Isabella Rossi smoothed the skirt of her only decent dress for the third time as she stepped into the gleaming lobby of Voss Enterprises. The building towered over Manhattan like a blade of black glass, and every surface screamed money she’d never touched.
She was here for an entry-level administrative assistant position—one she’d applied for on a desperate whim after her adoptive parents’ medical bills swallowed her college savings. At twenty, she’d never even had a proper boyfriend. Books had been her escape, quiet libraries her sanctuary. Sex was something that happened in the steamy novels she hid under her mattress.
The elevator shot her to the 67th floor. When the doors opened, a severe woman in stilettos led her down a hallway lined with abstract art that probably cost more than her childhood home.
“Mr. Voss will see you now,” the woman said, opening a door to an office the size of a ballroom.
Alexander Voss stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to her, phone to his ear. Even from behind, he was intimidating—broad shoulders in a charcoal suit that fit like it was sewn onto him, dark hair cropped short, stance pure predator.
He ended the call and turned.
Isabella’s breath caught. He was beautiful in the way storms are beautiful—sharp cheekbones, storm-gray eyes, a mouth that looked like it could ruin lives with a single word.
“You’re Victoria’s replacement?” His voice was low, edged with impatience.
“N-no, sir. I’m Isabella Rossi. I applied for the assistant position.”
He frowned, scanning her face with unsettling intensity. “You look exactly like her.”
Isabella blinked. “Like who?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he circled her slowly, gaze dragging over her body like a brand. She felt heat rush to her cheeks—and lower.
“Sit,” he ordered, nodding to the leather chair in front of his desk.
She obeyed, knees pressed tightly together.
He leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “Why should I hire you, Miss Rossi?”
“I-I’m organized, quick to learn, excellent with spreadsheets—”
“I don’t need another secretary who’s good with spreadsheets.” His eyes darkened. “I need someone who can handle whatever I throw at her. Long hours. Demands. No questions.”
Isabella swallowed. “I can handle it.”
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “We’ll see.”
He straightened. “You start tomorrow. 7 a.m. sharp. Wear something… fitting.”
She left the office in a daze, pulse racing, unsure why the air still felt thick with something dark and electric.
