Chapter 2 THE INTERVIEW

The Kentucky sun split through the curtains, piercing Fiona's skull like guilt with a pulse. Her head throbbed, her tongue dry as dust. The room was strange, too elegant, and too expensive. The scent of him still lingered in the air: cedarwood, smoke, and something darker. She pushed herself upright, the sheets slipping from her bare skin, and saw the folded note on the nightstand.

"Take care of yourself."

No name. No number. Just a clean escape.

"Perfect," she muttered, clutching the sheet tighter. "Just perfect."

Her dress lay draped over a chair, wrinkled from haste. Her reflection in the mirror startled her, her hair tangled, lipstick smudged, eyes hollow. She almost didn't recognize herself.

"Never again," she whispered.

Her phone buzzed: Mom, hospital called. Bills overdue. Another message followed: We can't hold her room much longer.

Fiona's stomach turned. Reality had a cruel way of finding her. She gathered her things and slipped into the hallway, every step echoing the remnants of her poor decisions.

Down in the lobby, she forced a smile at the concierge who barely looked up. The morning light hit the engraved logo on the key card she returned: Covington Grand. Luxury she couldn't afford, branded proof of last night's mistake.

"Nothing happened," she said to herself as she stepped into the crisp morning air. "It was one night."

But as the city stirred awake, her reflection in a shop window betrayed her. Behind the tired eyes was something else, something that hadn't died with the heartbreak or the whiskey.

She turned away, muttering, "I need a job, not another man."

Yet deep down, she already feared she'd find both.

The wind carried her vow away, mocking her with quiet certainty.

The mirrored glass tower loomed before her like judgment incarnate. Hale Industries, etched in silver across the facade, caught the sun like a blade. Fiona stared up, clutching her cheap folder to her chest.

"This is it," she murmured. "Act like you belong."

The lobby was marble and chrome, looked clean, cold, breathtaking. The people inside walked as if they owned oxygen. She swallowed her nerves and stepped forward, heels clicking on the polished floor.

The receptionist, a blonde with sharp eyes and a warmer smile than expected, looked up. "You must be Ms. Greystone. Right on time."

Yes. Fiona Greystone. "Here for the Interview," the woman finished smoothly. "Top floor. Mr. Hale will see you shortly."

Fiona blinked. "Mr. Hale?"

"CEO."

Her heart skipped. The name struck something in her memory, like an itch she couldn't reach. She stepped into the elevator, her pulse echoing with the rising numbers, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. The doors opened with a soft chime.

The top floor was a cathedral of glass and silence. The city stretched beneath her, vast and glittering. She walked slowly, absorbing the weight of it all the wealth, the control, the chill in the air that came only from power too long held.

Her hands trembled around her folder. "You can do this," she whispered.

The door ahead read: Preston Hale, CEO.

She almost laughed. "What are the odds?"

But luck was cruel.

Behind that door waited the stranger from last night.

Preston Hale stood before the window, hands in his pockets, jaw tight enough to crack glass. The skyline reflected in his eyes, blue steel and sharp angles. His mind wasn't on the view; it was on the woman from the night before.

When Harper's voice came through the intercom, it felt like a trigger. "Your eleven o'clock is here."

"Send her in."

The door opened. He didn't turn immediately, not until he heard her sharp intake of breath. Then he faced her.

Time stopped.

Fiona's knees went weak. The world narrowed to his eyes, gray, unreadable, dangerous. The suit fit him like sin: black tailored lines, power woven into every stitch.

"Mr. Hale," Harper said softly.

"You're early," he said, voice flat, betraying nothing.

"I didn't realize"

"Sit."

The word wasn't a suggestion. She obeyed, gripping the armrest as if it might anchor her.

He moved behind his desk, every motion measured, precise. The same hands that had traced her skin now flipped through her résumé with surgical detachment.

He looked up once, just once, and the air thickened.

"Do I know you?" His tone was a knife, curious and cruel.

She forced a steady breath. "I don't think so."

He smiled without warmth. "Good. Let's proceed."

But the ghost of last night lingered between them, burning slow and silent.

Preston leaned back, studying her as if dissecting a mystery he didn't want solved. "No degree. Patchy employment. What makes you think you're qualified for this position?"

Her chin lifted. "Because I work hard. Because I don't quit."

He tapped the folder. "Desperation isn't a skill."

"Neither is arrogance," she shot back before she could stop herself.

His mouth curved slightly. "You have spirit. Dangerous thing in this building."

She crossed her arms. "Then maybe this isn't your kind of woman."

He stood, walking around the desk until he was close enough for her to feel the heat of him. "Last night," he murmured, "you didn't seem to mind what kind of man I was."

Her breath caught. "That night doesn't define me."

"Doesn't it?" His eyes dropped briefly to her trembling hands before flicking back up. "You came here to forget. I came here to remember."

Her jaw clenched. "I'm here for the job. Nothing else."

The door opened suddenly. Harper, breathless, holding a folder. "Sir, HR recommendations you requested."

Preston took it, breaking their stare. Inside was a list, top candidates for his new executive assistant.

Fiona Greystone.

At the top.

His thumb lingered on her name. Fate had a sick sense of humor.

The door shut again. Silence filled the room like smoke. Fiona waited, every nerve raw.

"If I'm not what you want," she said quietly, "say so. I'll go."

Preston didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on her résumé, on the ink that sealed his undoing. He should end it here. He should let her walk away.

But he didn't.

"You'll start Monday," he said finally, with a low voice, final.

Her heart stumbled. "What?"

"You heard me." He didn't look at her. "Dismissed."

She stood slowly, confusion and defiance warring across her face. "Is this your idea of punishment?"

"Don't flatter yourself," he said. "It's business."

She turned toward the door, her spine straight. "Then let's hope we keep it that way."

He watched her go, jaw tight, knuckles pale against the desk. When the door clicked shut, he exhaled, the mask slipping for a heartbeat.

Outside, Fiona paused. The nameplate beside the door gleamed in silver letters: Preston Hale, CEO.

Her pulse stopped cold.

The man she'd given herself to in a moment of heartbreak now held her future in his hands.

And he wasn't done with her yet.