Amara had faced many humiliations in her life.
This was about to top all of them.
She stood in front of the glass tower that housed Voss International, her stomach doing full Olympic-level flips while her heels clicked way too confidently for someone fighting off a hangover, dehydration, and post-regret afterglow.
"It was just a one-night stand," she muttered under her breath.
"You'll never see him again."
The lie tasted stale.
She tugged down her blazer, wiped the sleep deprivation from beneath her eyes, and marched inside with the kind of half-baked resolve only held together by caffeine and stubbornness.
The receptionist barely looked up. "Name?"
"Amara Hayes. I'm here for the marketing strategist position."
"Mr. Voss will see you shortly. Please have a seat."
She froze.
Mr. Voss.
Something about that name gave her goosebumps. And not the good kind.
She tried to shrug it off. It's a big city. Everyone's named Voss or Gray or Sterling or some other billionaire-sounding nonsense.
Still, her fingers clenched around the resume folder in her lap like it might keep her soul from escaping.
Ten minutes later, she was escorted into a top-floor office that screamed "I make more money in five minutes than you will this year."
Marble desk. Floor-to-ceiling windows. City skyline behind him like a crown.
And there he was.
The man from the bar.
Her one-night stand.
The stranger whose mouth had been on her body less than twelve hours ago.
The man who now looked up at her with the sharp, unreadable gaze of a predator who recognized his prey.
Damien. Fucking. Voss.
"Miss Hayes," he said, voice crisp, not a single trace of last night in it.
She blinked. "You're— You…"
He didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. Just gestured to the chair opposite him.
"Please. Sit."
She sat. Mostly because her knees didn't give her a choice.
Amara tried to focus. On words. On breathing. On not launching herself out the nearest skyscraper window.
He flipped through her résumé like he hadn't seen her naked, breathless, moaning his name—which, in all fairness, he never actually gave her.
This is a nightmare.
A tall, broody, suit-wearing nightmare.
"I see you've worked with Bexler Media," he said finally. "Why did you leave?"
She swallowed. Hard.
"They downsized," she lied smoothly. "And I was the newest hire."
He nodded. Unreadable.
Then: "And last night?"
SIR.
Her mouth went dry. "Excuse me?"
He set the résumé down and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
"I assume you know how complicated this could be."
"No. I don't," she snapped, color flooding her cheeks. "Because I didn't know I was sleeping with a potential employer."
His jaw flexed, just slightly. "Neither did I."
A long silence stretched between them like a wire ready to snap.
Finally, she stood. "This was a mistake."
He didn't stop her. Didn't move. Just stared at her like he was cataloging every inch of her expression.
Then, calmly: "The job is yours if you want it."
She stared.
"What?"
"Your experience is solid. Your references are strong. And from what I can tell… you don't let unexpected circumstances break your composure."
She nearly laughed. "That's a pretty way to say I didn't cry in your office."
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something softer flickered.
"I need someone who's sharp, discreet, and adaptable," he said. "You are all three."
"And our… situation doesn't bother you?"
He met her eyes, dead-on. "It never happened."
Her heart did something in her chest. Something stupid.
"Right," she whispered. "Never happened."
She turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"One condition," she said, her voice lower now. Stronger. "If you ever bring it up again—what happened between us—I walk."
A beat.
He nodded. "Understood."
She left without another word.
The elevator doors closed behind her, sealing in her ragged breath.
Holy shit.
She had just agreed to work for the man who ruined her sleep cycle—and maybe her entire emotional equilibrium.
And he… didn't even blink.
[END OF CHAPTER 2]