Chapter 2 The Billionaire's Proposition

The McLaren's doors hissed shut, and the hum of luxury wrapped around them like a velvet noose. Silence settled in the cabin like a held breath. Outside, Manhattan blurred into shadow and glass, the city shrinking away behind the tinted windows. Inside, Calla Rose sat rigid in the buttery leather seat beside Damien Rourke, the infamous billionaire with ice in his veins and danger in his eyes. Her heart pounded like a warning bell, but her chin lifted-defiant, proud. She'd never let him see her squirm.

He didn't speak. He drove, smooth as silk and deadly as sin, one hand on the wheel, the other casually resting near the gear shift. She watched him, every inch the ruthless tycoon: chiseled cheekbones, tailored perfection, a jaw carved from arrogance. His eyes were a storm she wasn't ready to weather-but damn if she didn't want to.

Calla broke the silence with her trademark fire. "You know, I was actually joking about breaking the bed. But I'd be happy to try any time."

His jaw twitched. "What the hell were you doing at the gala?"

She smirked. "Stealing caviar and crashing your evening. Obviously."

"You're lucky I didn't have you arrested."

"Don't flatter yourself, sugar. You think I risked being tackled in heels just for you?"

He glanced sideways at her. "You stole that dress."

She shrugged, the red silk hugging her curves like it was tailored for sin. "It wanted to be worn."

"You lied to a room full of billionaires."

"And they believed me. That's on them, not me."

No reply. Just the low hum of the engine and the tension crackling like static between them.

He turned the car down a quiet street and into the underground garage of a high-rise that screamed old money and silent secrets. Once parked, he finally looked at her, full-on.

"You've got nerve," he said. "And something else I need."

She leaned back, folding her arms. "What? A chaos consultant?"

"A mouth."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

He leaned in slightly. "Smart. Sharp. Unfiltered. You're chaotic, but not stupid. You challenge people. And right now, I need that."

"You brought me to your lair to offer me a job?"

"Executive assistant."

Calla snorted. "Oh, please. You're a control freak, and I'm a walking hurricane. What makes you think that would ever work?"

"I just fired the last one. She was capable. But dull. I need someone who can keep up. Stir the pot."

"And you think I'm your spicy spoon?"

"I think you're trouble. The kind that sells headlines. After your little stunt, my company's stock jumped. Investors think I'm human now. That I can be reached."

Calla stared. "You're kidding."

"Nope. The world likes a little scandal. Controlled chaos. That's what you bring."

"And what do I get?" she asked. "Aside from soul-crushing labor and your charming personality."

"Three-month contract. Enough money to rewrite your life. And no strings."

She tilted her head. "Unless I want them, right?"

He didn't deny it. Just stared.

Every part of her screamed run. But pride rooted her. Pride and... curiosity.

"Three months," she said.

Damien nodded. "You'll work hard. You'll hate me. But you'll leave richer than you've ever been."

"And when I make your life a living hell?"

His lips curled into a dangerous smile. "Try me."

The Next Morning

Calla walked into Rourke Enterprises like a thunderstorm in heels. Blood-red lipstick. A power suit two sizes too tight on purpose. Hair in a flaming bun that dared anyone to comment. She swayed past security, past open-mouthed assistants, and entered the top floor with the strut of a woman who'd conquered kingdoms.

Damien's office was a cathedral of glass and steel. He looked up from behind his desk, impeccably dressed, not a hair out of place.

"You're late," he said.

"I'm fashionably unpredictable," she replied.

His mouth twitched.

The next eight hours were war. His staff hated her on sight. She was assigned three different phones, tasked with scheduling things that didn't exist, coordinating with executives who acted like gods, and deciphering contracts thicker than a dictionary.

And yet, she kept up. Barely.

At noon, she found a note.

Slipped under the drawer of her desk. No name. Just a sentence in looping ink:

You don't know who he really is.

Her stomach dropped.

By the end of the day, her stilettos were killing her, her hair was a mess, and her pride was bruised-but she survived. Barely.

As she gathered her things, Damien passed by.

"You didn't cry. That's a first," he said.

She flashed him a grin. "You'll have to try harder tomorrow."

Their eyes locked. Something dangerous danced between them.

And Calla knew-whatever this was, it was only just beginning.

The next morning, Calla Rose strutted into the sleek glass tower of Rourke Industries wearing a crimson power suit with heels high enough to be considered weapons. Heads turned. Mouths whispered. She smirked. Let them talk.

At the top floor, the air changed-crisper, colder, and laced with caffeine and tension. The receptionist blinked at her with a kind of polite horror. "You must be... Miss Rose?"

"In the sinfully red flesh," Calla replied, flashing her ID badge Damien had somehow fast-tracked overnight.

The receptionist led her down a corridor of marble and glass, stopping at a set of imposing double doors. "Mr. Rourke is in a meeting. You can wait inside."

Calla stepped into the office and felt her breath catch.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline like art. The furniture was minimalist, masculine, and expensive. A single abstract painting hung on the wall-a red slash on a black canvas, like a wound.

She didn't sit. She explored. His desk was too clean. Too perfect. Except...

She found it when she tried to open the top right drawer.

It didn't budge.

But there, slipped just beneath the handle, was a small white envelope.

No name. No seal. Just the faint scent of sandalwood and something colder-steel, maybe.

She glanced around. No cameras. No footsteps.

Curious, Calla tucked it into her blazer just as the door opened.

Damien stepped in, looking unfairly composed in a navy suit and black shirt. His gaze flicked over her outfit, pausing-just long enough.

"I see you dressed for war," he said dryly.

Calla smiled. "You said shake things up."

"Good. You're already a legend downstairs. Marcy called you 'Lucifer in Louboutins.'"

"I'm flattered."

"Don't be. Marcy's terrified of fire alarms."

He handed her a tablet. "You've got three things to do by noon: rework the Tokyo proposal deck, field two press calls about last night's photo, and cancel lunch with the governor-without insulting him. Think you can handle that?"

"Nope," she said, taking the tablet. "But I'll fake it with flair."

He paused, amused. "Welcome to hell."