The marble floors of Blackwood Tower gleamed under crystal chandeliers as Elara clutched her worn portfolio to her chest. At twenty-one, she had never felt so small. The receptionist had looked her up and down—second-hand dress, scuffed shoes, no makeup—and still ushered her to the private elevator.

"Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."

Elara's heart hammered. She had come for a secretary position advertised online. Not this.

The elevator doors opened directly into a penthouse office that overlooked the city skyline. Behind a massive oak desk sat Damien Blackwood. Early thirties, devastatingly handsome in a tailored black suit, dark hair, sharp jawline, and eyes like storm clouds. He radiated power and...