Chapter Five: The Offer I Didn’t See Coming

Emma’s POV

A week had passed since that night.

Since the rooftop, the laughter, the haze. Since the stranger with hands like fire and lips that left bruises in places I didn’t know could ache.

And I was trying… really trying… to forget him.

But he haunted me. Not in name, not in face—I never even saw his fully—but in how he made me feel. Like I had finally lived for once, only to crash into the morning after. He lingered like smoke in my lungs, like a melody I couldn’t stop humming no matter how hard I tried.

Still, life didn’t care about one-night stands and blurry memories. Life demanded rent. Life wanted breakfast. Life wanted structure.

So I dressed in the most professional outfit I could find—a fitted black skirt, a cream blouse, and pumps I bought during a hopeful “starting my life” phase back in college. I even brushed out my hair until it gleamed and kept my makeup subtle. Just enough to hide the sleeplessness clinging beneath my eyes like ghosts.

Today was important.

I was applying for a job at Blake & Rowe Corporation—one of New York’s most prestigious firms spanning finance, real estate, and tech. The kind of place where people said words like synergy and optimization in their sleep.

Bella’s friend had a cousin who worked in legal, and by some miracle—or cosmic prank—I landed an interview for the position of personal secretary to the CEO.

I didn’t expect to get it. I just needed something. Anything to pull me out of this fog and remind me that I was alive, not just existing in the space between regrets.

And maybe, just maybe, if I focused hard enough on a new beginning, I wouldn’t feel the ghost of that night tracing his fingers down my spine.

The elevator chimed.

I stepped onto the 49th floor, greeted by a reception area that looked like it had been carved out of ambition itself—glass walls, black marble floors, and silence so clean it echoed. Everything gleamed. Everyone moved like they had somewhere critical to be.

A woman with a chignon bun and pointed red nails looked up from the desk. Her eyes scanned me with clinical efficiency. “Name?”

“Vivian Davis,” I said, forcing my voice to steady.

She typed something, nodded curtly, then handed me a clipboard. “Fill this out. The CEO will see you shortly.”

Wait—the CEO himself?

I blinked, caught off guard. Most companies left this sort of thing to HR. But I didn’t question it. Maybe that’s how the rich did things—personal involvement in every detail.

I sat down, trying to look composed as I filled out the form. My hands trembled slightly, so I gripped the pen tighter. Around me, other applicants came and went. A man in a tailored navy suit who smelled like money. A woman with silver hair and a leather briefcase that probably cost more than my rent.

Time slipped in slow, sharp breaths.

Then—“Miss Davis?”

The assistant led me down a quiet corridor with glass walls and abstract art hanging like secrets. We stopped in front of tall, sleek doors that gleamed under the LED lights.

“He’s expecting you,” she said before turning on her heel.

I took a breath and pushed them open.

And froze.

The office was massive, flooded with natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city like a silent ruler surveying his domain. The air smelled like clean leather and polished steel.

A sleek, minimalist desk stood near the center—no clutter, just power in wood and chrome.

But I didn’t take in much of the décor.

I was too focused on the man standing by the window.

He was tall. Towering, even. Broad shoulders framed in a charcoal-gray suit that fit like it had been stitched by angels. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a glass of amber liquid that caught the sunlight like fire.

He turned when he heard the door open.

And my heart dropped into my stomach.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak.

He was terrifying and hot at the same time—an impossible blend of raw masculinity and quiet danger. There was something about him that pulled at me, something unnervingly familiar.

He reminded me of the man from the rooftop. From the night I swore I’d forget. From the bed I’d left while shadows still stretched long across the room.

I knew that jawline. That mouth. That quiet intensity in his eyes.

Everything inside me screamed run.

But I couldn’t move.

This was Xander Blake. CEO. Billionaire. My would-be boss.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, before I could stop myself.

His eyes darkened as they locked on mine.

“Vivian Davis,” he said, each syllable sliding like silk over glass.

I stiffened. “How do you know my name?”

He smirked—slow, lethal. “You left it in the visitor log. Though I should thank you for the note you left on my nightstand. Classy touch.”

My throat closed.

“Ni…Nightstand?” I managed, though it came out as more of a squeak. “Wha….What do you mean by that?”

“I knew the moment I saw your eyes again,” he said, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps. “Funny, isn’t it? The girl who left me a hundred-dollar bill and a message telling me to keep the lights off… turns up in my office a week later.”

I wanted to melt into the floor.

“This was a mistake….. I'm not the one you are talking about,” I choked out. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You should,” he said, voice sharp and final. “Sit.”

My legs moved before my brain did. I sat stiffly in the chair opposite his desk, pulse crashing in my ears.

He sat too, calm as ever, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You’re applying to be my secretary?”

“I’m sorry….I didn’t know it was you,” I whispered.

“I know. That’s what makes this… interesting.”

I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. “Look, I don’t want any awkwardness. Let’s just pretend it never happened, and I’ll leave. And you'll never see me again.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said coolly. “And you’re not leaving.”

I blinked. “ S..Sir…..?”

“I’ve reviewed your resume. You’re competent. Smart. Overqualified, actually. But that’s not why I’m hiring you.”

“Hiring?”

“You got the job.”

“I—what?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming with something I couldn’t name. “But not just as my secretary.”

My stomach twisted. “What are you talking about?”

He stood again, walked to a drawer, and pulled out a sleek black folder. With a flick of his hand, he slid it across the desk toward me.

I hesitated before opening it.

And froze.

“Ma…Marriage contract?.... Are you crazy.” I breathed, staring at the elegant font and terrifying implications.

He met my gaze without flinching. “I need a wife. You need a fresh start. We both get something out of this.”

I stared at him like he’d grown horns. “This is insane. What do you mean by "I need a fresh start” You don’t even know me.”

“But I do, Emma.”

My blood ran cold.

He used my real name.

The name I hadn’t given him. The name I hadn’t written anywhere on my application.

“How… how do you know that?”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “I told you. I find what I want.”

“You’ve been looking for me?” My voice cracked.

“Since you walked out of my bed without saying goodbye.”

I shook my head, heart racing. This couldn’t be real. This was something out of a twisted dream.

“This isn’t about what happened that night,” he said, suddenly serious. “This is business. Personal reasons. Family matters. I need a wife on paper. You need freedom from whatever past you’re running from. We both win.”

“And if I say no?”

His voice dropped to a low murmur. “You won’t.”

The room felt smaller. Hotter. Like the walls were listening.

“What do you want from me, really?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, invading my space without touching me. “I want a contract. I want control. I want you by my side—for the next Two years. In public. On paper. In my house. In my life.”

My heart thundered against my ribs.

“And after that?”

He paused, gaze steady. “We walk away. Clean break.”

“And the part where we pretend this isn’t madness?”

His gaze pierced through me. “We don’t pretend. We just survive it.”

I stood up, backing away slowly. “I need to think.”

“You have 24 hours.”

“24 hours? That's too short.. I… I… I need more time? And if I refuse??!” My voice shook, but I held my ground.

His answer was a whisper that slid beneath my skin.

“Then you’ll always wonder what could’ve happened if you didn’t.”

I looked down at the folder again. My fingers trembled as they gripped its edges.

One step. One choice. One signature.

And everything could change.

I turned to the door, my mind spinning with questions, doubts, fear. But just as I reached for the handle, his voice caught me like a hook.

“Oh, and Emma…”

I stopped.

Looked back.

“If you run again,” he said, eyes unreadable, “I will find you.”