9

His words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. The weight in them was enough to press into her chest like a stone.

He wasn’t asking to be convinced, he was testing her. Looking for cracks in her armor, seeing if she’d squirm, lie, or fall apart like so many before her had under his scrutiny.

But Cassandra didn’t flinch. Not this time.

She took a steady breath and sat up straighter. Her hands folded loosely in her lap, though her heart thudded like a drum in her ears.

“One good reason?” she repeated, meeting his gaze squarely. “Alright. I’ll give you one.”

Her voice was soft but firm, like calm waters masking dangerous depths.

“Because unlike those thousands of people who sent in neat little resumes and followed all the proper steps, I showed up.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “I walked into the lion’s den, looked you in the eye, and asked for the job to your face.”

Darius’s expression didn’t shift, but something changed in the air around him. A slight tension. A subtle stillness. Like the moment before a storm decides to break.

Cassandra continued.

“I didn’t come here to beg for a job. I came here to offer value. You say your men can figure out the streets? Fine. But that doesn’t mean they understand how to read a room like I can. It doesn’t mean they know how to walk into a council meeting with a smile and walk out with every seat in their pocket.”

“I know this town because I’ve lived it not through reports, but through survival. I’ve worked behind the counters, poured drinks for your investors, wiped tears off politicians’ mistresses in nightclub bathrooms, and heard secrets you won’t find in any file. I know how to blend in, listen without being noticed, and move through every social circle this town has to offer without drawing attention.”

She leaned forward now, mirroring his earlier posture, and for a moment, it was like they were two predators sizing each other up across a small battlefield of polished wood and soft lighting.

“And most importantly?” she said quietly, but clearly, “Because I’m not afraid of you.”

Silence fell.

Darius didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just stared at her, really stared, as if trying to peel back every layer of skin, every hidden motive beneath her calm exterior.

Then, slowly, he set his glass down again. This time, it didn’t clink. It landed softly, almost respectfully.

His eyes never left hers.

“I don’t hire assistants who give speeches,” he said finally, voice low.

Cassandra’s heart sank just a little. But she held his gaze, unblinking.

“But…” he continued, tilting his head just slightly, “I do respect guts.”

A pause.

He stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the low table between them.

“You’ll be tested,” he said simply, adjusting the cuff of his dark sleeve. “You’ll hate it. You might even quit. But if you don’t… well, maybe you’re more useful than I thought.”

He started to turn, as if the meeting was over, but then stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Be at the Blackthorn building tomorrow. 7 a.m. Not a minute later.”

Cassandra blinked. Her mouth opened slightly, surprised.

“Does that mean I got the job?” she asked carefully.

Darius smirked.

“It means I’m giving you a chance to prove you’re not a waste of my time.”

Then he walked away, his steps smooth and silent, like a shadow fading into the dimness of the VIP lounge.

Cassandra sat there, stunned. Heart pounding.

_  _  _

The next morning dawned grey and restless. Rain hung heavy in the clouds but hadn’t yet fallen, and the streets were unusually quiet for a weekday. Cassandra sat nervously in the back of a cab, her hands gripping the strap of her handbag tightly as buildings blurred past the window. Her heart was thudding a frantic rhythm, one part anticipation, two parts regret.

She was thirty minutes late.

Nia had insisted she couldn’t show up looking “like a drowned raccoon,” and between trying on five different outfits and reapplying her eyeliner for the third time, time had slipped through their fingers like water. Cassandra had protested, but deep down, she was grateful. The building she was headed to wasn’t just any office. It was his Darius Thorn’s. And if first impressions meant anything, she needed to look like she belonged in a world of polished steel and power.

As the cab finally pulled to a halt in front of a towering glass structure in the heart of the financial district, Cassandra fumbled for the door handle and stumbled out. Her heels clicked frantically against the marble pavement as she adjusted her skirt and threw her handbag over her shoulder.

She barely spared a glance at the massive building that loomed before her like a monument to wealth and ambition. There was no time to stand in awe, no moment to gather herself. She was late, and she knew it.

Inside, the lobby was all gleaming white marble and gold accents. Sleek, cold, expensive. She made a beeline for the front desk, chest tight, breath shallow.

The receptionist, an elegant woman dressed in a sleek black blazer and a pencil skirt that probably cost more than Cassandra’s entire outfit, looked up from her computer with a professional smile.

“Hi, um,” Cassandra began, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and trying to sound less flustered than she felt. “I’m Cassandra Lane. I’m here to—”

Before the receptionist could respond, her eyes darted to something behind Cassandra, and she immediately bowed her head, posture snapping straight like a soldier standing at attention.

Cassandra turned around and there he was.

Darius Thorn walked into the lobby like he owned time itself. Tall. Commanding. Impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, with his signature cold aura trailing behind him like a storm cloud. A single bodyguard followed at a respectful distance, but it was Darius who drew all the attention.

Cassandra's stomach dropped. She cursed softly under her breath.

She watched as he slowed, his eyes already on her. The receptionist greeted him with a quiet “Good morning, Mr. Thorn,” but his gaze didn’t leave Cassandra. He glanced at his wristwatch with a slow, deliberate motion.

“You haven’t even started your job, Miss Lane,” he said, his voice cool and measured, “and already you’ve earned yourself a strike.”