Loved by Contract

I pressed the elevator button for the thirty-fourth floor with trembling fingers, my reflection in the gleaming chrome doors betraying just how close I was to falling apart. My lipstick was a little too bright, my hair a little too frizzy, and my cheap blouse tugged too tightly at the seams. I had ironed it twice this morning, but the fabric still screamed bargain bin clearance. Of course it did. It had to, because the universe loved humiliating me at the worst possible times. I clutched my folder of résumés to my chest as if it contained my last shred of dignity because in a way, it did. Rent was two weeks overdue, my mother’s medical bills piled higher each day, and if I didn’t land this job, the threadbare rope I was clinging to would finally snap. The numbers on the elevator blinked upwards. 17… 18… 19… I inhaled deeply, willing myself not to faint before I even got to the top floor. Keep it together, Harper. Just smile. Just charm him. Even if he’s a monster in a designer suit. Because everyone had told me what kind of man Alexander Steele was. Billionaire. Ruthless. Cold. The kind of boss who didn’t tolerate mistakes—or people. The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to a floor that looked like something from a magazine spread. Sleek marble, glass walls, leather couches. Even the air smelled expensive, a mix of sandalwood and power. And there, behind the reception desk, sat a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of perfection itself. Blonde hair pulled back in a twist, flawless makeup, a fitted dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. She glanced up, her eyes sweeping me head to toe in a single, cutting motion. “Interview?” she asked coolly. I nodded, my throat dry. “Harper Monroe.” She barely acknowledged me, picking up her phone with manicured fingers. “Mr. Steele, your ten o’clock is here.” Her tone carried something between pity and amusement when she looked at me again. “You can go in.” I muttered a quiet “thank you,” though she didn’t care, and pushed through the heavy glass door to his office. The room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The kind of view that made you realize how small you were, how high he sat above the rest of the world. And there he was. Alexander Steele. He stood behind a desk that looked more like a throne than furniture, his broad shoulders cutting a sharp silhouette against the skyline. His suit was black, crisp, probably hand-stitched in Italy. Dark hair perfectly styled, jaw like it had been sculpted by an artist, eyes so sharp they could slice through steel. I froze in the doorway, because for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. He looked up slowly from the papers in his hand. His gaze locked on me, steady, assessing, as if I had already been dissected and dismissed. “Ms. Monroe,” he said, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth. “You’re late.” I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it again. My phone said I was ten minutes early. But what was the point? Men like him bent time to their will. “Sorry,” I whispered, stepping further into the office. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.” I did, clutching my folder tighter, trying to still the tremor in my hands. His gaze flicked once to the papers I carried, then back to me. “Résumé.” I slid it across the desk, careful not to let my fingers brush the glossy surface, because I was suddenly aware of how clammy my palms were. He picked it up, scanned it once, then set it aside like it was unworthy of his attention. His eyes returned to me, colder now. “Why do you want to work here?” My rehearsed answers evaporated instantly. I had practiced them in the mirror, whispered them on the bus ride over, but under the weight of his stare, everything sounded foolish. “Because…” I swallowed hard. “Because I’m capable. I’m hardworking. And I need this chance more than anyone else you’ll meet today.” His eyebrow twitched, the smallest flicker of amusement—or maybe curiosity. “Need,” he repeated. “Interesting choice of word.” I shifted uncomfortably, heat crawling up my neck. “Do you always beg in your interviews, Ms. Monroe?” The words cut sharp, and I flinched, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “Only when I don’t have the luxury of pride.” For a moment, silence stretched between us. Then, to my shock, he leaned back in his chair, lips curving slightly. Not a smile—something darker, more dangerous. Before I could process it, the worst thing imaginable happened. My hands, slick with nerves, slipped on my folder. The coffee cup I had been clutching, my one attempt to stay awake after three sleepless nights, tilted, then tumbled, spilling its contents in one horrifying arc. Straight across his immaculate Armani suit. Time stopped. Dark liquid splattered across his chest, dripping down his tie, staining the perfect fabric. My heart lurched violently in my chest. “Oh my God,” I gasped, leaping forward with a wad of tissues. “I’m so sorry, I....” “Don’t.” The single word froze me mid-motion. His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a weight that rooted me to the floor. I looked up, wide-eyed, expecting fury. Expecting to be dragged out by security. But instead, Alexander Steele regarded me with unnerving calm. His eyes glittered, not with anger—but with something sharper. Interest. I swallowed hard, heat flooding my face. “I’ll pay for it. The suit...I’ll… I’ll find a way..” “You couldn’t afford the thread,” he interrupted smoothly, brushing a hand down his chest as if dismissing the mess entirely. His lips quirked again, but the look in his eyes was unreadable. “But you’ve managed something impressive, Ms. Monroe.” My throat constricted. “I… ruined your interview?” His gaze burned into mine. “You got my attention.” I blinked, words deserting me. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, every movement precise, deliberate. “Tell me, Ms. Monroe. Do you always stumble so spectacularly through opportunities?” My cheeks flamed. “No. Only the ones that matter.” Silence again. Then...unexpectedly, a low chuckle escaped him. A sound rich and unsettling, because it didn’t belong to a man known for mercy. He picked up my résumé once more, studying it with renewed interest. “You’re reckless,” he said finally. “Unpolished. Desperate.” I flinched at the accuracy, but before I could defend myself, he continued. “And exactly what I’m looking for.” My breath caught. “What?” He tossed the paper back onto the desk. “You’re hired.” I stared at him, my mind blank. “But..I just..” “You spilled coffee on me, yes,” he said smoothly. “And instead of groveling, you argued. You begged, but not for mercy—only for the chance to prove yourself. I find that… refreshing.” I opened my mouth, closed it again. None of this made sense. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could read every doubt swirling through me. “Don’t misunderstand me, Ms. Monroe. Working for me isn’t a privilege. It’s survival. And survival,” he leaned back, voice dropping lower, “is something you seem to understand.” The words hit me like a physical weight. He stood then, towering, the faint scent of expensive cologne mixing with the sharp bitterness of coffee still clinging to his suit. He extended his hand. “Report here tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.” My body moved before my brain caught up, my hand sliding into his. His grip was firm, commanding, the kind that left no room for refusal. I managed a nod, though my mind screamed confusion. He released me, already turning away, dismissing me as if the decision was final, irreversible. “Don’t be late again, Ms. Monroe,” he said without looking back. I walked out of that office in a daze, heart pounding, head spinning, the blonde receptionist’s smirk burning into my peripheral vision as I passed. I should have been relieved. I had the job. I could pay the bills. I should have felt triumphant. But all I felt was confusion. Why me? And why did his voice still echo in my head, low and dangerous, promising that whatever I had just stepped into was not going to be simple… Or safe.