BEATRICE'S POV
I wake up to three emails. Unusual — it's rarely more than the standard morning pings. I stretch lazily, yawning as I check my phone. Last night's fatigue still makes my head throb slightly, my legs sore from running.
I was expecting another work-related email. Another Excel sheet to check, another report to write. Nothing could have prepared me for what I found instead.
[Letter of Appointment]
[Property Papers — Apartment on Fifth Avenue]
[Letter of Salary Increment]
My eyes widen. The faint sound of traffic outside my window feels distant. My pulse kicks up, tension building at the back of my neck.
An appointment as Vice Chairman Adrien Aurélien Laurent's advisor and personal accountant. Direct access to the second most powerful man in the company. A corner office, a higher salary, a new status entirely.
Which also means — greater danger. Too much exposure.
I feel the back of my neck grow warm. I drag both hands down my face, staring at the appointment letter.
Okay. An apartment on Fifth Avenue is a perfectly reasonable reward for what I did last night. The salary increase too. But this—
My throat feels dry, brain already calculating every pro and con. I never wanted proximity to the real table. My perfectly normal life stops being normal the moment I step into Adrien's inner circle.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Panic rises in my chest as texts begin flooding my lock screen from an unknown number — but the tone tells me everything.
"Ms. Kenz, you are expected to report today at 11:21 AM and accompany the Vice Chairman to a meeting with the following client."
A 20-page PDF about an oil refining company in Saudi Arabia. Of course.
"Save my number. — Angel Blake, Vice Chairman's Personal Assistant. See you soon."
A dry, self-pitying laugh rumbles out of my chest. Is this some kind of punishment?
"UGHHH — SCREW YOU, ADRIEN AURÉLIEN LAURENT!"
I scream at the top of my lungs, startling the stray cat dozing on my windowsill into a scrambling, offended exit. My entire body feels like it's been submerged in boiling anxiety. I was happy with my life. Eight-hour days, a five-figure paycheck, two weeks of paid vacation, year-end bonuses—
I yank at my hair like a woman on the verge of a Victorian breakdown.
My phone buzzes again. This time, mercifully, it's Lia.
"Girl — did you just get promoted from mid-level to the Vice Chairman's inner circle??"
I frown, typing back. "How do you already know that?"
Her reply is instant. "I have my ways. Now go find yourself your dream man — Aurélien's circle is full of very attractive options."
I roll my eyes. Completely uninterested in any conversation about love or men when I have exactly three hours to get ready, eat breakfast, and read through a twenty-page brief on Saudi oil refinement.
32nd floor.
Private elevator. Three separate security verifications. And then I'm standing before a pair of massive mahogany doors, their rich red-brown surface staring back at me like I'm some peasant arriving at a nobleman's private study.
Floor-to-ceiling windows surround the entire floor. Three separate offices sit across from what I can only assume is Adrien's. The air up here smells like cedarwood and something faintly sweet — clean and expensive. It might as well be my death sentence if I make a single mistake.
The door opens before I can knock. A woman steps out — gorgeous blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun, black cat-eye glasses, shoulders perfectly squared. Sharp jawline, a figure that belongs on a magazine cover. I'm a woman and even I have to acknowledge it: she looks exactly like every formidable, terrifying female character from every dark romance novel I devoured as a teenager.
"Beatrice Kenz." A smooth, even voice. No warmth, no inflection.
"Yes."
"You are twenty-three seconds late."
I blink. I've been standing outside this floor for ten minutes. I keep my smile practiced and clean. "Noted. It won't happen again."
She extends her hand. "Angel."
I glance down briefly — two platinum rings set with pigeon-blood rubies on her left hand, a pearl bracelet on her right, nails painted a precise, vivid red.
Interesting. For a personal assistant, she is either extremely well compensated, comes from money, or has a source of income that isn't listed on any payroll. None of those options are particularly comforting if I ever end up on her bad side.
I take her hand. Her grip tightens — firm, then deliberately harder. The calluses on her fingers press rough against mine.
She is absolutely not just an assistant.
"The Vice Chairman doesn't usually bring women onto his floor," she says, tone still perfectly neutral.
I lift my chin slightly, maintaining my smile while internally rolling my eyes into the back of my skull. Of course. Out of everything this job could throw at me, I'd still end up someone's target.
"I won't disappoint," I reply simply.
Her jaw tightens. She releases my hand. I give her a single nod and walk past her — smile dropping the instant I clear the doorway, replaced by something far more satisfied.
Odd woman.
The first thing that hits me when I step inside is the cologne.
My lungs fill almost involuntarily — fresh, woody, masculine — the same scent that's been haunting the edges of my memory since last night. Adrien sits behind his desk, a vast mahogany surface stacked with neatly arranged files, three monitors casting cool light across his features. Hand-knotted Persian rugs cover the floor, white-based with rich patterns that suit the room's quiet, expensive elegance. Two full bookshelves line the walls. A pair of leather couches face each other across a low round table, a small arrangement of fresh white and yellow tulips at the centre.
He's wearing a black polo shirt. The fabric fits closely across his shoulders and chest — and I will acknowledge that exactly once and then never again.
He looks up from his laptop.
Those mismatched eyes — icy blue and deep hazel-green — carry more tension and judgment than any boardroom I've ever walked into. His gaze moves from my face downward and back up in a single, unhurried sweep.
I'm wearing my usual office attire: a dusty pink blouse tucked into wide-legged beige trousers, white pump heels, hair in a neat ponytail. Practical. Professional. Me.
"You'll need to update your wardrobe."
I blink. "...Excuse me?"
Adrien closes his laptop and stands. He's across the room in a few unhurried steps, stopping just close enough that I have to actively resist the urge to step back.
"You look like a woman who wants to be underestimated," he says. "That attire invites it."
He's not wrong. I know he's not wrong. But I will not be changing how I dress because a man told me to.
I hold my expression steady. "I'm comfortable in what I'm wearing. It's practical and professional."
"I didn't say it wasn't professional." His voice is calm, precise. "That's exactly what concerns me."
He steps closer. His scent wraps around my senses again. I tighten my grip on my bag strap and keep my chin level.
"I'll cover a wardrobe upgrade entirely." His voice drops — lower, quieter, with a weight that settles somewhere in my chest. "From today, you dress in the best. You are one of my people now—" his eyes hold mine without wavering, "—and no one under me gets to be underestimated."
He holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary.
This tension — unnamed, uninvited, and entirely inconvenient — is going to be the single greatest obstacle between me and the peaceful, comfortable life I've worked so hard to build.