The CEO’S forbidden Heir

Clara Evans stood frozen in the Knight Enterprises lobby, her heels sinking too deep into the thick rug—like quicksand pulling her down on purpose. The air smelled sharp, that too-clean sting of glass cleaner mixed with something… ambition? That weird scentless smell that somehow screams you don’t belong here. Not to a girl who crawled out of a nowhere town with a blazer borrowed off her cousin and a resume patched up with lies and hope. Her palms were wet. Fingers slippery against the portfolio she kept squeezing like it was supposed to hold her together. Hazel eyes darted to the receptionist’s desk—woman in a headset staring her down like she’d already missed her funeral and showed up late to the afterparty. Breathe. Just—breathe. You earned this. Didn’t you? But her chest wouldn’t listen, heart punching her ribs so hard she thought maybe they’d c***k. The folder in her grip felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, maybe more. “Evans?” the receptionist snapped. Voice sharp, no softness, no chance. “Elevator’s that way. Forty-seven. Don’t keep him waiting.” Her throat stuck. Tongue glued to the roof of her mouth like she’d swallowed paste. She managed to croak, “Right. Thanks.” Too small. Too meek. She hated it. Hated how she sounded like that girl again—the one who used to beg for extra diner shifts, not the one who’d clawed and scraped to land inside this building. She tugged her blazer tighter, shoulders pinched, and stepped toward the elevator. The doors closed with a hiss that felt too final. A box of mirrors trapping her in with her own panic. Her messy bun sagged, blonde strands sticking out, face too pale, eyes too wide—like a deer on some lonely road, already blinded by headlights. The elevator hummed up, too fast. Her stomach lagged behind, dropping hard. You’re not that girl anymore, she told herself. But the memory barged in anyway. Chicago. Three months back. She’d broken every rule she ever made. One night. One stranger. No names. No regrets. At least, that was the lie. A bar. Too much wine. A man with a voice rough as whiskey, hands that branded her skin. She’d left before dawn, swore it was buried. Mistake. Memory. Done. Ding. Doors slid open. And everything inside her—stopped. Forty-seven wasn’t an office. It was a cathedral built from glass and steel. Sunlight slashed through floor-to-ceiling windows, New York City stretching out like a warning. Her heels clicked too loud against the marble floor, every step like a gunshot ricocheting in her head. A woman with a tablet appeared, not smiling, just walking her down a hall lined with framed victories—shiny awards, photos of suits shaking hands like they were gods. Power dripped off every frame, cold and smug. Clara’s pulse hammered harder, sweat pooling under her blouse, but she whispered to herself anyway—You’re here. You made it. Don’t choke. Then—those doors. Dark wood polished too bright. The kind of doors that looked like they ate people alive. The tablet woman pushed them open. Clara stepped inside. And her body betrayed her—froze solid. The boardroom was a battlefield dressed up in mahogany. Long table, leather chairs, a dozen suits already staring like she’d wandered in bleeding. But none of them mattered. Not compared to the man at the head of the table. Adrian Knight. Her breath ripped short. The edges of her vision fuzzed. Ice-blue eyes hit her like a blade, holding her hostage. Jaw sharp, body built like power had been stitched into his bones. The tailored black suit—perfect, merciless. He didn’t just stand there. He owned the air. And she knew him. No. No, no, no. God—no. Her knees buckled, almost gave. The portfolio nearly slipped out of her hand, slick with sweat, but she clutched it harder, nails digging into the leather. He knew her too—she saw it in the twitch of his jaw, the flick of recognition before his face smoothed over into that mask. Cold. Untouchable. Her ears filled with that awful high-pitched ringing—like static that swallows everything. She could barely hear the suits murmuring around the table. He doesn’t know your name, she tried to lie to herself. You left before he could. You’re safe. But she wasn’t safe. Not with him looking at her like that. “Miss Evans,” Adrian said, his voice low. Smooth. And edged like something dangerous. “You’re late.” The room cut to silence. All eyes slammed onto her. Her mouth opened. Nothing. Her throat was sandpaper. “I—sorry,” she stuttered, voice breaking like glass, and her stomach dropped in shame. “Traffic. The subway was—” Her words collapsed, face burning hot. God, she sounded pathetic. “Sit,” Adrian said. One word, command-heavy, no warmth. No room to breathe. His stare pressed down until she moved, legs trembling under her, body sliding into the far chair like she’d been shoved. The portfolio hit the table with a dull thud. The meeting churned on—mergers, percentages, things that were supposed to matter. But her brain wasn’t there. It was a warzone, replaying his voice in the dark, his hands undoing every rule she’d ever lived by. He knows. He has to know. Her name on his tongue then had been nothing. Now it was printed on every file he could open, her whole life dangling in his grip. She risked a glance. Big mistake. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers like some villain, but his eyes flicked to her—fast, sharp. Something was there. Not just anger. Something hungrier. She didn’t know if it was desire, curiosity, or something worse. Her stomach twisted. Nausea punched her throat. She pressed her hand up, pretending it was a cough. Couldn’t puke here. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone. The suits droned on. Numbers blurred. Adrian’s voice cut through—steady, controlled. Too controlled. “Miss Evans,” he said, cold steel in his tone, “you’ll report directly to me. I expect results. No excuses.” Her pulse flatlined. Report… directly. Him. Every day. His eyes, his shadow. That night between them breathing back into the room. She nodded too fast, couldn’t even force words. Her hands shook under the table, nails pressing crescents into her skin. Finally, the meeting broke apart, the suits scattering. She started to rise, relief trembling inside her, but Adrian’s voice stopped her mid-step. “Miss Evans. Stay.” Her chest locked tight. Ears buzzing again. The room was suddenly too empty, too quiet. Just the hum of the AC and the sound of her shaky breathing. She turned. His cologne hit her first—woodsy, smoke, sin, and memory. It made her knees weaker. “What?” she asked, sharper than she wanted, but she couldn’t shrink anymore. He stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough she felt heat. His eyes dragged over her face, searching. His voice dropped low. “You look… familiar.” Her heart gave out. Everything tilted. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t move. And then—her phone buzzed. Loud. Jarring. In her pocket, insistent. She tried to ignore it. It buzzed again, harder this time, vibrating through her body. Adrian’s gaze flicked down, jaw tightening. “Answer it,” he said, voice like a knife. “Now.” Her fingers trembled so bad she almost dropped it, but she yanked the phone free. The screen glowed. Unknown number. Text message. You can’t run from that night, Clara. Neither can he.