The Billionaire's Naive Assistant

The first morning

The city was barely awake when Zara got to the Cross mansion. The driveway was ridiculously long enough to throw a concert, with expensive cars lined up like they were waiting for a parade. Somewhere in the fog, a fountain made a soft noise.

Her cab had dropped her at the gate ten minutes ago, where the security guard checked her name not once, but twice, and made two phone calls before finally letting her through.

Now she was standing in front of a black door so tall it made her reflection look small. Same old leather bag in hand, the one she’d dragged to every failed interview.

She let out a slow breath, trying to steady herself. “Six a.m. sharp,” she muttered, checking her watch. Two minutes early.

Before she could even raise her hand to knock, the door swung open without a sound. A woman in her fifties stood there, silver hair pulled back tight, eyes that missed nothing.

“You must be Miss Kane.” Her British accent was razor-sharp. “I’m Mrs. Langley, house manager. This way.”

Zara followed her inside.

Whatever she’d pictured, the place didn’t match. The house felt too clean, too quiet, like the air was holding its breath. Daylight slid through the tall windows and turned the marble floors pale and shiny. She caught a hint of cedar and coffee in the air.

Mrs. Langley led her down a hallway lined with photos galas, awards, a younger Ethan Cross shaking hands with presidents and kings.

They stopped at a door that opened into a space that felt more like the headquarters of a small country than an office.

Ethan Cross sat at a long table by the window, laptop open, sleeves rolled up. He didn’t look up.

“Good morning, sir,” Zara said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He tapped his keyboard for another second. “You’re early. Good.”

“I thought...”

He raised a hand, still not looking. “Sit.”

She sat.

For a minute, all she heard was the computer humming and rain against the glass. She risked a look at him, sharp jaw, unreadable eyes, a bit of stubble taking the edge off his seriousness.

He finally closed the laptop and turned to her. “You’ll need to memorize my schedule. It changes every day. Mrs. Langley will email you the main calendar, but don’t trust it too much.”

She nodded.

“You’ll also take personal calls, book travel, and set up meetings that don’t technically exist.

She frowned. “Meetings that don’t exist?”

He almost smiled. “You’ll get it soon enough.”

He stood up and crossed over to a sideboard with a steaming coffee pot. He poured a cup and handed it to her. “You drink coffee?"

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’ll need it.”

She took the cup, not sure if this was a friendly gesture or just another test.

When she met his eyes again, there was something there. A strange tug, a quiet gravity. Just like yesterday, when she caught a flicker of recognition in his eyes, like he was trying to remember who she was.

He spoke again, softer. “You remind me of someone.”

Zara blinked. “I do?”

He looked at her a second too long, then turned away. “Forget I said that.”

His phone rang. He grabbed it fast. “Cross.” Pause. “No, the deal happens here, not Geneva. If they don’t like it, they can lose two hundred million. Their choice.”

He hung up and rubbed his temple, tension slipping past the calm surface.

Zara set her coffee down and watched him. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

He gave her a look, eyebrow up. “No.”

The certainty in his voice sent a chill up her spine.

A soft knock. Mrs. Langley returned with a sleek folder. “Mr. Cross, your board minutes.”

He nodded. “Leave them.

Once Mrs. Langley left, Ethan turned back to Zara. “Start with digitizing last quarter’s files. They’re sensitive. Don’t open anything marked ‘personal.’”

Zara managed a faint smile. “You know telling someone not to open a folder only makes them want to open it, right?”

He met her eyes, a hint of amusement there. “That’s the idea."

She blinked. “You’re testing me?”

“I test everyone.”

He checked his watch and walked around the desk, stopping closer than she expected. “Come with me.”

Zara stood, her heart pounding with a mix of nerves and curiosity.

He led her down the hall to a glass elevator that took them to the lower level. Instead of another office, she stepped into a private library floor-to-ceiling shelves, warm wood, golden light. A long table sat in the middle, three laptops and piles of old files waiting.

“This,” Ethan said, “is where my last assistant broke her contract.”

Zara stopped. “Broke her contract?”

“She opened something she shouldn’t have.”

He held her gaze. “Don’t make the same mistake.”

The silence that followed felt sharp, almost dangerous. She couldn’t tell if it was a warning or something else.

He turned to go but paused at the door. “There’s a keycard on the desk. It opens every room except the east wing.”

Zara scowled. “Why not the east wing?”

Ethan kept his voice light, but his eyes told a different story. “That’s not your job.”

He turned and left, his footsteps fading up the stairs

She stood there, alone in the huge, silent room. The rain tapped faintly overhead, nearly lost behind thick walls. Folders sat in front of her, drawers locked tight, and the east wing glowed on the floor plan up on the wall off-limits, but practically begging her to look.

She ran her fingers over the keycard.

She let out a shaky breath. “Don’t open anything marked personal,” she muttered.

Yeah, right. Curiosity was already nudging at her, louder than her own warning.

She powered up the first laptop. The screen blinked, flickered then, just for a heartbeat, she caught a glimpse of a photo.

A woman’s face.

Her own.

Gone, almost before she could process it.

Now the screen just read: Welcome back, Elise.

Zara froze, breath stuck in her throat.

She whispered, “Who the hell is Elise?”