Chapter 4

By the time Thursday rolled around, Lena had almost convinced herself she was surviving billionaire life.

She hadn’t been fired. She hadn’t set the building on fire. She only accidentally forwarded one confidential file to an intern, which Rafael had laughed off—barely.

Then came the invitation.

Not an email.

Not a calendar ping.

A sleek, black envelope on her desk, sealed with a gold wax stamp.

Blackthorne Enterprises Gala.

Location: The Elysian Hotel Rooftop.

Attire: Formal. Required.

And beneath that, in Rafael’s handwriting:

You’re coming. No excuses. I want everyone to meet you.

She stared at the note like it might explode.

Friday night, Lena stood in front of a full-length mirror, stunned at her own reflection.

Her dress was… illegal. Not literally, but it should’ve been. Deep crimson silk hugged her curves like a second skin, the thigh-high slit daring gravity to behave. A low, open back revealed smooth skin, and the neckline dipped just enough to command attention without begging for it.

Her hair was swept up in a loose, romantic bun, and diamond studs sparkled at her ears—courtesy of Rafael, who had “accidentally” sent a Cartier box to her apartment that morning.

She’d called to protest.

He answered with a dry, “You’re welcome,” and hung up.

Billionaire logic: gifts are orders.

The hotel was already swarming with black cars, flashing cameras, and elegant people who looked like they’d stepped off magazine covers.

Lena stepped out of her cab—and every eye turned.

She felt it. The stares. The whispers. The who is she?

The moment her heels touched the marble entrance, the air changed. She wasn’t “the assistant” tonight.

She was a damn threat.

Inside, gold chandeliers shimmered above champagne towers and white roses. The rooftop overlooked the glittering skyline of Manhattan, casting a romantic glow on the city below.

And in the center of it all, surrounded by executives and models, stood Rafael Blackthorne.

Dark suit. Black tie. Hair slicked back in sharp, calculated disarray. And when his eyes found her…

Everything else disappeared.

His drink paused halfway to his lips.

His signature cool expression cracked—just slightly.

Lena swore his pupils dilated.

She walked straight toward him, hips swaying in confidence she didn’t even know she had.

“Miss Carter,” he said slowly, gaze sweeping from her heels to her collarbone and back up. “You’ve officially committed fashion murder.”

She smirked. “Why, Mr. Blackthorne, are you… flustered?”

“I’m furious.”

“Oh?”

“Because I now have to keep every man in this building from falling in love with you.”

She laughed, cheeks tingling. “Maybe let them try.”

“I’d rather set this place on fire.”

Before she could answer, Vivienne appeared like a storm cloud in stilettos.

“Rafael, the Chen investors are waiting.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Lena, stay close.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. “She’s staying?”

“She’s with me.”

Those three words rang out like a slap.

Vivienne blinked, then turned on her heel.

Lena sipped her champagne, pretending her heart wasn’t trying to cartwheel.

An hour into the party, she had already met CEOs, foreign diplomats, and one movie star who complimented her lipstick. Every woman eyed her like a riddle. Every man looked twice.

But it was Rafael who kept looking like he wanted to drag her into a dark corner.

He wasn’t touchy—but every glance burned. Every time she passed by, his head turned. Every time another man leaned in too close, his jaw clenched just a bit harder.

Then came Caleb Wyatt.

Young. Flashy. Heir to a tech fortune. And very interested in Lena.

“You’re not like the usual crowd,” Caleb said, handing her a fresh drink. “Let me guess—model? Actress?”

“Waitress,” she said, smiling over the rim of her glass.

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

“I like that,” he said, inching closer. “Real girls are rare here.”

Lena laughed. “That’s the line you’re going with?”

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

“Barely.”

Across the room, Rafael was watching. No—tracking. And when Caleb leaned in and placed a hand on her waist, it happened.

Rafe moved.

Fast.

One second Caleb was flirting. The next, Rafael’s hand was gripping his shoulder with polite force.

“Caleb,” he said coolly. “Good to see you.”

Caleb paled. “Rafael. I didn’t realize—”

“You’re flirting with my assistant.”

“Just chatting,” Caleb said quickly, stepping back.

Rafe’s eyes didn’t leave his. “She works for me.”

Lena cleared her throat. “He was being nice.”

Rafe looked at her—something unreadable in his gaze—and said nothing. But his hand brushed her lower back as he led her away.

It was just a touch.

But her skin caught fire.

The balcony was quieter. Cooler. A string quartet played softly inside, muffled by the glass.

Lena leaned on the marble railing, heart racing.

“You know,” she said, “if you didn’t want guys flirting with me, you shouldn’t have sent me looking like a Bond girl.”

“You looked like you,” he said, stepping beside her. “But dangerous.”

“I thought you liked danger.”

“I do.” His voice dropped. “That’s the problem.”

Silence stretched.

The wind brushed her bare shoulders. He took off his jacket and draped it over her without a word.

Gentle. Intimate. Infuriating.

“You don’t have to protect me,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then why do you look ready to kill Caleb Wyatt?”

“Because I don’t like sharing.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m your assistant, remember?”

“That’s not why I hired you.”

She turned. “Then why did you?”

Rafe’s eyes darkened. “Because you walked into my office like you owned it. Because you spoke to me like I wasn’t worth more than you. Because for the first time in years, I felt like someone saw me and wasn’t scared.”

Lena swallowed.

“And now?”

“Now,” he said, taking a step closer, “you walk into my world like a storm, and I can’t look away.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Electricity hung in the air. Heavy. Waiting.

But then—

“Rafael!” Vivienne’s voice echoed from the doorway.

He exhaled, long and low.

Lena stepped back, heart thundering.

“Go,” she said. “They need their billionaire.”

He looked at her for one more second. Then left without another word.

By the end of the night, Lena was exhausted—and entirely overwhelmed.

She slipped out while most guests were still swirling champagne. She needed air. Time. Distance.

But outside the hotel, a car was waiting.

A sleek black Rolls-Royce. The driver opened the door.

“Miss Carter. Mr. Blackthorne asked me to get you home safely.”

She hesitated. Then climbed in.

Inside was cool leather and faint cologne.

And a small velvet box on the seat.

Curious, she opened it.

Inside: a gold bracelet. Thin. Elegant. And engraved in tiny, perfect script.

Not just a billionaire.

Not just an assistant.

She stared, breath caught in her throat.

What the hell was this man doing to her?