"Don't. Be. Late."
— A note stuck on Sienna Grace Whitmore's phone screen, a reminder from herself.
08:52 AM – Manhattan, New York City
Wolfe & Stratton Corp. Headquarters
Sienna jogged across the marble lobby toward the glass elevator, lungs burning and heart pounding like it might rip through her chest. Her high heels no longer felt like shoes—they were modern torture devices. But this morning, she couldn't afford to lose. Not to traffic, not to time, and definitely not to fate.
52nd Floor. Executive Level.
Wolfe & Stratton Corp.
An elite branding and creative investment firm that only worked with billionaires, global supermodels, and couture fashion houses. The office looked like a slice of Vogue—white marble floors, metallic accents, contemporary art, and the rich scent of overpriced espresso. And fear. Fear that radiated from one name.
Julian Alaric Wolfe.
Young CEO. Devastatingly handsome. Famously known as The Devil in a Suit. In the past three months alone, he'd fired five personal assistants. Not because they were incompetent—but because they couldn't survive the pressure.
Sienna? She needed this job more than oxygen. Her MBA tuition wasn't paid off. Her apartment barely had working AC. Her savings? Enough for one more week of cheap salad.
As the elevator doors slid open, a sleek woman dressed in black greeted her with a clipboard.
"Miss Whitmore?"
Sienna nodded quickly.
"Mr. Wolfe is waiting. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not ask questions. And most importantly…"
She leaned in, eyes scanning Sienna head to toe.
"…don't flirt. He hates it."
Sienna almost laughed. As if she had the luxury of crushing on a sociopath who fired people like he changed ties.
Then, the massive black glass door opened.
And there he was.
—
Julian Alaric Wolfe stood near the window, tall and commanding in a charcoal three-piece suit. One hand held a cup of espresso, the other casually tucked in his pocket. The New York skyline cast a sharp silhouette behind him.
Sienna held her breath. Not from admiration—but from the pressure that seemed to thicken the air.
"I hate lateness," he said, without turning.
Sienna swallowed, spine straight. "I arrived three minutes early, Mr. Wolfe."
He turned slowly. His cold, steel-gray eyes pinned her in place, dissecting her without blinking.
"I know. That's why you're still here."
…
Without inviting her to sit, he picked up a folder and opened it.
"Columbia graduate. MBA with a focus in business strategy. Last position: junior analyst at a small consulting firm. Why apply as a personal assistant?"
Sienna lifted her chin. "Because I need the money. And I'm confident I can make your life easier, Mr. Wolfe."
Julian stared at her.
"The five before you lasted less than two weeks."
"I'm not them."
"Everyone says that before they start crying."
Sienna inhaled slowly.
Julian stepped closer—just a few feet away now. She could smell the cool, expensive cologne clinging to him.
"You look overly eager."
"I was raised by a single mother who worked three jobs. I was taught to survive, not to be coddled."
A thin smirk tugged at his lips. Barely there.
"Good. Because I'm not the forgiving type."
"And I'm not the kind of woman who needs forgiveness, Mr. Wolfe. I prefer clear targets."
One beat. Two tensions.
And in the charged silence between them, Julian finally spoke:
"You start today. Sign the NDA before you touch anything in this office. Your hours are undefined. No guaranteed time off. And one more thing…"
He leaned in. His voice dipped into a chilling, deliberate whisper:
"Don't ever think you're special just because you can talk to me like that. I'm not interested."
Sienna stared back. "Relax. I'm not into men who use intimidation as a personality trait."
Silence. Sparks.
And in the quiet that felt like thunder trapped in a glass room… Julian Wolfe smiled—for the first time in a long time.