Chapter 2 Offer of a Lifetime

> "I expected a lawsuit. I got a job offer."

After the infamous coffee spill incident, Alora is summoned to Julian Vale's sleek, intimidating office. But nothing prepares her for the words that leave his lips next...

⭐⭐⭐⭐

Alora hadn't stopped thinking about him since the spill.

Julian Vale had entered her life like a glitch in the matrix-perfectly dressed, impossibly calm, and completely unreadable. Billionaires weren't supposed to look at you like that. Like you confused them.

But there she was, standing in front of a mirrored skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan, holding the card he gave her like it might vanish if she blinked too hard.

This is insane, her inner voice whispered.

You should be at home, fighting your Google Docs demons, not walking into some billionaire's lair.

Yet her feet moved anyway.

The receptionist greeted her by name. "Mr. Vale is expecting you, Miss Reyes. He's in his private suite upstairs."

Private suite?

Of course.

An assistant led her through a quiet hallway into a private elevator lined with dark mahogany and soft gold accents. Classical music played faintly. It felt less like an office building and more like entering the villain's secret lair in a drama where the heroine ends up falling in love with danger.

When the doors opened, she stepped into silence.

And opulence.

Floor-to-ceiling glass. Rain slicking down the windows in silver streaks. Shelves lined with tech awards and rare books. A grand piano near the window.

And there he was.

Julian Vale.

Standing at the far end of the room, back turned to her, suit crisp and perfect again. He looked like a portrait-something painted with shadows and quiet storms.

"You came," he said without looking at her.

Alora shifted on her feet. "Well, I figured if you were secretly a serial killer, this would at least make a great first chapter."

He turned, amused. "Still dramatic, I see."

She shrugged, eyes wandering to the minimalist artwork on the wall. "Still vague, I see."

Julian gave her a small nod, then motioned toward a low glass table between them. "Sit."

She obeyed, cautiously.

A thick contract lay on the table. Neat. Intimidating. Official.

"What is this?"

"Your job offer," he said simply, sitting across from her like a man who always got what he wanted. "You're going to ghostwrite my autobiography."

She blinked. "I... what?"

"You'll live in the guesthouse on my property," he continued. "We'll meet for scheduled interviews. You'll follow me during business hours. Observe. Ask questions. Write. I'll give you full access to anything relevant."

"I'm not a journalist," she replied. "I write blog posts about grief and failed relationships and late-night poetry. Not the lives of men who wear watches worth more than my entire existence."

"That's precisely why I chose you."

He leaned forward, voice low but firm. "I don't want someone polished. I don't want a PR piece. I want the mess. The pain. The parts I haven't said out loud in years."

Alora's breath caught. "Why now?"

Julian looked away, just for a second. But it was enough.

"Because if I don't tell my story the right way," he said softly, "someone else will."

The air grew still.

There was something deeply lonely in his words. Something vulnerable. But it disappeared the moment he straightened again, the businessman mask back in place.

"I'll pay you well," he added. "Six figures. A bonus if it's finished before the end of the fiscal year. You'll have a private workspace. My legal team will draw up your rights to keep part of the publishing royalties under a pen name of your choice."

Alora stared at the numbers. Her heart twisted.

That kind of money could erase every unpaid bill. It could buy her time to write her own novel. It could mean breathing again.

But this wasn't just a job.

It was him.

Julian Vale-who looked like stone on the outside but felt like thunder underneath.

"Why are you offering me this?" she whispered.

His eyes found hers. "Because you spilled coffee on me... and didn't flinch. Because I saw you write the truth when no one was watching. And because you're the only person who's ever looked me in the eye like I'm just a man."

Alora's fingers hovered over the pen.

She thought of her dead-end freelance jobs. Her tiny apartment with the leaky faucet. Her father's old typewriter collecting dust. And she thought of this mysterious man who wore silence like armor and wanted her to help him strip it away.

Say no, her mind whispered.

But her heart had already decided.

"I want full creative input," she said. "And you don't get to control the parts that hurt."

His gaze flickered.

"Deal."

And just like that... she signed her name.

But deep down, a quiet warning echoed:

She wasn't just writing his story.

She was walking into the center of it.

And there was no way she'd come out unchanged.