...You’re not supposed to want the man who could ruin you....

...But here you are…flipping this page, breath shallow, curiosity burning....

...And if you’re smart, you’ll run....

...If you’re not?...

...Well…...

...Welcome to the game, darling....

...Just don’t expect to leave it untouched....

...So if you’re here for the fantasy—money, power, seduction—...

...Just remember:...

...You don’t crawl into bed with the devil and expect to come out clean....

They say the higher you climb, the farther you fall. I just didn’t realize how hard that fall could be— straight into the lion’s den… wearing scuffed flats and secondhand confidence.

And as the mirrored elevator of Grey Empire International in Manhattan ascended past the 30th floor, I tightened my death grip on my own letter tote, trying to look way cooler than I felt. My reflection stared back at me: brown hair twisted into a low bun, wide black eyes too bright with nerves, a blouse slightly wrinkled from the subway ride, lipstick smudged just enough to bother me. I looked… well, like a girl who absolutely, one hundred percent, did not belong in a building like this.

Perfect.

I, Lea Lira, was twenty two years old, a recent graduate of the University of Chicago, where I’d spent the last four years battling deadlines, sipping cheap coffee, and dreaming about skyscrapers just like this one. I had grown up in a small coastal town in Maine, where the biggest building was the library, where ambition men’s getting the best lobster catch and gossip travel faster than Wi-Fi, where the loudest sound was seagulls screeching at fishers at dawn and where I grew up with my older brother who now worked as a CEO at the tech company. Now, here I was, a small-town girl armed with student loans, thrift store heels, and a stubborn refusal to give up were now hurtling toward the 57th floor of one of the most powerful corporate empires in the world.

The elevator glided past the 40th floor. My stomach did a nervous somersaults. Past 50th, I clutched my bag tighter like it was the only thing tethering me to Earth.

This place was another planet. Clean, cold glass walls. High-end minimalist art that probably cost more than my college tuition. Employees in sleek black suits with Bluetooth earpieces, moving like shadows through silence, never pausing, never hesitating. It was a world of polished power and relentless ambition. A world I didn’t belong to.

But somehow, I was here.

Somehow, out of over a thousand qualified applicants, I had been selected to be the personal secretary to Christian Alison Grey.

I wasn’t supposed to get this job. I had no Ivy League diploma, no billionaire parents, no one pulling strings for me behind the scenes. I’d applied on a whim, in a haze of post-grad panic and student loan anxiety, expecting nothing more than a polite rejection email. And yet, two weeks later, I was flown to New York for an interview. No one told me why they picked me. The HR manager barely looked at me. And the second round? It was a single sheet of paper with three questions and a time limit of ten minutes. Psychological, maybe. Intimidating, definitely.

And now… here I was… on the way to the 57th floor — the lair of Christian Alison Grey.

Cue the ominous movie soundtrack.

They called him the young king of American business. He made his first million by twenty-four. His first billion before thirty. Forbes, Time, Wall Street Journal—all had plastered his face on their covers at some point. Brilliant. Mysterious. Ruthless. He was the man who turned a collapsing tech company into a global empire spanning finance, aerospace, real estate, and media. Some even said he had ties in European royalty—one rumor claimed he was once offered a diplomatic seat in Luxembourg. Another claimed he had dated a princess in Monaco.

No one really knew. And that made him more dangerous.

“Brilliant,” some whispered. “Cold as ice,” others said. “Don’t look him in the eyes unless he looks at you first,” one executive assistant told me on my way in, her voice low, her eyes almost… sympathetic.

My legs trembled beneath me as the elevator finally stopped with a soft chime.

Ding.

The doors slid open with a whisper, and the world of the 57th floor revealed a hallway so silent I could hear my own heart trying to escape my chest. Black marble floors polished to a mirror shine. The walls of ice-cold glass and abstract art so aggressively modern it made me question if my shoe were even real.

People here didn’t walk—they glided. Silent, efficient shadows in sharp suits and click-less designer shoes, Bluetooth earpieces tucked like secrets behind perfect hair. No one smiled. No one made eye contact. It was less like an office, more like a very chic, very expensive cult.

What the hell am I doing here??

Ahead, the only thing interrupting the endless corridor was a pair of double oak door, tall enough to intimidate even the bravest of souls. A small plague gleamed beside them:

Christian A. Grey – Executive Office

I swallowed hard, my sweaty palms on my skirt. The air up here felt different. Denser, sharper. Like even the oxygen knew better than to breathe too loudly in this space.

Each step I took echoed behind me—click, click, click—like a countdown. My mind flashed with everything I had done to prepare: studying corporate etiquette videos until 2 a.m., Googling how to address billionaires in person (there’s no official guide, by the way), and rehearsing potential questions in front of my cracked bathroom mirror.

But none of it mattered now.

I paused before the doors and wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt. My fingers hovered in the air for a second, trembling, before I finally knocked.

Three times. Light, but determined. (Okay, determined-ish)

Silence.

A heartbeat later, a voice replied.

“Enter.”

One word. Deep. Calm. Crisp. Smooth like velvet, yet sharp enough to cut.

The handle was cool beneath my hand as I pushed open the door.

The office looked nothing like I imagined.

It was massive more like a museum, no, a huge palace than a workspace—wall-to-wall glass windows framed the glittering sprawl of Central Park and the city beyond, like Christian Grey had personally conquered it and now kept it as pet. A sleek black desk dominated the center of the room, polished until it gleamed like diamond. A low fireplace crackled off to the side, the only thing remotely warm about the place. And standing by the window, hands clasped neatly behind him, was Christian Alison Grey.

He didn’t turn immediately.

Instead, he stood there for a moment, as if he was reading the city itself. Just stood there, gazing out over the city like a king surveying his kingdom—or maybe plotting its next hostile takeover. I glanced to the right. A fireplace. A sitting area with a low black couch and a marble coffee table. A shelf filled with books in multiple languages. Titles I barely recognized. One spine read La Vérité Est Une Femme, in French. Another—something in German. Another—a first edition of The Great Gatsby. I took a shaky step forward, my heels sounding painfully loud against the marble.

He finally turned.

And that was the moment everything changed.

He wasn’t just good-looking. No, good-looking worse for movie stars and Instagram models. Christian Grey was built like a sin, stitched together from ambition, tailored suits, and dark promises. Hair a rich espresso brown, perfectly mussed like he woke up, looking better than most men after an hour with a stylist. Grey eyes— yes, actually grey— sharp and piercing, the kind that could lie ride through your carefully rehearsed speech and find a trembling little truth underneath.

He didn’t speak for a few seconds. He gaze landed on me like a physical thing—curious, assessing. Damn

Like a lion deciding if the antelope was worth chasing. And a tiny, traitorous part of me wondered what it would feel like if he touched me with those hands.

Professional, Lea. Professional thoughts ONLY. God

Then, finally, he spoke, voice smooth and low enough to rattle in y ribcage.

“You’re Lea Lira.”

It wasn’t a question. A statement. As if he already knew every secret I’d ever tried to bury.

“Yes, sir,” I said, trying not to fumble the words.

He moved around the desk slowly, deliberately. He didn’t rush. He didn’t have to. Every inch of the room, the building, maybe even the city seemed to bend around him.

He picked up a file from his desk—my résumé—and flipped through it.

“University of Chicago. Dual degree. International Business and French Literature.”. His mouth quirked up at one corner. Almost a smirk. “Practical and Poetic.”

“I, um… I thought it would give me a more global perspective,” I said. “I want to work with international markets one day.”

His eyes lifted to mine, and suddenly I forgot every interview prep tip I’d ever read.

“Hmm.” He glanced at the file again. He mused. “No prior experience as a personal assistant. No corporate internships. No ties to anyone in this industry.”

I froze. Was that a glint of amusement I caught in his eyes?

God help me, it was.

He closed the file with a quiet snap and pinned me in place with that impossible stare.

Then he looked up, straight into me.

“Tell me, Miss Lira.” His voice dropped just slightly, curling around the words.

“Why do you think I hired you?”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. My brain frantically shuffled through a thousand wrong answers.

Finally, I said the only true thing:

“I… I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

He stared at me for a moment longer, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like a secret. Then set the file down.

“Good,” he said smoothly. “People who think they know everything are useless to me.”

I stared, unsure if that was an insult or a compliment.

Possibly both.

And just like that, without another word, he turned and walked back toward the window.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. It took my legs a moment to remember how to function.

“Oh, and Miss Lira?” His voice floated lazily after me.

I pivoted, almost tripping over my own feet by trying not to go over him and kneel to beg to get fuck.

“Tomorrow. Seven a.m. sharp. Bring my coffee.” His gaze flicked over me—one eyebrow lifting just slightly. Teasing. “Strong coffee. No sugar. Hot.”

My mouth opened again—probably to say something intelligent, but all that came out was a strangled, “Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

I turned to leave, heart pounding, and paused for one last glance over my shoulder.

Christian Grey stood before the window again, a god among men, watching the city like it was his chessboard.

And I fled the office like my dignity was on fire. But as the door whispered shut behind me, I couldn’t help it.

I smiled. Because somehow, against all odds, against all reason…

I wast just stepping into the lion’s den…

And that’s when it hit me.

Behind that door wasn’t just my new boss.

He was the storm I didn’t see coming.

I knew she’d be different the second her file landed on my desk.

Lea Lira. Twenty-two years old. Top of her class. No family connections (I knew her brother but I didn’t take her because of her brother but her profile), no wealth (her brother is rich but not her. She’s not spoiled. That’s what I love), no strings attached. She didn’t clawed her way in using a famous last name or a network of legacy referrals like the others. She had gotten here on merit—and something else I couldn’t quite define. Not just intelligence. Not just persistence.

Softness. That was the word that kept circling back in my mind.

The kind of softness that doesn’t belong in places like this. In places like me.

And yet—here she was.

The office door creaked open, and the light from the hall spilled into my office before she stepped inside, uncertain but not timid. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted, like the city had only just swallowed her whole. She stood there—poised, breathing steadily despite the nerves I could see pulsing just beneath her skin.

I stayed silent. Most candidates—hell, most executives—couldn’t survive more than three seconds of my silence. They squirmed. Fidgeted. Lied.

Not Lea

She stood there, blouse slightly rumpled, cheap leather satchel tucked under one arm, the faintest shine of nerves across her blow. No thick perfume closing the air. Just a clean, steady presence. No designer handbag. Just a resume that told me everything and nothing all at once.

Sunlight, I thought.

In a building built entirely from shadows.

I didn’t speak right away. I let the silence settle between us. Most people squirmed under it, fidgeting or talking too much to fill the void. Lea didn’t. She stood perfectly still, hands folded, back straight. She didn’t fawn or flirt or flatter.

She waited.

Good

I pushed away from the window, moving slowly, deliberately. The way one might approach something fragile or even dangerous.

“Sit,” I said, letting my voice drop to its natural register—low, firm, undeniable.

She obeyed without a word—not with fear, but with curiosity. That intrigued me. Not docile. Not timid. She wasn’t just trying to survive this moment.

She was observing.

Just…watching. Curious. Watching me back.

There was a sharp mind under all that careful stillness. I could see it working, ticking, cataloging everything—from the arrangement of the books on my shelf to exact timbre of my voice.

I leaned against the edge of my desk, her resume in my hand, though I already knew it by heart. International Business and French Literature. Top of her class. Fluent in French. Conversational German. Former library aide. Volunteer tech for migrant students in Chicago’s South Side. Worked four jobs at once to stay afloat without a cent of family help, especially from her rich brother. No silver spoon, no runway of trust funds or family yachts anchored off the Côte d’Azur.

She wasn’t born into this world.

She’d built herself from the ground up.

Her life was built on earned currency. Not privilege. And I respected that more than I wanted to admit.

I let my eyes trail over her as I set the file aside. Her eyes followed my hands as I set the paper down. Noticing everything. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, betraying the first real sign of nerves. Her breathing was quiet but fast than she thought it was. Controlled. She was trying hard not to lose control in a place where the rules were written in a language she hadn’t yet learned.

Still, she didn’t look away.

Neither did I

I’d built empires out of cold strategy and sheer will, turned companies into weapons. Negotiated in war zones, both literal and corporate. I’d walked out of meetings where the cost of a single word was millions of dollars. Nothing rattled me. Nothing rattled me. Nothing surprised me.

Until now.

And it wasn’t the nervous flick of her eyelashes or the worn leather of her bag. It was the stubborn glow in her, the only one the city hadn’t crushed yet. The sunlight she didn’t even know she carried.

I should have ended this here. I should have sent her back down to the lobby and locked the door behind her.

I should’ve dismissed her with a simple thank you and moved on to the next candidate—someone with steel in their veins and years of experience in their file. Someone who knew how to play my game.

But this girl, this Lea, was something else.

She didn’t know the rules.

And that made her dangerous. Because if she didn’t know them, she couldn’t be bound by them. She couldn’t be predicted. Or controlled.

Still, I’d chosen her. And I never make decisions I can’t live with.

“You’ll report to me directly,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Not to HR. Not to middle management. No distractions. You belong to my schedule from now on. Only me.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, surprise flashing behind them. I didn’t wait.

Good. She was smart enough to understand the weight of those words.

“You’ll handle my schedule. Manage my correspondence. Organize meetings—most of which will happen at short notice. You’ll accompany me to business functions, local and international. You’ll be expected to read people quickly. Translate silence into information. Speak when I ask. Stay invisible when I don’t. If you can’t read the difference, you won’t last.”

She blinked but said nothing. Processing. Most people would have protested. Demanded more information. Pleaded their case.

Not Lea. She listened like she was being handed the keys to a world she hadn’t even realized she wanted yet.

“You’ll also screen my calls. No one gets through unless I approve it—no one. Not my board. Not my lawyers. Not my investors. Not even my nonexistent brother.”

She blinked.

Paused.

“Do you have a brother?” she asked, softly.

For a second—a brief, forbidden second—I almost smiled.

“No,” I said, voice flatter now. “That’s the point.”

Her lips parted slightly in realization. Her mouth twitched like she was biting back a smile. She was quick. Witty without being careless. She was already learning.

I shifted my weight slightly, folding my arms across my chest.

“You’ll be paid more than you think you’re worth—more than anyone else on this floor,” I added. “But you’ll earn every cent. This job will break you if you don’t respect it—and me.”

“I’m careful,” she said.

Three simple words.

It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t bravado. Just… certainty.

The muscles in my jaw tightened. I studied her again. She didn’t realize what she’d walked into.

She would.

I walked to the other side of the desk and pulled out a folder. One she hadn’t seen yet. I handed to her.

Inside were documents—NDAs, keycards, an internal guide to Grey Empire protocols, and a private contact phone. I handed it to her.

“You start today,” I said. “Now.”

Her chin lifted. No questions. No last-minutes bargaining. Just—acceptance.

Her hands trembled slightly as she took the folder, but she didn’t hesitate. Nothing most people would have noticed.

But I noticed.

“You’ll find your desk outside this office,” I continued. “The assistant director of internal coordination will walk you through the digital systems. You’ll have full access to the executive calendar by noon. And Lea—”

She tuned to go, the folder clutched tight against her chest. She stopped, halfway to the door. When she looked back at me, there was something raw in her gaze. something she hadn’t learned how to hide yet.

“Don’t ever lie to me. Not even once.”

She held my stare.

Unflinching.

She nodded. “I won’t.”

And she meant it.

At least for now.

I watched her stand, folder in hand. She walked toward the door, still absorbing everything, still unknowingly pulling the gravity of the room with her as she went.

And as the door closed behind her, I leaned back against my chair, breathing slowly, deliberately.

I should have rejected her the second I saw her eyes. I should have locked the sunlight out.

Instead, I’d let her in.

But somewhere, deep in the cold, iron parts of me that I thought were long dead, something in me had already shifted.

Not much.

Not enough to be dangerous.

Not yet.

But soon.

Because the thing about softness is—

It doesn’t just survive in places like this.

Sometimes, if you’re not careful…

It conquers…

She wasn’t built for this world. Not for my world.

And by the time Lea realized that, it might already be too late.

For her.

For me.

For both of us.

And yet—somehow—I already knew:

I would burn it all down to keep her in it.

She just didn’t know it yet.