Contract fiancee

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who can afford to lose a job, and me. I'm standing in the lobby of Kane Tower at 8:52 a.m., clutching a résumé I printed at the library, and I have exactly eight minutes to convince the most feared man in the city to hire me. No pressure. "Miss Reyes?" The man who steps out of the elevator is tall, silver-templed, and wearing a suit that costs more than my mother's last three months of treatment. His name tag says **Marcus Webb, Chief of Staff**. His smile says he's already read my file. "That's me." "Mr. Kane will see you now." *Now.* Not at nine. Not after the panel of HR people I'd prepared for. My stomach drops straight through the marble floor. "Isn't the interview with HR first?" "Mr. Kane conducts the final round himself." Marcus presses the button for the private elevator, the one with the black glass doors. "He's particular about who works closest to him." I swallow. "Closest?" "The executive assistant sits ten feet from his office." He glances at me, and something flickers across his face. Not quite sympathy. Something more careful. "Try not to take anything he says personally." The doors close. The elevator climbs. Fifty-two floors of glass and silence. I rehearse my answers. *Yes, I can manage a calendar. Yes, I can handle difficult people. No, I don't have a problem with long hours.* I need this job. The salary is triple what I make now, and the benefits include the kind of health coverage that might finally get Mom into the new treatment program. I need this job more than I need air. The elevator chimes. Marcus steps aside, and I walk into a corner office so large it has weather. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A desk like a slab of black ice. And standing with his back to me, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city like he owns every square inch of it, is a man in a charcoal suit. "Mr. Kane," Marcus says. "Nova Reyes." The man turns around. And my blood turns to ice water. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Gray eyes that look like a storm deciding whether to bother. *No. No, no, no.* Because I know this face. I saw it last night, at the hotel bar on Fifth, after the worst day of my life. --- Last night, 10:47 p.m. I'd just come from the hospital billing office, where a woman with kind eyes and a cold voice told me the balance was now forty-one thousand dollars. I didn't cry. I walked three blocks in the rain, ducked into the nearest bar, and ordered the cheapest drink on the menu with money I didn't have. And I heard him. A man three stools down, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and flat as a blade. "Four hundred positions. Effective Monday. No, I don't care about the optics. Make it happen." Four hundred people. Four hundred families who'd find out on Monday. I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the forty-one thousand. Maybe it was the rain. But I stood up, walked over, and did the stupidest thing of my entire life. I poured my drink over his shoes. "Men like you," I said, loud enough that the whole bar went quiet, "are why people like me are drowning. I hope it keeps you warm at night." He didn't blink. He didn't move. He just looked down at his ruined leather shoes, then up at me, with an expression I couldn't read. I left before he could say a word. I never saw his name. I never asked. I told myself it didn't matter. I'd never see him again. --- Now, in the glow of fifty-two floors of morning light, Damien Kane is looking at me. And I am *so* fired before I'm even hired. "Miss Reyes." His voice is exactly as I remember it. Low. Controlled. Dangerous. "Please. Sit." My legs carry me to the chair on autopilot. Marcus has vanished. The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone with the man whose shoes I baptized in rum and cola. Maybe he doesn't recognize me. It was dark. I was wet. I was wearing my hair down, and today it's pinned back so tight it's giving me a headache. Maybe I can survive this. Damien Kane lowers himself into his chair, slow and unhurried, and opens a folder on his desk. My résumé. He reads for a full minute while I try very hard not to breathe. "You graduated top of your class," he says finally. "Worked your way through night school. Three jobs at once, for two years." "Yes, sir." "Your previous employer says you're the best assistant they ever had. Also the most stubborn." "I prefer *thorough*." The corner of his mouth moves. Barely. Not a smile. The ghost of one. "Your mother is ill," he says. My spine goes rigid. "That isn't on my résumé." "No." "Then how do you—" "I make it my business to know who works for me." He closes the folder. "Do you know why I conduct the final interview myself, Miss Reyes?" "Because you're particular." "Because I don't hire people who can be bought." He leans back, gray eyes steady on mine. "Everyone has a price. I'd like to know yours before you start. It saves time." The insult makes my pulse jump. "I don't have a price." "Everyone does." "Then you've never met someone who was willing to pour a drink on a billionaire's shoes and walk away without a cent." The words are out before I can stop them. The room goes silent. *Oh no.* *Oh no, no, no.* I didn't just say that. Please tell me I didn't just say that out loud. Damien doesn't move. The city glitters behind him. The clock on his wall ticks once. Twice. Then he smiles. A real one this time, slow and sharp and completely without warmth. "I was wondering how long it would take you to mention that." My heart stops. "You knew," I whisper. "From the moment Marcus put your name on my desk." He rises from his chair and comes around the desk, unhurried, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head to hold his gaze. He smells like cedar and something expensive, and I hate that I notice. "Do you think I hire strangers, Nova?" It's the first time he's said my first name. It shouldn't sound like that. "Then why am I here?" My voice is steadier than I feel. "You could have had security escort me out of the lobby." "I could have." He picks up a pen, rolls it once between his fingers, and sets it on the contract lying open on his desk. A contract I didn't see until now. Crisp white pages. A signature line. A number printed in bold that makes the air leave my lungs. It's not the salary I applied for. It's ten times that. "Because the woman who had the nerve to tell me the truth last night," Damien says quietly, "is the only person in this city I can trust." He slides the pen toward me. "And I need to know if you're willing to do something far more dangerous than answer my phone."