Lea

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.

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