Mr. Ceo Wants Me

ARIA VALE

There were two kinds of people who walked into Blackthorne Atelier, those who belong there and those who never will. As I stood in the towering lobby of one of the world's most prestigious fashion houses, I wondered which category I was about to fall into.

A woman in impossibly high heels clacked past me, her perfume lingering in the air like a cloud of judgment. I squared my shoulders and tighten my grip on my leather portfolio.

Nerves churn in my stomach, but I had gotten good at hiding them. Confidence was part of the game in my line of work, and no matter how intimidating this place felt, I wouldn't let it show.

"Ms. Vale?" The receptionist called my name with an air of polite disinterest. She barely glanced up from her computer. "Mr. Blackthorne will see you now. Top floor."

I nodded, murmuring a quick thank you, and made my way to the elevator. As the doors slided open, I step inside and took a deep breath. I had walked into high-stakes meetings before. CEOs, boardrooms, billion-dollar negotiations. I had seen it all. But Elliot Blackthorne? He was in a league of his own.

Everyone in the fashion industry knew his name. At thirty-four, he had built Blackthorne Atelier into an international powerhouse, a brand synonymous with luxury, precision, and perfection.

His suits were as sharp as his reputation, impeccable, impossible to ignore, and utterly untouchable. He was the man who single-handedly saved his family's legacy and turned it into an empire, all while making headlines for his icy demeanor and the women desperate to crack his armor.

The elevator dings, and the doors opened revealing the top floor, a sprawling, glass-walled office space with panoramic views of New York City. The air smelled like expensive leather and something faintly citrus. For a moment, I was distracted by the skyline stretching out ahead of me.

For exactly three seconds, I allowed myself to marvel at the view. New York City sprawls below like a glittering promise of ambition and chaos, but I didn't have time to admire it. A sharp voice, smooth and commanding, cuts through the air, pulling me into the present.

"I don't care how much they're asking," Elliot Blackthorne growled, his tone clipped. "If that shipment isn't here by tomorrow, heads will roll. Do I make myself clear?"

I froze mid-step as I took in the room. Elliot stood with his back to me, silhouetted against the wall of windows, phone pressed to his ear. Even from behind, he was a commanding figure, broad shoulders encased in a charcoal-gray suit, every inch of him exuding power.

But it was not just him that caught my attention. I quickly noticed four women standing nervously off to the side, each clutching sleek black folders. Their posture varied; one fidgeted with her sleeve, another bit her lower lip, but they all wore the same tense, uncertain expression. Like they were waiting to be judged.

I hesitated. Was I supposed to join them? My stomach twisted at the sight of the others, consultants, assistants, interns? I didn't know, but they all looked as if they had been handpicked for this moment. One of them glanced over at me, her gaze sharp and assessing, as though she had already sized up the competition.

I took a slow breath, refusing to let their nerves infect me, and quietly made my way over to join them. I didn't know why were all here at the same time, but I was not about to show weakness.

Elliot's voice rose slightly, his frustration evident. "I don't care if the supplier's on vacation. Find him. Wake him up. Bribe him. Do whatever you have to, but if those fabrics aren't in my office by tomorrow morning, I'll pull every one of his accounts from our list."

He disconnected the call with a sharp flick of his hand, muttering something under his breath before turning toward us.

And that was when I saw him...really saw him.

Pictures in magazines, photoshoots in glossy editorials, and perfectly curated TV appearances did him no justice. Up close, Elliot Blackthorne was something else entirely.

His suit fitted like it was stitched directly onto him, every line sharp and deliberate. His dark hair shined under the sunlight spilling into the office, neatly styled but with just enough disarray to hint at something less controlled.

And then there were his eyes. Steely gray and piercing, they flickered across the room, pausing momentarily on me before shifting to the others. My breath hitched, just for a second, but I quickly recovered, locking my expression into something neutral.

"Good. You're all here."

His voice cuts through the silence, as crisp and sharp as the edge of a blade. He stepped forward, sliding his hands into his pockets with the kind of effortless confidence that takes years to perfect.

"Let me make one thing very clear," he said, his gaze sweeping over us like a spotlight. "I don't have time to waste, and neither do you. I expect results, not excuses. If you're standing in this room, it means I think you might be capable of fixing what's broken. But the truth is, most of you won't make the cut."

One of the girls shifted nervously, and Elliot's gaze landed on her. She froze under the weight of it, her face flushing.

"Which brings me to the point," he continued, pacing slightly in front of us. "Blackthorne Atelier is on the brink of its most important merger yet. I'm not interested in half-measures or hand-holding. Whoever earns their place here will work harder than they ever have in their lives. If you're not up for that, leave now."

His words hung in the air, daring someone to step back but no one moved.

I stood tall, refusing to be intimidated. My job wasn't to impress Elliot Blackthorne with charm or theatrics. I was here because I was damn good at what I do, and if there was anyone who could fix the chaos lurking beneath his empire, it was me.

Elliot's gaze finally settled on me. For a long moment, he said nothing, and I resisted the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. It was like being pinned under a magnifying glass, hot, uncomfortable, and revealing.

He didn't look away, as if testing my resolve.

Aria Vale

Elliot Blackthorne didn't blink. He just stared at me, as if my entire worth as a person was being weighed, judged, and measured in these few silent moments.

Finally, as though satisfied, or perhaps just bored, he leaned back into his chair, steepling his fingers.

"You're all here because you believe you have something to offer. Potential, skills, drive." His voice dropped, even and cold. "But in my world, belief isn't enough. Results matter. Failure is costly. And in case you think you're walking into a simple interview, let me clarify something."

The air shifted. There was an unspoken tension now, a quiet ripple of unease that spread across the room. I glanced at the other women from the corner of my eye. One frowned, her lip trembling slightly, while another's nails dug anxiously into her folder.

"You will be tested," Elliot said, his gaze razor-sharp. "Not with theoretical questions or polished resumes, but with actual work. Real projects. Tasks that will challenge you. And if you fail..."

He paused, letting the silence hang in the air like a guillotine waiting to drop.

"If you fail, you'll owe this company the costs incurred during your onboarding."

For a moment, no one moves.

What?

The words hit the room like a bomb. I blinked, keeping my face neutral, but my brain raced to process. He's serious. Elliot Blackthorne wasn't offering us a clean shot at employment, he was turning this into a gamble. Win, and you move forward. Lose, and you leave with more than bruised pride...you leave in debt.

One of the women, a blonde standing to my left, suddenly spoke up. Her voice wobbles slightly. "What do you mean by... owe?"

Elliot tilted his head toward her, his expression unflinching. "Exactly what I said. Blackthorne Atelier isn't a charity. Resources, materials, and time all cost money. If you waste them, you'll pay for it. That's the risk of taking a seat in this room."

"But... that's not fair," she protested, her voice growing more panicked. "I'm here for a job, not to get into debt. This isn't..."

"Then leave," Elliot cuts her off, his tone like ice. "No one is forcing you to be here."

The woman stared at him, wide-eyed, and then looked back at us, as if hoping for support. None came. She made a soft, choked sound, clutching her folder tighter. "I can't..."

She didn't finish. Instead, she spun on her heel and bolted out of the room, her heels clattering against the polished floors as she disappeared through the door.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Elliot didn't even flinch. If anything, he looked... mildly satisfied. Like he had expected nothing less.

"Anyone else?" he said, his gaze sweeping over us again. "If you don't think you can handle it, leave now."

No one moved this time.

I kept my expression smooth, though my pulse thrummed in my ears. Inside, I felt a mix of admiration and frustration. Elliot's tactics were harsh, ruthless even, but there was no denying that he was in complete control of the room. He was testing us, weeding out the weak before the real work began. It was unfair, but the world he operated in rarely was.

And the truth? I wasn't scared. I didn't walk into battles I couldn't win.

Elliot leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Good. The rest of you have passed the first test, just showing up."

I allowed myself a small breath of relief.

Elliot tapped the file on the table, the sharp sound echoing in the tense silence. He seemed to relish the moment, the unease radiating through the room like a palpable fog.

"This," he said, gesturing at the worn folder on the table, "is the task you'll be working on. By the time the clock strikes midnight, I expect a complete solution. If you can't deliver, don't bother coming back."

His words settled like lead in my chest. Midnight. That gave us, what, twelve, maybe thirteen hours? I glanced at the others. One of them, a brunette with sharp cheekbones and narrowed eyes, looked ready to tackle the task head-on, while another, the youngest of us, fidgeted nervously with her blazer cuffs. I didn't blame her.

This wasn't a job interview anymore.

It was survival of the fittest.

But then Elliot's gaze darkened, and he pointed to the small, empty wooden box at the center of the table.

"Before you can collect the file," he said, enunciating each word as though it carried grave importance, "you'll need to prove something. You'll submit something personal to the box."

We all stared at the box. It was unassuming, simple wood, no lock, no markings. It felt almost absurdly ordinary, given the bizarre demand that followed.

"Personal?" the brunette asked slowly, as though testing the word on her tongue. "What do you mean by that?"

Elliot's lips curved into the faintest smirk, but there was nothing kind about it. "Take off your panties or your bra. Put it in the box."

The room seemed to freeze. My heart stumbled over itself, disbelief rushing through me like ice water. Surely, I had heard him wrong. But his expression didn't waver, and the silence that followed told me the others had heard him too.

"What?" the youngest woman blurted out, her voice high-pitched with incredulity.

"You heard me," Elliot said evenly, like he was asking us to hand over pens, not intimate articles of clothing. "The box stays empty until someone pays the price for that file."

"You're insane," one of the women snapped. It was the brunette. She stood straighter now, her dark eyes flashing with fury. "This isn't some power game where you get to humiliate us for kicks. Do you really think you can get away with this?"

Elliot didn't react, not even a flicker of irritation. He simply shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I don't need you to agree. You're welcome to leave, just like the last one did."

Her jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. "You're sick."

"And you're free to walk out that door," Elliot replied smoothly, leaning back once more in his chair. "But if you're serious about the opportunity in front of you, I suggest you get over whatever pride or fear you're clinging to. Quickly."

The brunette stared at him for a moment longer, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. She looked like she wanted to say something more, to lash out, but instead, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room. The sound of the door slamming behind her reverberated through the space.

That left three of us.

I glanced at the other two women. The youngest looked horrified, frozen in place, while the third woman, an elegant redhead with striking features, looked pensive, her gaze fixed on the box as though she was weighing her options.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my thoughts. Elliot's demand was vile. Outrageous.

The silence stretched for an unbearable moment. Then, without warning, the redhead moved.

Her hands went beneath her skirt, quick and decisive, as if this were nothing more than another task on a to-do list. She slipped off her panties and, without hesitation, placed the delicate fabric into the wooden box. The soft sound it made as it landed felt louder than a gunshot in the quiet room.

Elliot watched her, his expression neutral. Unimpressed, even. If he was looking for shame or hesitation, she didn't give him the satisfaction.

"Your file," he said simply, sliding the folder across the table to her.

The redhead picked it up, smoothed out the cover with deliberate precision, and turned to face me and the youngest woman. There was something in her eyes, a silent challenge. She held the file close, like it was already hers to protect. Her chin tilted upward, proud, victorious.

I froze. For a split second, all I could feel was the weight of her stare and Elliot's expectation bearing down on me. This was more than a test. This was a battle for dominance, and I was caught in the middle. My pulse thrummed in my ears, and my mind raced as I tried to process what had just happened.

The youngest woman stepped back slightly, visibly trembling. "I can't do this," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

She didn't wait for a response. Spinning on her heel, she rushed out of the room. The door closed softly behind her, leaving just me, the redhead, and Elliot.

"Well," Elliot said, his voice breaking the silence, "that makes two of you."

His gaze shifted to me. Calm. Patient. Unrelenting.

The redhead lingered a little longer at the edge of the room, clutching her folder tightly, as if daring me to step up or step out.

My stomach tightened. The logical part of my brain screamed at me to walk away. This wasn't worth it not for a file, not for some absurd power play. But another part of me, the part that refused to back down, the part that wouldn't let the redhead look at me like I was weak, forced me to stay.

I straightened my shoulders and stepped forward. If she could do it, so could I. It wasn't about the panties, I reminded myself. It was about what they represented. My willingness to stay in this game. My refusal to lose.

Without breaking eye contact with Elliot, I reached beneath my skirt. The fabric felt cold against my skin as I slipped my panties down and off. My movements were steady, controlled, an act of defiance, not submission. I folded them neatly, placed them into the box beside the redhead's, and stepped back.

Elliot's expression didn't change, but something in his gaze sharpened, like he was seeing something he hadn't expected. Approval? Amusement? I couldn't tell.

"Interesting," he said at last.

He slid another file across the table toward me. I grabbed it, my fingers brushing the rough edges of the folder as I held it firmly. I didn't look at the redhead. I didn't want to see her satisfaction or her challenge. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that I hadn't backed down.

Elliot rose from his chair, his towering presence effortlessly commanding attention as his gaze swept between the redhead and me. For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall, a constant reminder of the challenge looming before us.

"Now that you both have your files," he began, his tone smooth but edged with something harder, "there are a few rules you'll need to follow."

The redhead shifted slightly, adjusting her grip on the file, while I stood my ground, forcing myself to appear composed despite the wariness bubbling beneath my skin. Elliot's smile was cold, predatory, as he continued.

"To ensure there's no... temptation to cheat or solicit outside help, you won't be permitted to leave this building until your work is complete."

I blink, processing his words. What?

The redhead, too, looked momentarily startled. "We're staying here? All day?" Her voice is calm, but I catch the flicker of unease in her expression.

Elliot nodded once, slowly. "That's correct. You'll work here, in my office, where I can oversee your progress. Every tool, resource, and bit of assistance you require will be made available to you. But you won't leave until you've finished."

My throat tightened. This changed everything. I had assumed I'd have time to strategize, gather my thoughts, maybe work through the file somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. But now? Now, we were trapped under his watchful eye, and every second will be accounted for.

The redhead recovered quickly, though. "Fine," she said. "Where do we work?"

Elliot gestures toward a sleek conference table on the other side of the office, its surface empty but polished to a mirror-like shine. "That will do. There's space for both of you. Laptops, drafting tools, and research materials are already prepared." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And just to be clear, this isn't a group project. You're each expected to complete the task individually. Collaboration of any kind will be considered cheating."

"Cheating," I murmur, tasting the word like it's poison.

"Precisely." Elliot's gaze locked onto me, sharp as glass. "You're here to prove yourselves. Not to lean on someone else to carry you."

The redhead walked briskly to the conference table and sat down, already flipping open her file as though she couldn't wait to get started. Her movements were deliberate and confident, a quiet declaration that she was ready to take this head-on.

I followed suit, though slower. The file in my hand felt heavier now, like it carried the weight of every choice I had made since stepping into this room. I sat across from her, placing the file in front of me. My hands hovered for a second before I opened it.

Inside, the neatly printed documents were a mixture of numbers, diagrams, and cryptic instructions. It took only a glance for me to realize the complexity of the task. My stomach churns as I skim the first page.

This wasn't just a test, it's a mountain.

From his desk, Elliot speaks again. "You have exactly twelve hours. Midnight is your deadline, and there will be no extensions."