TAMING THE ICE HEARTED CEO

The elevator creaked softly as it climbed to the sixtieth floor, humming with quiet confidence like the building itself knew it was too rich, too powerful, too important to make noise. Amara Lane stared at the rising numbers, her reflection flickering on the polished steel walls. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear at least, that's what she told herself but from pressure. From hunger. From the kind of desperate hope that curled behind her ribs and whispered don't mess this up.

Her black blazer clung to her like armor, thrifted but tailored, because image mattered in Los Angeles, especially when walking into a billion-dollar company built by a man known as "the Ice King."

Elijah Blake.

Even the name sounded expensive.

The elevator pinged. Floor 60.

She inhaled slowly, then stepped into a hallway that looked like it belonged in a luxury magazine white marble floors that sparkled under recessed lighting, walls lined with abstract art in shades of blue and gold, and floor-to-ceiling glass that revealed a sweeping view of the L.A. skyline.

The silence was sharp. Clean. Unbothered.

A receptionist greeted her without looking up from her screen. "Name?"

"Amara Lane. I have an interview''

"Mr. Blake is waiting." She finally glanced up, her expression unreadable. "Top floor. Private elevator. Swipe this." She slid a black access card across the desk without warmth.

Amara nodded, her pulse picking up speed. She hadn't expected to meet him today. HR had scheduled this as a second-round interview for an executive assistant position-high pressure, well-paid, but not worth the CEO's time. And yet... Elijah Blake had changed the schedule.

She stepped into the private elevator and swiped the card. The doors closed silently behind her.

There was no music. Just her breathing.

Top floor.

Her heart beat faster with every floor climbed.

Who meets their billionaire boss before even being hired?

Everyone in Los Angeles had heard stories about Elijah. Ruthless. Brilliant. Untouchable. He'd taken a dying tech company and turned it into a multi-industry empire by the age of thirty. He didn't attend parties. Didn't date publicly. Didn't smile. Rumor was he'd fired a man during a board meeting for checking his phone.

The elevator doors opened.

And for a moment-just one-Amara forgot how to breathe.

His office was unlike anything she'd ever seen. A glass wall revealed the sprawling skyline beyond-a view of Los Angeles so high it made the city feel small. The space was modern and minimalist: charcoal grey furniture, gold accents, and bookshelves that held not trophies or photos, but rows of worn, leather-bound books.

He was seated behind a massive obsidian desk, typing something rapidly into a sleek laptop.

He didn't look up.

"Miss Lane," he said, his voice smooth but devoid of warmth. "You're late."

Amara blinked. "I'm right on time."

He stopped typing. Slowly lifted his gaze.

She froze.

Ice blue eyes met hers-clear, cold, and terrifyingly sharp. His face was sculpted, jaw angular, cheekbones defined like he'd been carved rather than born. Dark hair swept back neatly. Suit navy. Tie sharp. His stillness was the kind that made people sit straighter.

He looked at her like a man assessing a threat-or worse, an inconvenience.

"If you're exactly on time," he said coolly, "then you're already late. Punctuality is being early. That tells me everything I need to know about your work ethic."

She blinked. "With respect, Mr. Blake, I believe punctuality is about being on time not performing a race to arrive early."

His brow arched, just slightly.

"Do you always argue with your potential employers?" he asked.

"Only when they start arguments."

He leaned back in his chair, studying her like a problem he couldn't yet solve. "You don't flinch. That's rare."

"I'm not here to flinch."

"And what are you here for?"

She met his gaze, steady. "To do the job. Exceptionally."

Something flickered in his eyes. A curiosity. A pause. Then it vanished, replaced with sharp detachment.

He stood, walking around the desk with silent confidence, hands in his pockets. When he stopped in front of her, she felt the full weight of his presence towering, composed, intimidating.

"You do realize what this position requires," he said. "You'll be expected to anticipate my needs. Organize a calendar with no margin for error. Travel at a moment's notice. Work after hours. Manage NDAs. Lie if necessary. This isn't a desk job it's survival."

"I read the job description."

"No, you didn't." His gaze pierced through her. "You read the words. You didn't understand the reality. Assistants don't last more than three months in this role. Most leave after one. Some cry. One had a nervous breakdown in the elevator. Still want the job?"

Amara didn't flinch.

"I've survived worse than a bad-tempered CEO."

He stared at her. The silence thickened.

"Tell me," he said at last, "why should I trust you when every assistant I've hired turned out to be incompetent or greedy? Why won't you fail like the others?"

She swallowed hard. And then she said the truth.

"Because I don't want your money. I want my own."

That gave him pause.

His expression didn't change, but his eyes did. The walls stayed up but a crack appeared.

Then slowly, he extended his hand.

"Trial week," he said. "Don't be late. Don't make excuses. Don't try to impress me-just be competent. And stay out of my way unless summoned."

She took his hand. His grip was firm. Cold.

But when their hands touched something happened.

A current. A flicker. A static jolt, not painful... but electric. Her breath caught.

He dropped her hand like he felt it too.

"Your badge is at the front desk," he said, retreating behind his desk like nothing had happened. "You start tomorrow. Eight sharp."

Amara turned and walked out.

But not before glancing back.

He was watching her leave.

Not with interest.

But with confusion.

And in his chest, something shifted small, buried, but real.

He didn't believe in love. Or fate. Or anything as unpredictable as chemistry.

But there was something about her.

Something unsettling.

Something warm.

And he hated it already.