CHAPTER 2

Oliver's POV

The flashes from the cameras were bright enough to pierce straight through the tinted glass of my SUV. Even from half a block away, I could see the swarm of paparazzi blocking the main entrance to Wyatt Enterprises. They were practically tripping over each other, holding up recording devices and shouting questions they knew I wouldn’t answer.

"Sir, it's worse than it was this morning," my driver, Marcus, muttered, looking at the crowd through the rearview mirror. "The Page Six article about the yacht party in Monaco just dropped an hour ago. The board is already calling your assistant's line."

I let out a harsh breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Take us to the loading dock in the back. I am not dealing with these vultures before my morning coffee."

"Understood, Mr. Wyatt."

Marcus swung the SUV around the block, slipping into the quiet, concrete alleyway behind the skyscraper. The back entrance was completely clear, saved for a few delivery trucks. I didn’t wait for him to open my door; I grabbed my briefcase, stepped out into the humid air, and marched straight toward the service elevator.

Of course, the universe had other plans today. The service elevator was completely dead, a bright yellow *Out of Service sign taped across the doors.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, checking my watch. I had a pre-market meeting with the legal team in fifteen minutes, and the main elevators were out of the question unless I wanted a camera shoved into my face.

I turned toward the heavy steel door marked Stairs. "Come on. Let's just take the stairwell."

As soon as the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the noise of the city died down, replaced by the hollow echo of our footsteps on the concrete steps. We had only made it up to the second-floor landing when I heard a shaky voice drifting down from the level above.

"Please, there has to be some kind of payment plan," a woman was saying. Her voice was tight, thin, and breathless, like she was holding back a sob. "I just started a new job today. I can bring in my employment contract. I can prove I’ll have the money soon."

I slowed my pace slightly, not out of courtesy, but because she was entirely blocking the narrow turn of the stairs.

"I understand that," she whispered into her phone, her back turned to us. She was wearing a simple, slightly faded dark blazer, her hair pinned up in a neat but hurried twist. "But you said a donor was found. If we miss this window, how long will Chloe have to wait? She doesn't have months. Please, just tell me how much the minimum upfront deposit is."

There was a pause. She leaned her forehead against the cold concrete wall, her shoulders slumping.

"Thirty thousand?" she breathed out. The absolute despair in her voice was loud and clear, but I didn't have the time or the energy to care about an employee's personal drama. People in this city had money problems every single day. If I stopped for every one of them, I wouldn’t be running a billion-dollar empire.

"Excuse me," I said loudly, my voice cutting through the quiet stairwell.

The woman gasped, spinning around so fast she almost dropped her phone. Her eyes were wide, red-rimmed, and completely panicked. She looked exhausted, like she hadn't slept in days, but there was a sharp line of defiance in her jaw.

Instead of moving out of the way, she just stared at me, holding the phone tightly against her chest.

"I need to get through," I said, my tone flat and entirely impatient. I took another step up, towering over her. "Some of us actually have work to do."

She looked at my tailored suit, then up at my face, her expression twisting from shock into instant irritation. "The stairwell is public space. You can easily walk around me if you just ask politely instead of barking orders."

I narrowed my eyes. "I just did ask. And considering I pay the lease on this entire building, technically, none of this is public. Move."

Her jaw tightened. For a second, I thought she was actually going to argue with me, which would have been a first for anyone in this building. Instead, she let out a sharp, bitter laugh, stepped flat against the wall, and gestured toward the stairs with an annoyed sweep of her hand.

"By all means, Mr. Important. Don't let me get in the way of your very busy morning," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

I didn't give her another look. I brushed past her, our shoulders barely grazing, and continued up the stairs with Marcus right behind me.

"Who even was that?" I muttered as we finally reached the executive floor and stepped into the plush, carpeted hallway.

"I'm not sure, sir," Marcus said, adjusting his tie. "Probably someone from accounting or marketing taking a private call."

"Whatever. Tell HR to remind the staff that the stairwells aren't personal phone booths," I said, throwing open the glass doors to my main office suite.

The peace didn't last. The moment I walked into my office, my head executive assistant, Frank, was already standing by my desk with an iPad in hand and a grim look on his face. Frank had been with my family for ten years, and he rarely looked this stressed.

"Don't look at the tabloids," Frank said without greeting me.

"Too late. Saw the crowd outside," I said, tossing my briefcase onto the leather sofa. "What's the damage?"

"The board of directors called an emergency meeting for tomorrow afternoon," Frank said, tapping the screen. "The Monaco photos were the last straw. The rumors about you buying that superyacht with company funds—even though it was your personal money—are tanking the stock. They're openly discussing the morality clause in your contract."

I let out a sharp laugh, leaning against my desk. "The morality clause? They want to kick me out of my own father's company because I had a drink on a boat with a few models?"

"They want to kick you out because you look reckless, Oliver," Frank said, his voice dropping into a serious, paternal tone. "The investors want stability. They want to know the CEO of Wyatt Enterprises is focused on the upcoming tech merger, not getting hungover in the French Riviera. The board wants a family man. They told me directly: if you don’t show signs of settling down within the next month, they are going to push for a vote to replace you with your uncle."

"My uncle is a snake who doesn't know the first thing about our tech division," I snapped, my temper finally flaring. "I built the infrastructure for this merger myself. They can't do this."

"They can, and they will, unless you give them a reason to believe you've changed," Frank insisted. "You need a miracle, Oliver. A very fast, very convincing PR spin. You need to look like you're building a real life, not chasing the next party."

I ran a hand through my hair, pacing the length of the office. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the sprawling skyline of Manhattan, everything I had worked to secure. I wasn't going to let a group of old men in suits take it away from me.

Before I could answer, there was a soft knock on the open door.

"Mr. Wyatt? Frank?"

Sarah from Human Resources was standing there, holding a manila folder. Behind her stood a younger woman, her head down, clutching a notebook to her chest.

"Come in, Sarah," Frank said, stepping back to give them room.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to introduce the new junior assistant before things got too crazy today," Sarah said, smiling professionally. She turned to the girl behind her. "This is Elena Golding. She’s the new hire attached to the executive suite. She’ll be working directly under Frank to handle your secondary scheduling, correspondence, and overflow files."

The girl stepped forward, lifting her head.

My breath caught in my throat for a fraction of a second. It was the girl from the stairs.

Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw the exact moment she realized who I was. The color drained from her face, leaving her completely pale. The defiance she had shown in the stairwell vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated dread. She looked down at the floorboards, her knuckles turning white around her notebook.

"Elena, this is Frank, the head executive assistant," Sarah continued, completely oblivious to the sudden tension thick enough to cut with a knife. "And, of course, this is our CEO, Mr. Oliver Wyatt."

"Nice to meet you, Frank," Elena said, her voice small but steady as she shook Frank's hand. Then, she forced her eyes back up to meet mine, her chin lifting just a fraction. "Good morning, Mr. Wyatt."

I didn't answer right away. I just studied her. This was the girl who needed thirty thousand dollars for a kidney transplant. The girl whose life was apparently falling apart, who had just called me "Mr. Important" on a flight of concrete stairs.

And right now, she was standing in my office, completely at my mercy.

"Good morning, Miss Golding," I said, my voice smooth, a slow, calculated idea suddenly starting to form in the back of my mind. "I hope you find our stairwells suitable for your work environment."

Sarah blinked, confused. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing, Sarah," I said, never taking my eyes off Elena's pale face. "Just an inside joke. Frank, show Miss Golding to her desk. I think she and I are going to have a very interesting year together."