MENDED HEART

The moment Amara Jones stood beneath the glass tower of Blackwood Enterprises, the wind of New York City slapped her full in the face — not hard enough to knock her over, but enough to remind her where she was. On enemy ground. She gripped her leather portfolio tighter and stared up at the towering building with its rows of silver-blue windows that gleamed like armor. A fortress built by a man as feared as he was worshipped: Liam Blackwood. Billionaire. CEO. Walking controversy. Ice-cold perfection wrapped in Armani. It wasn’t just another job. This one would either make her — or break her. Inside the building, the air changed instantly. Colder. Crisper. Cleaner. The lobby gleamed with black marble floors and curved white walls, and the silence of wealth pressed into her chest. Men in suits and women in heels swept past like ghosts — polished, unbothered, powerful. Amara smoothed her skirt and stepped toward the front desk. “Good morning,” she said, steady as steel. “I’m Amara Jones. I have a 10 a.m. meeting with Mr. Blackwood.” The receptionist, a slim blonde with a headset tucked neatly into her hair, barely glanced at her. “Thirty-second floor. Mr. Blackwood is expecting you.” Of course he is, she thought, stepping into the elevator. He always was. He probably expected her to fail too — like the last two consultants who’d walked out of his company mid-contract. She glanced at her reflection in the elevator doors. Chestnut-brown skin. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips in a neutral gloss. Her natural curls were pulled back into a neat, coiled bun, and her dark green blazer hugged her shoulders like armor. She looked like someone who didn’t care what anyone thought. But inside? She cared. Not about impressing him. Not even about the money — though it was obscene. She cared about proving herself. Again. Always. The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to a floor bathed in light and power. No cubicles. No mess. Just white walls, towering glass windows, and silence. At the end of the hall stood him. Liam Blackwood. He stood by the window, back turned, hands in his pockets. The skyline of New York glowed behind him like a kingdom. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in black and grey. The kind of man who made a room bend around him — even when he didn’t speak. And when he did turn? She felt it — a hit to the chest. His gaze landed on her slowly, deliberately, the way a tiger might study someone before deciding whether to pounce or walk away. Eyes cold, jaw sharp, mouth unreadable. “You’re early,” he said. “I’m on time,” she replied, crossing the room. He nodded, once. “Fair enough.” She sat without being asked, meeting his stare with one of her own. “I assume you’ve read the file,” he said. “I’ve studied the file. Your Roosevelt Tower project is hemorrhaging time and resources. The architect quit. Your site manager is three months behind. And your last consultant walked off the job mid-report.” A flicker of interest in his eyes. “You’re not afraid to speak directly.” “I don’t have time to dance.” He studied her in silence, then stepped around his desk. She noticed the way he moved — with complete control, like he owned the floor beneath him. “What’s your plan?” “I get control of the site. I replace whoever needs replacing. I don’t explain myself twice. If I’m going to clean up your mess, I need your full support.” “You’re assuming it’s my mess.” “You’re the CEO. Everything that happens here is your mess.” Liam’s eyes narrowed, not in anger — in amusement. “You’re bold.” “Or just tired of men who confuse silence with weakness.” Silence. Then a slow, deliberate smile. Small. Lethal. He’s testing me, she thought. He enjoys this. Good. So do I. Liam walked around to his chair, finally sitting across from her. “You have one month,” he said. “Turn the project around, and I’ll consider keeping you. Fail, and I’ll make sure no one in this city touches your resume again.” Amara didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to win.” “Good,” Liam said. “Neither am I.” He reached for a folder and slid it across the desk. “Your contract. Review it. If it works for you, sign it. If not—” he shrugged, “—I’ll find someone who can handle the pressure.” Amara didn’t take the folder right away. She leaned forward instead. “You think you’re dangerous, Mr. Blackwood,” she said softly, “but I’ve already survived worse.” He paused. For the first time, something in his expression flickered. Not respect. Not approval. Curiosity. “I’ll see you on-site tomorrow morning, Ms. Jones.” Amara stood. “I don’t believe in second chances, Mr. Blackwood,” she said, slipping the folder into her bag. “So let’s both get it right the first time.” As she walked away, heels clicking confidently across the marble, Liam didn’t look away. And when the door closed behind her, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.