3

My one-bedroom apartment smelled faintly of coffee and desperation.

It wasn’t much—peeling paint on the walls, a couch that had seen better days, and a desk by the window stacked with half-filled notebooks and abandoned drafts. Once, this space had been my creative sanctuary. Words had poured out of me like they were oxygen, stories so alive they kept me awake at night, chasing endings I couldn’t wait to write.

But ever since the breakup, that fire had died. My laptop sat on the desk like a tombstone, its blank screen taunting me every time I tried to start again.

I hadn’t written in months.

And the bills didn’t care about broken hearts or lost muses.

So I sat cross-legged on the floor with the day’s newspaper spread around me, circling job listings in red ink like it was 1995 instead of scrolling through endless postings online. I told myself the ritual mattered—the smell of paper, the scratch of a pen, something tangible in a world where everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

Most of the listings blurred together: waitressing, retail sales, part-time admin. None of them felt right. None of them felt me.

But then, tucked neatly in the classifieds, I saw it.

Tech Company Seeks Copywriter. Immediate Hire. Competitive Pay.

My pulse quickened. It wasn’t writing novels, but it was writing. Words, persuasion, creativity—I could do that. Maybe it was the lifeline I’d been waiting for.

Before I could overthink it, I drafted a resume, brushed it up with what little confidence I had left, and emailed it to the address listed.

I didn’t expect a reply so soon.

But ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with an email.

Subject: Interview Invitation – Wilde Enterprises

Wilde.

The name tightened something in my chest, but I brushed it off. Wilde was common enough. It didn’t have to mean him. It couldn’t.

The email was brisk, professional:

Your resume has been reviewed and shortlisted. Please report to the Wilde Enterprises headquarters today by 3:00 p.m. for a preliminary interview.

Today. Immediate. No time to overthink.

I stared at the screen for a long minute, my heart hammering. Rent was due in a week. My fridge was a graveyard of expired condiments and wilting vegetables. I didn’t have the luxury of choice.

So at 2:30, I was in front of Wilde Enterprises, clutching my worn leather bag and trying not to feel like an imposter.

The building soared into the sky like a fortress of glass and steel. Sleek, modern, intimidating. A far cry from my crumbling apartment. The lobby alone could have paid six months of my rent—marble floors polished to a mirror shine, a chandelier that looked like frozen lightning, and a reception desk manned by people so polished they looked like they belonged in a glossy magazine.

“Vivian Upton,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Here for the copywriting interview.”

The receptionist smiled politely, clicked through something on her screen, then gestured toward the elevators. “Of course. You’re expected. Please proceed to the top floor—CEO’s office.”

My stomach dropped. “The CEO? Isn’t this supposed to be a first-round interview?”

“That’s correct,” she said smoothly. “Mr. Wilde prefers to meet promising applicants personally.”

Mr. Wilde.

The name hit me like a bullet. My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag, but before I could protest, the receptionist had already buzzed me through.

The elevator ride felt eternal. The higher it climbed, the more my nerves tangled into knots. I told myself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Zane Wilde was a man of night and shadow, of whispered danger and smirks that undid me. He wasn’t… a CEO. He wasn’t this.

But when the doors slid open, my hope crumbled.

The office was vast, all clean lines and expensive minimalism, with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the city below like a conquered kingdom. The air hummed with quiet power.

And there he was.

Zane Wilde.

Seated behind a desk that looked more like a throne than a piece of furniture, his icy blue eyes locked on me the moment I stepped in. He wasn’t surprised. Not even a flicker of it. If anything, he looked amused—like he had been waiting for this exact moment.

“Vivian.” My name rolled off his tongue like smoke, deep and deliberate. "Good to see you again."

I froze in the doorway, my breath caught in my chest. “You—”

“Me,” he finished smoothly, leaning back in his chair. His tailored suit hugged him perfectly, his tie undone just enough to hint at recklessness beneath the polish. A silver lighter spun lazily between his fingers, the same one he had taunted me with in the ballroom.

I gripped the strap of my bag so hard it dug into my shoulder. “You’re the CEO.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Disappointed?”

My throat tightened. “This is some kind of joke.”

“No joke,” he said, his voice silk over steel. “You applied for a job at my company. I chose to see you personally.”

I wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to turn and bolt before he could pull me into whatever dangerous game he was playing.

But I couldn’t. Rent. Bills. Survival.

I forced myself to step inside, my heels clicking against the polished floor. “Then let’s keep this professional,” I said, though my voice betrayed the tremor I tried to hide.

His eyes darkened with something unreadable. “Professional,” he echoed, like he was tasting the word, deciding whether to swallow it or spit it out.

As I sat across from him, the air between us charged, heavy with unspoken tension.

This wasn’t just an interview.

This was a trap.

And somehow, I had already walked right into it.