4

Anya

The humiliation hit me first, fast and hot. The thought of catering to Kai’s massive ego, of fetching his vitamin waters and sorting his dirty rock-star laundry, it was like a physical assault. He must have put you up to this, you spoiled bastard, I thought, a surge of pure venomous hatred bubbling up. Kai Rhodes could seriously go fuck himself.

“It’s the only way, Anya. If you’re his assistant, you’re invisible. No one on the team will talk to a journalist, but they have to talk to the PA. You’ll be in the bus, the hotel rooms, the physiotherapy sessions. You’ll see the struggle firsthand. You’ll see the real pain,” Ethan insisted, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper.

“And you’ll write the true story of the tortured artist’s painful road back to glory. We need raw, unfiltered access, and the PA role provides the perfect cover.”

The idea of being Kai’s errand girl, having to look my step-brother in the eye every day for thirty days, was physically revolting. It felt like a deliberate, twisted punishment. But the money—the key to the Foundation—made the humiliation a bitter, necessary pill.

I needed to clear my head, and my gaze, completely derailed by the money and the mission, settled on Ethan’s meticulously styled hair. My crush-driven anxiety took over, shoving aside my journalistic professionalism like a drunk patron at a bar.

“Wait,” I blurted out, the word escaping before my internal censor could tackle it. “I’m sorry, this is absolutely irrelevant, but I’ve always wondered… Is your hair naturally that dark, or is that the work of a highly paid stylist?”

The sound of my own voice, asking such a silly, stupid question in this high-stakes meeting, was mortifying.

Ethan Cole, the razor-sharp CEO of a multi-billion dollar empire, actually stopped, mid-sentence, and his laser-focused gaze faltered. He blinked. Once. Then again. A flicker of genuine confusion crossed his face. He even reached up and touched his dark, perfectly swept-back hair.

“It’s… natural, Anya,” he said, a ghost of a bewildered smile touching his lips. “I keep a very simple routine. I shower, I brush, it falls like this.”

My face instantly exploded into a furnace of shame. I wanted to crawl under the heavy Persian rug and suffocate myself. The only thing I managed to articulate was a pathetic, strangled sound.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I stammered, covering my face with one hand. “That was completely unprofessional. It was a terrible question, driven by pure exhaustion and nerves. Please forgive me, I think the number in the contract just short-circuited my filter and my ability to conduct myself like a rational adult. I’m truly embarrassed.”

Ethan’s smile deepened, a subtle, charming shift that made him look less like a predatory executive and more like an amused, exceedingly handsome man enjoying a moment of unexpected absurdity.

 “No apology necessary, Anya. I’m impressed you managed to throw me off my game. It’s a rare occurrence up here. Consider it a litmus test passed—you’re certainly unpredictable.” He paused, his expression hardening slightly as he transitioned back to business. “Now, back to the crucial stipulation.”

The reprieve was over. The game was on again.

“If you publish anything unauthorized—if your old persona, even attempts to put out a single negative or critical piece about Kai Rhodes during this month—or if you break any confidentiality clause, you forfeit the entire payment. Every last cent. And we will bury your reputation with an iron fist. You will never write a word that matters again.”

My mouth went dry. He wasn’t just offering me a contract; he was offering me a prison cell—a gilded, extremely lucrative cage.

I had to, swallow my pride, and endure my step-brother’s cold contempt for thirty days, all while acting as his servant. And if I slipped up, if the hatred boiled over, if I dared to write the truth I knew, the truth about his spoiled attitude, the truth I was secretly hoping to dig up, I would lose the single chance to fulfill my mother’s legacy.

I took a deep, steadying breath, running through my three goals again. Secure the Money (Check—the payment was undeniable, though conditional). Get Closer to Ethan (Check—I was sitting in his office, accepting his mission, and he was smiling at my terrible jokes). Get Dirt on Kai (This required the PA role. The humiliation was the price of the access. The access was the price of the money).

“I’ll do it,” I said, the words feeling heavy and definitive, like they were sealing my fate. “But the full payment is wired into an escrow account held by my legal counsel immediately upon signing. I don’t work on promises.”

Ethan gave me a look of genuine respect. “Of course. Shrewd. I wouldn’t expect anything less from The Mechanic—or shall I call you The Crusader now, since that’s what the recent news honored you with. You’ll sign the papers, and the transfer will be initiated this afternoon.”

He pushed the contract fully toward me, along with an expensive, heavy fountain pen.

As I signed the pages, my hand trembled slightly. This was the biggest risk I had ever taken. I was trading my integrity for my mission, and walking straight into the path of the man I hated, all for the sake of the man I secretly admired.

When I stood up to leave, Ethan took my hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary. His thumb brushed the back of my hand, a small, electric connection that made my earlier embarrassment worth it. “Welcome to the team, Anya. The tour bus leaves tomorrow evening. Prepare for a very long month.”

I cat walked out, adjusting my blazer one last time. I left Titan Management with a dizzying mix of elation and profound dread. The money was secured, my NGO was saved. But I was now legally bound to the man I wanted to destroy.

As I stepped onto the elevator, the dizzying elation suddenly curdled into profound uneasiness. My eyes, which had been scanning the contract for the big, obvious stipulations, had briefly caught a tiny, almost trivial clause buried deep in the confidentiality section.

 It was a detail so minor, so irrelevant to the actual goal of writing an authorized biography, that any sane lawyer would have dismissed it instantly. It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.