3

Anya’s pov

9:00 am.

The building wasn’t a building; it was a vertical monument to who had the biggest wallet. It was a dizzying tower of glass and steel in Manhattan’s financial district, perched so high it probably got nosebleeds. It smelled like Italian leather, fresh money, and the ozone that clings to expensive, clean air.

I’m not saying I have a death wish, but I did wake up this morning thinking my odds of success were roughly equal to a snowball’s chance in hell. And yet, here I was, standing in the lobby of a building so aggressively wealthy it probably had a gold-plated fire escape. It was the headquarters of Titan Management, perched so high in Manhattan’s financial district that the other buildings looked like my discarded LEGO creations.

It smelled like a million dollars, specifically the kind of money that buys Italian leather furniture and ozone generators to filter out the stench of us mere mortals. It reeked of pure, concentrated ambition, and it was the domain of Ethan Cole.

I smoothed down the skirt of my only good black dress—the one I call my ‘Power Suit of Shame’—and adjusted the sharp blazer that was my professional armor. Today, I wasn’t just Anya Sharma, the exhausted freelancer. I was The Critic, the venom-laced viper of the digital world. I needed to look like a woman who commanded eight-figure contracts, not a woman who sometimes forgot to eat because she was too busy wrestling with her latest addiction, which, for the record, was not masturbating anymore.

That was last month. This month, it was masturbating and getting my ass blown out.

But that’s news for another day.

When the secretary—a woman with cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass—ushered me in, the view was the first thing that hit me. The entire city, all its concrete and chaos, sprawled out below like a map of conquered territory. The second thing was Ethan Cole.

He was leaning against the panoramic window, making the whole massive, obscenely expensive room feel suddenly too small. He was thirty-two, impeccably tailored, with dark hair swept back and eyes that missed nothing. He was, in short, a disaster for my concentration. The society photos I occasionally scrolled through late at night didn’t do justice to the sheer architectural perfection of his jawline.

He turned, and a slow, practiced smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a warm, welcoming smile. It was a calculating, high-voltage current, the kind that reminded me I was dealing with a corporate predator, albeit a devastatingly handsome one.

“Anya Sharma,” he said, his voice a smooth, low baritone that seemed to vibrate in the expensive air, rattling the few remaining pieces of my professional composure. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m always interested in a good story, Mr. Cole,” I replied, walking across the thick carpet. I held out my hand, meeting his gaze directly. My goal: to appear unshakable. My reality: my palm was starting to feel suspiciously clammy. His handshake was firm and quick, all business, just the way I told myself I liked it.

“Please, call me Ethan.” He gestured toward a sleek, low couch. “And this isn’t just a good story, Anya. It’s the story of the decade. Kai Rhodes is not just an artist; he’s a brand. A damaged, expensive brand. And a damaged brand needs a very specific kind of polish.”

I sat down, crossing my legs tightly. I didn’t just have a crush on him. I had a full-blown, secret, cinematic crush. The kind where I imagined witty repartee and dramatic rescue scenes. The nerves fluttering in my stomach had absolutely nothing to do with this eight-figure deal and everything to do with the fact that my handsome, ruthless crush was sitting three feet away.

“I’ve read your work on him, Anya,” Ethan continued, leaning forward just enough to make me feel like I had his undivided, laser-focused attention. “Your pieces are venomous. Brutal. Highly effective. I particularly enjoyed the one where you referred to his last album as ‘three hours of auto-tuned whining delivered by a man whose ego is wider than the stage he refused to share.’”

“They drive traffic,” I corrected, maintaining my professional cool. Don’t gush, Anya. Don’t mention the jawline.

“Exactly. And that’s why you’re here. Anyone can write a fluff piece about a tragic accident. I need someone who publicly despises him to write his redemption. If The Mechanic.. uhmm Crusader—the only person to successfully pierce the golden bubble of Kai Rhodes—writes that he’s genuinely fighting, genuinely suffering, and genuinely worth rooting for, the world will buy it. You lend credibility to the crisis.”

He made it sound like I was a high-grade industrial disinfectant and Kai was a stubborn stain of mold. It was cold, ruthless, and, I had to admit, brilliantly strategic. My admiration for his mind flared hot and fast. He saw the world the same way I did: as a giant, inefficient machine that required the right leverage to fix.

“I understand the PR value,” I said, keeping my tone level, even though my internal narrator was screaming, ‘He gets me! He sees the brilliance in my spite!’ “But the risk to my own brand is substantial. And, frankly, the animosity between Kai and my family is public knowledge. He would never agree to this.”

Ethan waved a dismissive hand, as if Kai’s personal feelings were a fly buzzing on the window glass. “Kai is incapacitated and deeply depressed. He’s withdrawn. He doesn’t get a vote right now. I’ve handled the legal maneuvering. He’s still under an exclusive management agreement, and this is a necessary part of the image rehabilitation after the crash.”

He pushed a thick, bound document across the glass coffee table toward me. “The terms are inside. Read them. They’re comprehensive. I’ll cut to the chase on the most important section.”

He opened the contract to a highlighted page. My eyes scanned the dizzying legal jargon until they landed on the bold, underlined number at the bottom.

My breath hitched. The world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.

The number was larger than I had dared to dream. It wasn’t just enough for the community center land. It was enough to fund the entire North Star Foundation for five years, fully staffed, fully operational, with no more need for my desperate, venomous celebrity blogging. It was enough to retire The Critic forever. It was freedom, wrapped in a legal document.

“That amount,” I managed, trying to sound like I handled sums like this before breakfast and possibly a quick jog, “is unprecedented for a limited, short-term project.”

Ethan smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes, turning them into deep, knowing pools. “Kai Rhodes generates unprecedented revenue. His suffering will, unfortunately, generate even more. Your payment is a calculated cost of doing business. Consider it a retainer for silence on the family history and a reward for your effective past aggression. It’s an investment in the narrative.”

He paused, letting the silence emphasize the weighty proposition. “Now tell me, Anya. What does that money mean to you?”

I looked past him, mentally replacing the vast, expensive skyline with the image of a simple, sturdy building with a North Star Foundation banner over the entrance. I could feel the promise I’d made to my mother, years ago, tightening like a warm, powerful vise around my heart. This wasn’t about me anymore.

“It means everything,” I whispered, letting the professional guard drop for just one second. “It means I can finally finish what I started. It’s the difference between a dream and a reality for people who have nothing, for the children who need a place to go after school.”

Ethan nodded slowly, approvingly. He wasn’t touched by my passion; he was merely recognizing a fellow soldier fueled by a singular, consuming mission.

“Good,” he said. “Passion makes for good writing. Now, let’s talk about the catch.”

My stomach coiled with dread. I knew this was coming. No amount of money like this came without a hidden price. The universe always demanded interest in the form of your soul.

“To make this story authentic, you can’t interview him from a distance. You have to be there. Day and night. His comeback tour, the first leg of which is still going ahead, despite the injury, starts in two days. The contract stipulates that you will travel as his Personal Assistant for the final month of the tour. Twenty-four-seven access. Total immersion.”

I stared at him. “His personal… assistant? A PA? I’m a journalist. A critic. I don’t fetch lattes and dry-clean stage clothes. That’s a job for a college intern, not someone who’s about to command this f*e.”

OKAY NOW YOU’VE GOT TO BE SHITTING IN MY DAMN PANTS!