CHAPTER 3: THE BILLIONAIRE'S OFFICE
896 Words
She drove into the garage of the tall building. She stepped out of her car and took the elevator to the 20th floor, which happens to be the last floor.
Stark owns the building. Each floor is occupied by different firms, of which he happens to be the largest shareholder.
Roughly, he owns them all.
Still in the elevator, she was joined in the elevator by two security men and one young lady.
Isabella was so sure that she was a staff because she had a tag on the left side of her chest.
The staff stood so close to Isabella.
Isabella adjusted her dress and her stetson, pretending as if everything seemed fine.
At first, she felt they came for her because that is one of the easiest things Stark is capable of because the situation is of no difference to a prey who willingly walked into the den of its predator. There are no differences at all.
After a few seconds of waiting for the show to begin, she assumed they hadn't come for her.
If a wicked person would have that in mind, then that must have been successfully executed before she even stepped foot into the elevator.
"Stark can't wait to set his eyes on me." She said that in her mind.
"You look so beautiful, sexy, and smell good. Keep maintaining your good shape and your skin." The lady said so as she stepped out of the elevator with the other two security men on the 18th floor.
"Thank you!" She giggled.
She was left alone in the elevator, heading to the boss's office.
She felt nervous and needed to try out some therapy on herself.
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, took a deep breath, adjusted her clothes, and repacked her hair.
They noticed the elevator stopped, and a door opened. "Today is the day. No going back."
She stretched out her neck to affirm if she's truly in the right place.
She felt the atmosphere was different.
Without taking too much of her time, she stepped out and walked towards the receptionist.
She really loved the interior decorations and was also shocked. She saw people, all in expensive suits, deliberating. She could see them all sitting around the table.
Isabella walked up to the pair of gigantic double wooden doors that led into Juvenile Stark's inner sanctum and paused to gather her self-control and get herself ready for the moment she had been waiting for. She took a deep breath. Steady.
"Yeah. I can do this. No going back." She said to herself,
She remembered how much was at stake. She knew security wouldn't have let her get this far if Stark hadn't approved it. Humorless, dry smiles took over her lips.
Maybe he was as curious to meet the one lady who refused to cave to his demand as she was to meet the one man who never gave up.
The thought helped fortify her, and she thrust open the doors and stepped into Stark's conference room.
Another world appeared. A world surrounded by an infinite band of tinted glass provides a stunning panorama of Denver City.
Heat and humidity shimmered on the far side of the windows, while inside all remained cool, quiet, and rich.
Rich in possessions. Rich in design. Rich with people.
An inlaid conference table stretched before her, the strips of wood that made the surface a kaleidoscope of type and color.
The craftsman had employed every variety of wood imaginable, from deep masculine mahogany to the blush white of red oak, then to the plummy tones of cherry and lots more.
Isabella sensed a design present, but she didn't have the opportunity to examine the table, not with the several dozen people seated around the circumstance, their papers littering the surface.
At her advertisement, all eyes swiveled to clash with her, and she took a moment to sweep her gaze over each person in an attempt to identify who was Stark Juvenile, the young billionaire, about average height.
For an instant, she focused on the person seated at the head of the table before dismissing him.
Afterward, she noticed a man standing to one side of the room, leaning against a sideboard with a steaming coffee cup in hand.
She focused her attention on him, trying so hard to compare that person to Stark Juvenile, whom she occasionally saw on television and in many magazines, and the pain in her ass.
Business executive was written all over him, from the tip of his Versace shoe to the black Armani suit stretched across his impressive, broad shoulders.
He topped her by a full nine or ten inches, every one of his sculpted inches packed with lean, solid muscle.
She tilted her head back and peered out from beneath the brim of her stetson.
His height forced her to look a long way up to meet his gaze, which put her at an instant disadvantage.
Deep-set obsidian eyes stared at her from one of the most striking positions she'd ever seen. Lean and golden, with high, sharp cheekbones, the blood of his Native American ancestors had left an indelible stamp on that impressive bone structure. His hair was black and longer than conventional.
She was surprised to find herself in the position of considering whether the man over there was Stark or not.
- Writer
