Chapter 2 Unspoken games

Camille hadn't realized how fast her heart was beating until she stepped outside Christian Ford's office and leaned against the hallway wall.

Her chest rose and fell as if she'd just come out of combat.

Technically, she had.

Power was a language Christian spoke fluently-and she had just challenged him in his own boardroom. Subtly. Carefully. But it was a strike nonetheless.

"I think we've met before, Mr. Ford. You just weren't paying attention."

She couldn't believe she'd said it.

It was either a stroke of boldness... or the dumbest thing she'd ever done.

Still, she walked out with her spine straight, heels clicking across marble like a warning. If he wanted to pretend she didn't exist, then fine. But she wouldn't let him forget her now. Not after what he did. Not after how he made her feel-and then discarded her like an afterthought.

She reached the ground floor just as her phone buzzed.

HR Department – Ford International

Congratulations. You've been selected as the new Marketing Assistant.

She blinked at the screen.

Wait. What?

He hired her?

He actually-

Camille stared at the elevator for a long, stunned moment. Her blood ran cold.

He remembered.

He had to. There was no other reason for this. Her interview hadn't exactly been textbook.

Why would a man like Christian Ford, who crushed applications like coffee cups, handpick her unless-

He was watching.

Ford International - Monday Morning

Camille stood in the lobby, heels polished, lips set in a calm, practiced smile, hiding the storm within. Her ID badge hung from a lanyard. She wore her best tailored skirt and a blouse that said "professional," not "please don't recognize me from your bed."

She exhaled.

It was just a job. Just another day.

But her stomach twisted as she rode the elevator back to the 45th floor.

The last time she'd been up here, she'd left part of her dignity behind.

Today, she'd take it back.

"Camille Hart?" a voice called. A woman-late twenties, sharp cheekbones, a confident walk-greeted her with a neutral nod. "Melanie. Senior assistant. I'll get you up to speed."

Camille followed her through the maze of glass-walled offices and ivory desks, passing employees too busy to glance up. The atmosphere was clinical. Controlled.

Everything about this building mirrored its owner.

Melanie's voice was smooth and quick, like someone used to training people she didn't expect to stick around.

"You'll report directly to Mr. Ford. Schedule management, presentation prep, occasional travel coordination if needed. No personal errands-he hates that. Don't ask him about his private life, and don't expect him to remember your birthday."

"I wasn't planning to," Camille said dryly.

Melanie actually cracked a smirk. "Good. One more thing-"

They reached his office. She tapped once and opened the door without waiting.

He was standing by the window, back to them, the city stretching behind him like a kingdom under glass.

"Your new assistant is here, sir."

Christian turned.

And Camille's lungs froze.

Dark navy suit. No tie. White shirt unbuttoned just enough to blur the line between business and danger. His hair slicked back. Every inch of him screamed effortless power.

Their eyes locked.

No recognition.

No expression.

Just silence.

Then-"Miss Hart." His voice was low, smooth. "Welcome to your new role."

Camille stepped in. "Thank you, Mr. Ford."

He nodded. "Melanie, give her the Singapore client deck. And have her prepare the brand audit slides for the Friday brief."

Melanie hesitated. "Sir... those presentations are-advanced."

Christian's gaze didn't shift. "She'll manage."

Camille felt the hairs on her neck rise. This wasn't trust. This was a test. He was throwing her into the deep end.

And daring her to drown.

Later that day

She sat at her desk just outside his office, going through hundreds of files.

She noticed something odd.

Each folder came with missing pieces-intentionally removed data, inconsistent metrics, and internal notes that didn't match timelines. No one else seemed to notice. Or care.

Camille frowned, piecing it together. "What the hell is this..."

Behind her, Christian's door opened.

"You've been quiet for a few hours," he said, watching her.

"I'm reviewing the brand data for Singapore. There's something off in the campaign reports."

His brow lifted. Just slightly.

"You're saying my analytics team made a mistake?"

"I'm saying," she said carefully, "someone's hiding something."

A pause. Then:

"Come inside."

Her heart skipped.

She followed him in, folder in hand, and stood while he sat behind his desk.

He leaned back and folded his hands. "Go on."

She laid out the inconsistencies one by one. Budget entries that didn't match the contract reports. Performance numbers inflated in key regions. And worst of all-an entire PR memo removed from the client's archive.

"I'm not accusing anyone," she said. "But if you want this presentation to land well, this can't go unnoticed."

Christian stared at her. For a long, long moment.

Then he smiled.

Not kindly.

But like a man who just realized his new assistant might be smarter than half his executives.

"Interesting," he said. "You're either very thorough... or very ambitious."

"Maybe both," she replied. Then added, "Was that the wrong answer?"

His smile faded. "We'll find out."

8:17 PM – Office Still Lit

Most of the team had gone home. Camille was still at her desk, double-checking the visual drafts when the lights in Christian's office went dark.

He stepped out, jacket slung over his arm.

"Still here?" he asked.

"I wanted the audit report clean for tomorrow."

A pause. He looked at her with something unreadable.

"I'll send a driver next time," he said. "This late, the subway isn't safe."

She blinked. "You don't have to-"

"I'm not offering," he cut in. "I'm instructing. Goodnight, Miss Hart."

He left without another word.

But that night, when Camille got home, a black envelope was waiting in her mailbox.

Her name, written in perfect cursive.

Inside:

A gold-embossed invitation.

Elegant. Exclusive. Private.

Ford International Founder's Ball - Private Guest Access Only.

Saturday. 8:30 PM. Dress Code: Formal.

Camille held the invite in her shaking hands.

Why was he inviting her to this?

Was it a setup?

A test?

A warning?

Or something much worse?