To Ruin a CEO

Alina Cole stood at the foot of the Voss International skyscraper and felt her heart twist. The mirrored glass stretched skyward like a blade, cold and gleaming beneath the late-morning sun. It reflected a city that had forgotten her family—and the man who had helped bury it. Damon Voss. The name felt like a curse when she whispered it to herself. She smoothed her borrowed blazer, checked that the forged credentials in her purse were still secure, and stepped through the revolving door. She wasn’t here to apply for a job. She was here to ruin a man. The receptionist barely looked up as she passed through security. Alina’s heels clicked across the marble floor like they belonged there. Confidence was everything in a place like this—confidence, and calculated lies. She’d practiced both in front of the mirror for months. “Alina Cross?” a voice called from the side hall. The hiring manager, petite and professionally distant, motioned her forward. “Mr. Voss requested to sit in on this interview personally.” Alina’s heart dropped a beat. Already? That wasn’t part of the plan. “Yes,” she said with a composed smile. “Of course.” They led her into a glass-walled conference room that screamed power. The long table reflected the skyline beyond. At the far end, with his back partially turned, stood Damon Voss. Her breath caught despite herself. He wasn’t just powerful—he was beautiful in that cold, cinematic way: sharp jawline, tailored charcoal suit, dark hair swept back with just enough imperfection to feel human. He didn’t look like a CEO. He looked like a problem. He turned. His gaze locked on hers with the precision of a sniper. “Alina Cross,” he said, his voice deep, controlled, and smooth as aged scotch. “You don’t look like a typical applicant.” “Should I?” she replied without missing a beat. He smiled faintly—dangerously. “No. Sit.” The other woman took a seat beside her, but it was clear who ran the room. Damon’s fingers steepled in front of him as he scanned her résumé. The fake one. “You studied business administration at NYU, interned with Lockhart PR, and most recently freelanced for Cortec?” he asked, not looking up. “Yes.” He tilted his head. “No references?” Alina didn’t flinch. “My last few clients required NDA compliance. I’m sure you understand the value of discretion.” His eyes flicked up. “I do. Though I also value transparency.” Alina met his gaze, unwavering. “I find honesty overrated. It’s a luxury for people with nothing to hide.” The room went quiet. The hiring manager looked horrified. Damon leaned back slowly in his chair, studying her like she was a new stock about to IPO. “And what exactly are you hiding, Miss Cross?” “Nothing,” she replied coolly. “Yet.” A beat of silence. Then—he laughed. Low, unexpected, and almost amused. “Bold. You’ll either survive here or burn out by Thursday. I haven’t decided which I’d prefer.” “Give me till Friday,” she said, flashing a calm smile. “I tend to disappoint slowly.” The hiring manager cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “Mr. Voss, if I may—” “You may not,” he said, without turning. Then: “Miss Cross, if I offered you a position in my office, directly under me, would you take it?” The phrasing wasn’t accidental. He was testing her. Alina didn’t blink. “If it means learning from the man who built Voss International? Absolutely.” Another pause. Damon tapped his finger once against the glass table. Then he stood. “Report to HR at noon. You'll start Monday.” Just like that. She rose slowly, feeling the weight of his stare follow her every movement. “And Miss Cross?” he added before she reached the door. She turned. “I don’t tolerate lies. One misstep, and you’re gone.” She smiled sweetly. “Then I’ll be careful where I step.” He watched her leave. She could feel it. The door clicked shut behind her, and the rush of adrenaline hit like a storm. Alina walked past the receptionist, past the guards, past the gilded Voss logo on the wall, and stepped into the sunlit street. Her heart pounded. She was in. And he had no idea who she really was.