THE BILLIONAIRE'S SECRET HEIR

The elevator glided effortlessly upwards, its metallic walls echoing a dozen Aria Morgans—dozens of serene, poised, composed Aria Morgans. There was only one who really existed, and she was trying not to breathe.

Vale Industries.

That name by itself could buy and sell her entire life ten times over.

She evened out her blazer for the fifth time, the leather folder containing six months' worth of unpaid rent, three rejected proposals, and one remaining hope held tight within it. Her marketing firm would live if Damian Vale said yes. Otherwise. she'd be freelancing again, just scraping together enough money to buy groceries.

The elevator beeped.

She stepped into the thirty-seventh floor — a steel and glass cathedral that carried the faint perfume of power and money. Receptionists glided on autopilot; assistants in impeccably pressed suits murmured into discreet earpieces. Aria picked up on the building's beat before she spotted him.

Damian Vale.

He stood at the doorway as if the room itself skewed in his direction. Dark hair, broad shoulders, and a tall, imposing figure. The infamous billionaire who rebuilt his father's crumbling empire and doubled its worth before thirty-five. A man rumored to never smile, never forgive, and never lose.

Aria swallowed.

Her heels clicked too sharply off the marble as she made her way to meet him.

“Miss Morgan.” His voice was low, precise — an expensive accent dipped in authority. “You’re five minutes early.”

“I thought it was better than being five minutes late,” she managed.

A flicker — not quite a smile — crossed his mouth. “Punctuality. A dying art.”

He led her into the boardroom. It was larger than her entire office. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran along the length of the room, the city glinting like spilled diamonds below. Six executives formed a semicircle around the table, gazing at her like jurors at a trial.

Damian was sitting in the head chair. "You have fifteen minutes. Make it count."

Aria drew a breath, put her folder down on the table, and began.

She spoke in rhythm with a person who'd memorized every word at three a.m., her words cut with conviction. She described her firm's vision — human narrative in a digital economy — how emotional authenticity could take Vale's luxury arm to greater heights than the competition. She forgot about the stakes as she spoke. She forgot about the nerves. There was only the pitch, the concept, the belief that she could make this empire human once more.

When finally she stopped, silence fell over the room.

Damian shifted back in his chair, watching her. The rest of them took notes, murmured, shifted uncomfortably. But he didn't take his eyes off hers. Not from her slides, nor from her projections — but from her. Pondering. Calculating. As if determining how much of her company to buy, or consume.

"That was," he said at last, "surprising."

"Surprising, good," Aria replied in a rush, "or surprising, bad?"

His lips twisted — a slow, threatening half-smile that made her heartbeat falter. "I don't do good or bad, Miss Morgan. Results only."

He placed her folder on the desk and tapped it softly. "You'll have my verdict tomorrow."

That was all. Interview finished.

She gathered up her papers, attempting to sound calm. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Vale."

He rose when she turned to go. "Miss Morgan."

She stood there.

"Emotion sells more than strategy," he whispered. "So tell me—what am I to expect to feel at the moment?"

She gazed back at him — black, assessing, infuriatingly calm.

Without flinching, she replied, "Anticipation."

Nobody caught their breath for an instant, then Damian Vale's lip curled again, this time with a harsher angle. "Interesting."

Aria walked away, her legs shaking only when the elevator doors closed behind her.

In the mirror, she saw the faintest flush on her cheeks — and something she hadn't felt in months.