The luxury loafers sat on the coffee table like a silent threat. Elara stared at them, her mind racing. Every instinct told her to pack them back into the box, march to Thorne Financial, and demand to know how he'd bypassed every privacy setting she owned.
But the bravado died when she looked at the entryway table.
Beside the cream-colored envelope from earlier that week, a second one had arrived. It was thicker, and this time, it hadn't come through the mail. It had been slipped under the door. There was no stamp, just her father's unmistakable, rigid handwriting: Elara.
She picked it up with cold fingers.
Elara,
Your mother and I have tolerated this 'experiment' in independence long enough. Your trust fund remains frozen until you return home to discuss the merger with the Halloway family. We have already arranged a flight for the 15th. Do not make this a public matter. Your choices are narrowing.
The 15th. That was Wednesday.
Elara crumpled the letter, her knuckles turning white. Her father wasn't asking; he was mobilizing. He didn't just want her home; he wanted her as a bargaining chip for a business merger. If she didn't have a high-paying, stable career—and a legal reason to stay in the city—she wouldn't have the resources to fight the legal team her father would inevitably send to fetch her.
She looked back at the black silk box. Rowan Thorne was a mystery, perhaps even a predator in his own right, but he was a predator who offered a paycheck and a fortress made of glass and steel.
"I'm keeping it," Elara whispered.
"The shoes?" Maya asked, emerging from her room in pajamas.
"The job. The shoes. All of it." Elara smoothed out the crumpled letter from her father and threw it into the trash. "Thorne is the only person powerful enough to be a shield against my father. If I have to be in his sights to stay free of my family, then I'll just have to learn how to outmaneuver him."
She picked up the leather-bound planner Rowan had sent. It felt heavy, grounded. She didn't realize that by choosing his shield, she was walking right into his cage.
Monday arrived with a gray, drizzly sky. Elara dressed with meticulous care—the navy trousers, a crisp white silk shirt, and the loafers Rowan had sent. They fit perfectly. Infuriatingly so.
When she arrived at Thorne Financial, she bypassed the 64th-floor bullpen where the other interns were being herded like cattle. Following the instructions sent to her phone at 6:00 AM, she took the private elevator to the 58th floor.
The doors opened to a small, glass-walled annex. It was a beautiful workspace, minimalist and sleek, with its own coffee station and a view of the park. But there was one glaring detail: the entire back wall was a single sheet of one-way glass.
Behind that glass sat Rowan Thorne.
He was on a call, his silhouette dark against the morning light. He didn't look up as she entered, but she felt the air in the room shift.
"Ms. Vance," a voice said.
It was the assistant from the week before. She didn't look surprised to see an intern in the executive suite. "This is your station. You will report directly to Mr. Sterling for your data assignments, but your physical presence is required here."
"Why?" Elara asked, setting her bag down.
"Mr. Thorne prefers his high-potential assets within reach," the assistant said simply, before turning on her heel.
Elara sat at the desk. There was a single folder waiting for her. Inside was a stack of raw data regarding a shipping company Thorne was looking to acquire. It was complex, messy, and would take a normal analyst three days to untangle.
She put on her glasses and dove in. For hours, she forgot where she was. She forgot the man behind the glass. She was back in the world of numbers, where everything made sense.
Around 11:00 AM, she felt a shadow fall over her desk.
She looked up. Rowan was standing on her side of the glass now. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked far too rugged for a man who sat behind a desk.
He didn't say hello. He reached down, his fingers brushing against her notebook as he turned it toward him. He looked at her handwritten notes—neat, precise, and color-coded.
"You've already found the discrepancy in the maritime insurance," he noted. It wasn't a question.
"They're hiding the structural losses in the depreciation column," Elara said, her heart doing a slow, heavy thud against her ribs. "It's a clever way to inflate their valuation."
Rowan leaned over the desk. He didn't touch her, but he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. He smelled of rain and that same sharp ink.
"Clever," he murmured, his eyes dropping to her feet. A look of dark satisfaction crossed his face when he saw the loafers. "They fit."
"How did you know my size, Mr. Thorne?" Elara asked, her voice steady despite the adrenaline.
Rowan finally looked her in the eye. The amber in his gaze was molten. "I make it my business to know the dimensions of everything I value, Elara. Don't be surprised when I'm right."
He straightened up, tapping the desk twice. "Lunch will be delivered here at noon. You aren't to leave the floor without notifying me."
"Is that a standard intern policy?" she asked, a spark of defiance in her eyes.
Rowan paused at the door to his office, looking back over his shoulder. "Nothing about your time here will be standard."