THE SECRETARY'S REVENGE

CHAPTER1

LEAH MORGAN

"Leah Morgan?" The woman coming out of the interview room calls my name, and I guess it's my turn.

"Over here," I respond, raising a hand.

"The CEO will see you now." Her words land like the striking of a clock; the hour I've spent twenty-three years preparing for.

Time to find out if what she gave me to put in that file actually works. If it doesn't, I walk out of this building exactly the way I walked in; a stranger to him, with nothing.

I grip my file and walk in, met first by a huge portrait of him, cold blue eyes staring down like they're already judging the verdict. There's a desk near the entrance, cleared and empty, no nameplate; the kind of empty that looks recent. I don't let myself look at it twice.

"Leah Morgan?" A deep voice calls from across the room, and I know it's him before I even turn my head.

Alexander Holton. CEO and heir to the Holton Group, an empire that stretches across the continent. I've read the stories; the dominance, the way people flinch at the mention of his name.

I straighten my spine and walk toward his desk. He watches me the way you'd watch something you already own. The walk feels longer than it should, yet, the walls cave in. I keep my eyes on his, holding onto the only kind of confidence I have left: the kind built out of spite.

I stop a foot from the chair across from him and nod. "Good morning."

"Take a seat, Miss Morgan." He doesn't break eye contact. I look away first, careful not to hold his stare too long.

He takes the file from my hands and opens it. Flips through the first page. The second.

Then he stops.

It's barely a second… his eyes fixed somewhere on the page, his jaw setting in a way it wasn't a moment ago. Something passes through his face too fast for me to name it, gone before I can be sure I saw it at all. He closes the file and sets it down, squaring it against the edge of the desk like the alignment matters.

I lock my knees and say nothing.

We hold each other's gaze for a second too long. I'd planned for this, rehearsed it, even, in the mirror the night before, telling myself I could outlast anyone's stare if the reason behind it was strong enough. But his eyes don't waver, and mine do. I look away half a second before I mean to. Not out of fear, I tell myself. Just strategy. A woman who never blinks looks like she's trying too hard to prove something.

I don't fully believe that, and some small, unhelpful part of me knows it.

"What makes you think a first-class honour gives you the right to be my executive secretary, Miss Morgan?"

His voice is even, but there's an edge under it now. "What makes you better than the twenty people who sat in that chair before you? Tell me something about yourself the file doesn't already say."

Twenty. As if any of them ever stood a chance.

I swallow before I answer.

"The first-class only reflects my discipline, sir. What matters is how I apply that discipline to this role. My attitude, my adaptability, and my commitment to your vision are what set me apart."

He studies me a moment longer than the answer deserves, like he was waiting for something else. Then the smile comes, slow, pulling at one side of his mouth; the kind that makes you want to step back, and lean in, at the same time.

He rises from his seat, and I understand something I hadn't before: this is a man who could walk into shark-infested water and the sharks would be the ones who got nervous.

In a few strides, he's behind my chair. His cologne reaches me before he speaks again… something dark, deliberate, expensive.

He leans down near my ear. "I value control above all else, Miss Morgan." His voice drops lower. "You didn't give me much of yourself a moment ago. Let's see if your hands are steadier than your answers were."

The words land somewhere I don't have a name for yet. Not quite an insult. Not quite a question. He's not asking if I'm capable; he's already decided I'm hiding something, and he wants to know how well.

I'm about to answer when he cuts in again.

"On your feet, Miss Morgan."

I'm standing before I've decided to stand. And for one unguarded second, I hate how easy that was… not because he commanded it, but because some reckless, unhelpful part of me wanted to prove him right.

"Good," he says, quiet now. "You follow instructions well." His eyes flick to the file on the desk, then back to me, and whatever decision he's making, it isn't the one he started the interview with. "HR will walk you through the rest. Report to them. You start tomorrow."

It should feel like winning. Instead, it itches at me, low and persistent, the way a door left unlocked itches at you long after you've checked it twice. Men like him don't hire on instinct, and they certainly don't hire because a stranger stood up fast enough. Whatever just earned me this job, it wasn't my résumé, and it wasn't my answer. It was something he saw on that page before he set it down, and didn't tell me he saw.

I nod and turn to go, already replaying the interview, already recalculating. Then the door opens before I reach it.

My whole body goes still before my mind catches up to why.

Clara.

My fist clenches by my side tight enough it bleeds my knuckles white.

She steps in like she owns the air in the room too, eyes sweeping past me to land on Alexander. Then, almost as an afterthought, they flick back to me, quick, indifferent, already moving on.

Then, they turn away, already speaking to Alex in a tone she clearly doesn't waste on people who don't matter.

She doesn't recognize me.

That was always the plan.

So why does it feel like losing?