CHAPTER 4: MY ONE NIGHT STAND IS MY BOSS

Monday arrived with rain against my window and a message from my landlord.

Pay the overdue rent by Friday, or I will begin eviction.

My mother needed thirty thousand dollars for heart surgery before Friday, and Hart Group was my last chance at a salary that could change everything. I dressed in my best black skirt and cream blouse, pinned my hair back, and left Brooklyn before fear could stop me.

At reception, a woman with a dark ponytail checked her tablet.

"Elena Rose?"

"Yes. I am here for the executive assistant interview."

"I am Sade." She offered me a coffee. "You look like you have been fighting a war since breakfast. Drink this before you faint on our expensive carpet."

I took the cup with both hands. The heat steadied me.

The interview room had glass walls and three people waiting with copies of my resume. I sat opposite them, portfolio on my knees, trying to ignore the tremor in my fingers.

One interviewer frowned at my resume. "Your experience is mostly retail. This role supports a CEO who expects precision, discretion, and long hours. Why should we take a chance on you?"

"Because I know how to listen before I react," I said. "I can manage pressure without making it someone else's problem. I learn quickly, I am organized, and I do not panic when several people need something at once."

I pressed my palms against my skirt beneath the table. I was not the girl who had cried in a hotel bathroom or the fiancee Daniel had discarded for my cousin. I was a graduate who had worked every extra shift, learned to stretch a paycheck, and comforted my mother over the phone when neither of us knew what to do next. Damian could unsettle me, but he could not decide my worth.

Then the door opened.

A familiar scent reached me first, cedar and clean fabric with a hint of spice. My body recognized it before my mind could. I turned, and the room tilted.

The man from The Pierre walked in wearing a charcoal suit and crisp white shirt.

Damian.

His grey eyes found mine. He did not look surprised. He held my gaze with quiet confidence.

"Mr. Hart," one interviewer said, standing quickly, "we are discussing our final candidate."

"Then let us finish." Damian took the chair at the head of the table. "Miss Rose, is it?"

My mouth went dry. "Yes."

He opened my resume. "How would you handle confidential information if it involved someone you knew personally?"

"I would protect it and follow company policy."

"And if that person had power over your future?"

"I would still tell them the truth."

"Even if honesty cost you the job?"

I thought of the hospital estimate, the rent notice, and the white shirt hidden in my bag.

"I would rather lose a job than become someone who cannot trust her own word," I said.

Something flickered in his expression. Approval, or something more dangerous.

"That is enough," he said, closing my resume. "The other interviews are cancelled."

Silence fell.

"Mr. Hart," the recruitment director said, "we still have two candidates this afternoon."

"I have made my decision." His gaze stayed on me. "Elena Rose is the candidate I want."

He turned to me.

"Ninety thousand dollars a year. Executive assistant. You start today."

I stared. "You are offering me the job?"

"I am."

"Because of what happened between us?"

His gaze sharpened. "No. Because you answered every question well. Do not insult yourself by assuming you have nothing else to offer. You earned this."

"I accept," I said, steadying my voice. "But I expect to be judged on my work."

"Good. I would be disappointed if you asked for anything less."

He called for Sade. "Move her desk into my office. Beside mine."

Sade blinked. "Beside your desk?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No, sir."

His office overlooked the city, all glass and steel. A second desk stood beside his, close enough that I could see his blotter and silver watch. Everyone on the thirty-second floor could see us.

I set my bag down, keeping the white shirt hidden inside.

I had barely opened the folder when Damian appeared beside me. His cologne drifted close and every sensible thought scattered.

"You took something of mine," he said quietly.

My cheeks warmed. "I will return the shirt. My dress was torn."

"Keep it."

"I do not need a souvenir."

His gaze lingered, making me forget the glass walls. "Then stop looking at me as if you remember every second of last night."

"I remember we agreed to no names and no promises."

"And yet you left without saying goodbye."

"You said no strings."

"I said no strings. I did not say I wanted you to disappear."

His hand settled on the edge of my desk, close to mine but not touching. The restraint felt more intimate than a kiss.

"Dinner tonight, Elena. At seven."

"Is that an order from my boss or an invitation from the man at the hotel?"

"Which answer would make you accept?"

"Neither."

He leaned closer, voice only for me. "If I were not your boss, would you still want to see me?"

"That is not a fair question," I whispered.

"Perhaps not. But I prefer an honest answer."

He walked back to his desk, leaving me with a new job, a desk beside his, and a heart that had forgotten how to behave.

I told myself I would refuse dinner. My mother needed surgery, my rent was overdue, and falling for a billionaire was a complication I could not afford.

Then my phone vibrated on the glass desk.

At seven. Wear something you feel beautiful in. Tonight, I want to meet the woman behind the reasons she keeps running.

I stared until the screen went dark.

The worst part was not that he expected me to come.

The worst part was that I was already deciding what to wear to his place.