ONE
BRIAR
I only want a job.A paycheck. A clean slate.
After the mess I’ve had to crawl out of — a cheating, cruel ex-husband, a divorce that strips me bare, and a life I barely escape — I’m done with chaos. I want simple. Predictable. Safe.
Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be standing in the sleek, glass-walled offices of Moretti Global, palms sweating like I’m about to step into the lair of a predator, one hundred and ten floors above the Manhattan skyline.
I shouldn’t feel like this.
While I know he’s going to be handsome, his images online tell me that much… Okay, the guy is drop-dead gorgeous and far younger than I think he’d be. I don’t know why I have this image in my mind. When my cousin, who scores me this interview, tells me about her CEO, I imagine some old, hard-ass New Yorker who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
I’m not expecting this god.
Hells bells…
“Miss Locke?” The receptionist — perfect bun, perfect teeth — gestures me through the double doors that look like theybelong on the set of some billionaire drama I shouldn’t be auditioning for. “Mr. Moretti, your eleven o’clock is here.”
My stomach knots. I smooth a hand down my cheap blazer like it’ll hide the fact I buy off clearance racks, inhale deeply, and enter his office. I will not stammer or allow the nerves rioting through my body to ruin my chance at a good position.
I’ve worked too hard to crawl back into some semblance of who I used to be. I’ll not let a few pesky nerves get the better of me.
The office swallows me whole. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan’s skyline, sunlight spilling across glossy black floors. Everything screams money. Power. Control.
And then there’s him.
Lucien Moretti doesn’t stand when I walk in. He doesn’t need to I suppose. He sits behind a massive black desk, hands steepled beneath a jaw sharp enough to slice through glass. The dark-navy suit stretches perfectly over broad shoulders, black silk tie knotted in precise, lethal perfection.
And his eyes… God, his eyes. I’ve never seen anything like them. Pale gray. Cold. Assessing. The kind of gaze that strips anyone bare without touching them.
“Miss Locke.” His voice is smooth but clipped, like velvet wrapped around a blade. “You’re late.”
I glance at my watch. “I’m on time.”
One dark brow lifts and he doesn’t speak.
My throat dries, but I force myself to stay standing, chin lifted just enough to fake confidence. “Apologies, Mr. Moretti.” I inwardly cringe. Did I just say that? Like some desperado trying to impress him.
I’m such an idiot.
Something flashes in his eyes — amusement? Challenge? Whatever it is, it’s gone as quickly as it came. He gestures to the chair opposite him.
“Sit.”
I do, even though I want to bolt.
He studies my résumé. Every passing second the room feel smaller, tighter. I’m painfully aware of the faint hum of the city far below, the steady click of his pen between his fingers, the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.
I’m going to pass out if he doesn’t speak soon. Is this some sort of torture these powerful CEOs inflict on employees — a test to see who’s cut out to work for them, who’ll stay and face whatever challenges they set?
Well, he can place anything before me. I’ve had my fair share of trauma, and I swore I’d never jump or startle again at a raised voice. I’m done living on the edge, wary, always looking over my shoulder. I remind myself that my ex-husband, Matteo Romero can’t get to me now. He’s in jail, locked away and without any clue as to where I am in the world.
Mr. Moretti cannot be so very scary if my cousin works for him.
“You’ve worked for high-profile executives before,” he says finally. “Handled sensitive information?”
“Yes.” My voice wavers on the reply, but I force steel into the rest. “It’s been three years since I held such a position, but I’m discreet, efficient, and reliable.”
