Chapter 2

My hands are trembling so much that the pen almost slips from my fingers. Cameron Black's office suddenly feels too big, too cold, as if the glass walls are closing in on me. His green, relentless gaze pierces through me. He doesn't move, doesn't even blink. He waits. And every passing second makes the air heavier, more suffocating.

"I… I'll sign," I finally whisper, my voice rough, barely audible. It's not a choice. It's survival. Fear twists my insides fear of what he might do to me if I refuse, fear of disappearing like those "witnesses" I accidentally overheard. My mind replays the words from the stolen conversation on a loop: cartel, accident, clean. No, I can't risk that. Not for an internship. Not for my life.

Cameron nods, an almost imperceptible movement, but his lips stretch into a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Wise decision, Amanda." He straightens up slightly, towering over the space with his massive presence. I smell his cologne  a blend of dark woods and musk – invading my nostrils, but it doesn't make me shiver with pleasure. Not yet. It just makes me want to step back, to put distance between me and this man who already treats me like a possession.

I grab the pen, my heart pounding wildly. The first contract, the NDA, is easy: I initial each page without even rereading the clauses. Astronomical fines, potential prison if I speak. Standard for a company like this, I tell myself to feel better. But the second one… My eyes skim the words: "total obedience," "immediate availability," "satisfy all needs." It's a trap. A contract binding me to him like an invisible chain. My fingers hesitate above the signature line.

"Problem?" he asks in a soft, almost mocking voice. He leans forward, his forearms resting on the desk, revealing more of that dark tattoo snaking under his sleeve. A raven, maybe, or a stylised shadow. A symbol of what? Death? Power?

"No," I lie, and I sign. *Amanda Hayes*. My name, written with a trembling hand, seals my fate. I push the documents back toward him, avoiding his gaze.

He picks them up slowly, examining them as if savouring my surrender. "Good. From now on, you are my personal assistant. No half measures. You answer my calls at any hour. You anticipate my needs. And if you fail…" He leaves the sentence hanging, but the implication is clear. Fear tightens around my throat.

He stands, walks around the desk with a feline grace that contrasts with his imposing height. I stay seated, frozen, as he approaches. Too close. I feel the heat of his body radiating against mine. "Stand up," he orders calmly.

My legs obey before my brain has time to protest. I stand, knees weak, and find myself inches from him. He towers over me, and for the first time, I notice the details: the faint scars on his knuckles, as if he spent nights punching shadows; the prominent veins on his strong hands capable of breaking or caressing. But for now, the thought terrifies me more than it intrigues me.

"Look at me," he says. I obey, raising my eyes to his. Emerald green, cold as a frozen lake. "You're afraid. That's normal. But fear is a tool. It will keep you alive… and loyal."

He reaches out, brushing my chin with a single finger a brief, almost electric touch that makes me flinch. No pleasure, just a shock of terror mixed with something indefinable. Tension. He tilts my face upward, forcing me to hold his gaze. "Your first task: cancel all your plans for tonight. You're coming with me."

"With you? Where?" I stammer, voice trembling.

"A business dinner. In Mayfair. You'll be by my side. Observing. Silent. And… presentable." His gaze drops to my outfit pencil skirt, white shirt  and I feel a wave of vulnerability wash over me. There's nothing sexual in his voice, not yet, but the implication is there, latent, like a veiled threat.

He finally steps back, breaking the contact, and presses a button on his desk. A side door opens, and Elena walks in, carrying a bag. "Mr. Black?" she asks, professional as always.

"Take her to the lounge. Black dress, short. Discreet makeup. And… the necklace." Elena nods without flinching, as if this were normal.

*The necklace?* My mind races. What does that mean? But I don't dare ask. Elena guides me out of the office, toward a private elevator that descends to an underground floor. A private beauty lounge, with a hairdresser, makeup artist, and a wardrobe full of haute couture clothes. "Don't worry, sweetheart," Elena says with a sympathetic smile. "It's the job. He's demanding, but he rewards well."

*Demanding.* That's an understatement. While the makeup artist works on my face, I stare at my reflection. My eyes are wide with fear, not excitement. My pulse isn't racing with desire; it's pounding because I feel trapped. The dress they hand me is black, tight, with a plunging neckline that makes me blush. Too short. Too revealing. I slip it on in a changing room, feeling the silky fabric against my skin, but it doesn't make me feel sexy  just exposed, vulnerable.

Then, the necklace. Elena hands it to me: a thin white‑gold chain with a discreet pendant  a tiny stylised padlock. "It's his mark," she explains, fastening it around my neck. The cold metal against my skin gives me goosebumps. A symbol of ownership? My stomach knots.

Back on the 67th floor, Cameron is waiting. He scans me from head to toe, slowly, methodically. "Perfect," he murmurs. Not a compliment. An assessment. He places a hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the elevator  a firm, possessive touch that makes me flinch. No shiver of anticipation. Just fear, pure and simple.

The car is a black Bentley, chauffeur included. We drive to Mayfair in silence. Cameron works on his phone, ignoring my presence, but I feel his gaze slide over me from time to time. The tension builds, electric, but for me it's anxiety. What does he really expect? What "needs" will I have to satisfy?

The restaurant is exclusive: Le Gavroche, spaced‑out tables, flickering candles. We are led to a private table at the back, where two men are already waiting. One is a Russian investor, stocky, with a thick accent; the other, a British lawyer, nervous. The dinner begins: discussions about deals, astronomical figures. I stay silent, as ordered, sipping a red wine that Cameron chose for me.

But under the table, something changes. Cameron places his hand on my knee, a casual gesture as if adjusting his napkin. I stiffen, heart hammering. His fingers stay there, motionless, but the pressure is there  a subtle claim. The men talk about "secure deliveries" and "discreet partners," euphemisms for what I suspect is illegal. Mafia? Money laundering? I don't dare move, not even to push his hand away. Fear paralyses me.

Suddenly, a twist: the Russian leans forward, eyes narrowing. "And her? Who is she?" he asks, jerking his chin toward me.

Cameron tightens his grip slightly on my knee  a warning. "My assistant. Reliable. Discreet." But his tone is tense, and I feel a vibration in the air. The British lawyer suddenly pales, shooting a nervous glance at the exit.

"Reliable? Like your last… associate?" the Russian retorts with a predatory smile.

Cameron doesn't blink, but his hand inches up my thigh under the dress. Not to caress me  to control me, to remind me who holds the reins. My breath catches. No excitement; just a dull panic. "My last associate made a mistake," Cameron replies calmly. "He talked. And now he doesn't talk anymore."

The Russian laughs, but the atmosphere is heavy. The dinner continues, but I feel that something is wrong. Halfway through the meal, the lawyer gets a call and excuses himself, citing an emergency. Cameron watches him leave, jaw tight.

Back in the car, the silence is oppressive. "What happened?" I dare ask, my voice weak.

He finally looks at me. "A traitor. He tried to double‑cross us." His hand  the one that was on my thigh  now rests on my nape, brushing the necklace. "But you, Amanda… you were perfect. For now."

The car stops in front of a luxury hotel  not my home. "What? I'm not going home?"

"No," he says simply. "Your contract stipulates 24/7. Tonight, you stay here. With me."

My heart races. The suite door opens onto a lavish penthouse: view of the Thames, king‑size bed, private bar. He takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, revealing more tattoos. "Take off your clothes," he orders in a neutral voice.

"What? I…"