UNMASKED DESIRES

CHAPTER TWO

The receptionist gave her a polished smile before directing Olivia to the top floor. The elevator climbed with terrifying smoothness, each number tightening the knot in her stomach.

She has read enough about him to know that he's the type of man who could ruin someone's career with a single bored glance.

When the doors to the elevator opened, she met a man, maybe in his late 20s.

Then she walked up to him,

“Hi, good day sir.”

“I'm Olivia Sinclair, here for the interview,” she said to him with a little smile.

He looked at her, then gave her a small nod.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Sinclair. I'm Ethan, Mr Cross, personal bodyguard,” he said.

“This way, please,” he gestured as he directed her to the waiting room where other interviewees were.

“Please have your seat,” he said as they got to the waiting room, then he turned and left.

Olivia breathed out knowing perhaps she was just a few minutes later.

A few minutes later a lady in her early 30s came up to them in the waiting room.

“Mr. Cross will be handling today's interview,” she announced.

“So I would opt for you all to put up your best in today's interview,” she said, giving them a somewhat pitiful glance as they all looked like they were on hot seats.

She took one last glance at them, then her eyes landed on the nervous-looking Olivia, who looked like she was having a hard time breathing.

“Good luck guys, you'll need it” she said with a small smile, then turned to exit the room.

{10 MINUTES LATER}

Mr. Cross's personal bodyguard, Ethan, came in.

“Miss Olivia Sinclair, you're up,” he said, then walked out.

Olivia took a deep breath, then stood up, with all the confidence she could summon to go face her new-found fear.

When the doors to Mr Cross' office opened, she almost thought she had stepped into a different world. His office wasn't cold or sterile like she expected.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the city, but inside, the space was warm, filled with bookshelves, plants, abstract art and an all-black interior design with a hint of silver interior design.

Still, the atmosphere carried a weight, the kind that made you aware and careful with your words.

And then she saw him. The Adrian Cross.

He was seated behind a sleek black desk, reviewing the papers on his desk with a foundation pen.

Tall, broad-shouldered, sharp jawline, black wavy hair like layers of wheat field.

Everything about the man in front of her screamed authority. But what left her speechless was that this man behind this desk wasn't just handsome, he was pretty.

Is pretty really the right word to use because this man looked beautiful. He looked like he could turn a straight man gay and make any woman fall for him.

But, underneath all the masculinity, he had this not-so-hidden feminine vibe and a cold and menacing aura.

Then his voice snapped her back to reality,

“You're late,” he said without looking up from his desk.