hours oscillating between panic attacks and frantic Googling. The lobby itself was designed to intimidate – soaring ceilings that seemed miles away, gleaming marble that reflected my scuffed shoes

space. A uniformed security guard, built like a linebacker with an earpiece discreetly

ly loud after the lobby's hush

nst my ribs. "Yes," I managed, my voice sou

silent, swift, and stomach-lurching. I stared at the illuminated numbers climbing higher and higher, trying to

mposing, dark wood doors. The guard led me to one marked simply 'Executive

ecutives, men and women dressed in immaculate suits that probably cost more than my entire yearly salary, sat like vultures around a vast, gleaming mahogany table. Every single head

stood out in stark red: Whitmore Industries Stock: -47% Since Founder's Death. The number seemed to pulse with fa

n seated near the head of the table, sharp-featured with silver hair pulled back in a severe style and

hed surface towards my end of the table. It looked legal, dense with text. "We understand

bristling but keeping my expression carefull

ur rebranding efforts are fragile. Investor confidence is precarious." Her eyes flicked down, lingering for a pointed second on my worn shoes bef

bot like you? The unspoken insult hung heavy i

in cheap clothes. Before I could even formulate a response, wondering if I should point out t

l ensure t

r blade. It cut through the CFO's brittle tones effortlessly, commanding instant

ackwood s

molded to his frame, probably cost more than my apartment's annual rent. It was definitely him – the cold eyes, the sharp jawline, th

Julian Blackwood. My internal alarm bells, already jangling, started clanging wildly. What is HE doing he

e pushed off the doorframe and strode into the room with the predatory grace I'd somehow expected, his expensive leather shoes making almost no sound on the plush car

lly, on me. It was a look that was intensely focused, cold, and unnervingly calculating. Like a hawk spottin