth dry. The words that came out were not the ones I had rehearsed. They were a blurted, nervous, utterly unprofessional mess.

"So," I squeaked, my voice betraying me entirely. "Do you, uh... lift? Like, a lot?"

The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted to die. I wanted the mounted lion head to come to life and swallow me whole. Do you lift? I had just asked a billionaire CEO, one of the most powerful men in the world, if he worked out.

That wouldn’t be an issue if he weren’t all muscle. It was obvious he worked out.

A beat of silence stretched, thick and horrifying. I braced for his anger, for security to be called to escort the idiot reporter from the building.

Instead, Ilay von Oberhaus threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a polite chuckle; it was a full-bodied, roaring laugh that filled the vast office.

"Oh, meine kleine," he said, wiping a mock tear from his eye as his laughter subsided into a wide, wolfish grin. "That is the most refreshing opening I have had in an interview in... well, ever." His grey eyes sparkled with open amusement and something else—undisguised interest. "Most journalists try to impress me with their knowledge of market shares. You ask about my biceps. I like it."

He unfolded himself from his chair, and his height was even more imposing up close. He walked around the desk, leaning back against it, his arms crossed over his chest, which only served to accentuate the muscles I'd so idiotically pointed out.

"I lift enough," he said, his gaze dropping to my dress for a moment before returning to my burning face. "It helps with the stress of trying to crush one's enemies. But I have a feeling you didn't come here to discuss my workout regimen." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Or did you?"

He was flirting with me. Openly, shamelessly flirting. Just as Kevin had predicted. And just as I had feared, my brain, addled by nerves and his overwhelming presence, had completely short-circuited, playing right into it.

I cleared my throat, the sound embarrassingly loud in the spacious office. "Right. No. Of course not." I fumbled for my recorder, my fingers feeling thick and clumsy. "Shall we begin?"

The interview that followed was a surreal dance. I managed to ask a few of my prepared questions about his philanthropic endeavors and art collection, and he answered with a polished, charismatic ease that was clearly designed to impress. But his grey eyes never lost their predatory glint, and his answers were laced with double entendres.

When I nervously steered the conversation toward his personal life, asking about the rumors of his reclusive nature, he leaned forward again, his smile turning wolfish.

"My personal life is not so interesting, meine kleine," he purred. I made a mental note to later G****e what that was. "I find it is often... disappointing. People see the money, the power. They do not see the man. It is a lonely existence. Perhaps you could offer some... companionship? To cure my loneliness." He winked.

My face flushed a deep crimson. I was completely out of my depth. "I... I'm here as a journalist, Mr. von Oberhaus."

"Of course you are," he said, his tone implying he believed nothing of the sort. He shifted then, his expression turning subtly sharper. "But let us talk of your other interview. With Baek Jin. A fascinating man. So... contained." He said the word like it was an insult. "Tell me, did you get what you wanted from him?"

The question was a trap, which made me wonder if he knew something about my agreement, but that was impossible.

Jin was not going to brag about hiring a girlfriend.

I kept my expression neutral, my voice professional. "The interview was productive, thank you. I got everything I needed." The lie was becoming easier, smoother.

Ilay's eyes narrowed slightly, but his smile remained. "I am sure you did. You are a very... persuasive woman."

Just then, a soft chime sounded from his desk. His assistant's smooth and efficient voice filtered through an intercom. "Mr. von Oberhaus, your conference call with Singapore is waiting. You have two minutes."

Ilay sighed theatrically, pushing himself off the desk. "Always the interruptions." He turned that intense grey gaze back on me. "I have enjoyed our talk, Ms. Carter. It has been far too short."

"It was very informative, thank you for your time," I said, quickly switching off my recorder and stowing it in my bag, ready to make my escape.

"I would enjoy continuing this conversation," he said, his voice dropping again into that intimate murmur. "In a less... formal setting." He pulled a sleek, black business card holder from his inside pocket and extracted a card. "My personal number. But I'm afraid I must insist on a trade."

He held out the card but didn't let go when I reached for it. Instead, he looked at me expectantly.

Flustered, I dug into my own bag and pulled out one of my professional cards from the magazine. "Of course. Here you—"

He glanced at it, then quirked a single, blond eyebrow, a polite but firm smile on his lips. "A delightful gesture. But I'm afraid I was rather hoping for the digits you use for your... friends. Not your office." His gaze was unwavering. "I find business calls can be so tedious. Don't you agree?"

Okay, did I fall asleep? What the hell is happening to these billionaires? Are they bored?

“I think personal calls should happen after a second date, Mr. von Oberhaus,” I said, my voice regaining a sliver of its usual sass. I plucked my professional card from his fingers and tucked it back into my bag. “And I don’t date men whose dating record is longer than my bills. Good day, thanks again for your time.”

I turned on my heel before he could respond, my heart hammering a victorious, terrified rhythm against my ribs. I didn't look back, but I could feel his stunned silence, followed by a low, appreciative chuckle that followed me out the door.

The moment I stepped out of the Valkyrie building and into the cool city air, the bravado evaporated. I sucked in a deep breath, my hands trembling.

“What the actual hell?” I muttered to myself, starting a furious pace down the sidewalk. “What is wrong with them? Are they bored? Is there a secret billionaire club where they get points for hitting on journalists? Is this a game? Because it’s a really freaking annoying game!”

I was so lost in my frustrated, internal monologue that I didn't notice the figure step out from the shadow of a sleek, black town car parked discreetly at the curb.

An arm snaked around my waist, pulling me back against a hard chest.

A scream lodged in my throat. Instinct took over. I swung my purse behind me with all my strength, connecting with a solid thwack.

A grunt of pain sounded in my ear. The arm around my waist loosened its grip.

“What the— Emily!”

I whirled around, my purse raised for another strike, ready to fight off my attacker.

And found myself staring into the furious, pained face of Jin Baek.

Fuck!