chapter 2 . the calm before the storm

Bianca

Sunday mornings in New York weren’t quiet. They were never quiet. But for once, my apartment was.

The city still moved outside my window—horns, distant music, someone shouting in Spanish down the block—but inside my little studio on the Upper West Side, it felt like the air was holding its breath. Like it knew tomorrow wasn’t just another Monday.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, wearing an oversized hoodie and sipping lukewarm coffee from my favorite mug. The words “Boss Babe” were starting to fade off the side, but I wasn’t ready to let it go.

My laptop sat open in front of me. And on the screen? Dean Andrews.

A dozen tabs open.

Forbes articles. Business profiles. A paparazzi shot of him at some gala, tuxedo on point and a woman who wasn’t smiling on his arm.

Soon-to-be ex-wife, one headline said.

I scanned through the text, chewing on the inside of my cheek. Divorced just three months ago. No kids. Co-founder of Andrews Tech. Built the company from the ground up alongside her. Now? She still owned 40%.

Yikes.

There were other articles too. Gossip pieces calling him “the Ice King of Silicon Alley” and “Tech’s Most Eligible Tyrant.” Some painted him as a cold genius. Others, as a ruthless perfectionist who didn’t suffer fools.

And then there were the whispers. Rumors about secret office affairs, a personal assistant who mysteriously resigned without notice, and a board member who apparently cried during a meeting and never returned.

I blew out a slow breath.

What the hell did I just walk into?

I closed the laptop, flopped back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? A foot in the door. A real career. A job that would actually use the degree I’d busted my ass for.

I thought of my mom. The way she looked at me when I handed her my first tiny paycheck from a random internship. The pride in her tired eyes. That single look was worth more than every class I’d taken.

She worked twelve-hour shifts as a nurse. Raised me alone. Never complained. Never stopped.

I owed her more than some dead-end job at a half-functioning startup.

I needed this.

Even if my new boss might be a brooding, ice-cold billionaire with commitment issues and a God complex.

I sat up again and grabbed my phone. A few new texts blinked across the screen—Claire, my sister, had clearly been stalking my life while I ignored her for more than four hours. Classic.

Claire:

Did you G****e him yet??

Claire:

Tell me everything. I need details.

Claire:

Also, please don’t wear that grandma ruffle blouse tomorrow. Burn it.

I snorted, half-annoyed and half-grateful. Claire always had something to say, even when I didn’t ask. That was her thing—big opinions, zero filter, and a heart the size of Brooklyn.

Me:

Yes, I Googled him. He’s intimidating as hell. Also possibly the devil.

Me:

And I’m going shopping. I need something that says “hire me forever” but also “I will not fetch your dry cleaning.”

Claire:

Exactly. Channel your inner boss bitch.

Claire:

Also if you end up dating your boss, I get to say I told you so forever.

Me:

Claire. Stop.

Claire:

I’m just sayingggg. He’s hot. You’re hot. It’s basic math.

I rolled my eyes but smiled anyway. Claire had a way of making everything feel less heavy.

Later that afternoon, I found myself standing in front of a mirror in a boutique fitting room.

The navy pencil skirt hugged my hips just right. The silk blouse gave just enough structure to feel powerful but not stiff. Add heels, minimal jewelry, a swipe of lip gloss—done.

I looked… like someone who belonged.

Tomorrow, I’d be working for Dean Andrews. The man was dangerous, complicated, and exactly the kind of boss your older sister would warns you about. Too bad my sister was Claire and had a knack for danger and chaos