Dalia spent the night staring at her ceiling, the business card Margaret Chen had pressed into her hand burning like a brand in her palm. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Cassian Ward's face, the way he'd looked at her like he already owned her, the casual way he'd spoken about her father as if he'd known him personally.
As if he'd been watching her family fall apart from his tower of glass and steel.
By morning, her resolve had crystallized into something sharp and desperate. She couldn't afford pride, couldn't afford to question motives when her mother was working herself to death and the eviction notice had twenty-eight days left on its countdown. Whatever Cassian Ward wanted from her, whatever game he was playing, she needed that salary more than she needed answers.
The call to Margaret Chen lasted exactly three minutes.
"Mr. Ward will see you at 10 AM," Margaret said in her crisp, professional tone. "Come prepared to discuss terms."
Terms. As if Dalia had any leverage in whatever negotiation was about to happen.
This time, when she entered the Ward Enterprises building, she felt less like an intruder and more like someone walking willingly into a trap. The same marble lobby, the same efficient elevator, the same hushed fifty-third floor that whispered of money and power and secrets.
But Cassian's office had changed.
Where yesterday there had been only the single folder on his pristine desk, today there were documents spread across the surface in neat, organized stacks. A contract, she realized. Multiple pages of dense legal text that probably contained more fine print than the Constitution.
He stood when she entered, dressed in a navy suit that made his dark eyes look almost black. Today, he seemed less predatory and more businesslike, though the undercurrent of danger still hummed beneath his polished exterior like electricity through a wire.
"You came back," he said, and there was something in his voice that might have been satisfaction.
"I need the job."
"I know." He gestured to the chair across from his desk, the same leather trap she'd sat in yesterday. "That's what makes this so much simpler."
She settled into the chair, hyperaware of how he watched her every movement, cataloging reactions she didn't even know she was having. When he sat across from her, the desk between them felt less like a barrier and more like a stage where whatever performance he had planned would unfold.
"Before we discuss salary and benefits," he said, picking up a pen that probably cost more than her monthly grocery budget, "we need to establish certain parameters for this position."
Parameters. Not requirements or expectations, but parameters, as if he were defining the boundaries of a cage.
"The role of personal assistant is often misunderstood," he continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone delivering a lecture he'd given many times before. "People assume it involves scheduling meetings and answering phones. Those tasks are handled by my regular staff. What I need from you is something much more... comprehensive."
The way he paused on that last word made heat crawl up her neck. She kept her expression neutral, though every instinct screamed that she was about to hear something that would change everything.
"You would be responsible for my personal affairs as well as professional ones. Travel arrangements, social obligations, private correspondence. The position requires a level of trust and discretion that goes far beyond typical employment."
He slid a single page across the desk to her. It looked innocuous enough, typed in the same elegant font as yesterday's job description, but the header made her stomach clench.
Personal Conduct Guidelines - Confidential
"These are non-negotiable," he said as she began to read. "Violation of any of these terms results in immediate termination and potential legal action."
The list was unlike anything she'd ever seen in an employment context:
1. Residence will be provided on the Ward estate. Personal quarters are private but subject to security protocols.
2. Communication with outside parties requires prior approval. All personal devices will be monitored for security purposes.
3. Work hours are flexible but availability is required 24/7. Personal time is granted at discretion of management.
4. Social media accounts must be deactivated. No public photography or documentation of work environment.
5. Romantic relationships require approval and ongoing evaluation for security clearance.
6. Certain areas of the estate are restricted. Violation of these boundaries is grounds for immediate termination.
7. All personal expenses will be covered through company account. Independent financial transactions over $500 require authorization.
8. Medical care will be provided through company physicians. Outside medical consultation requires approval.
9. Vacation time is granted at company discretion. Leaving the estate requires detailed itinerary and security escort.
10. Complete confidentiality regarding all aspects of employment, personal observations, and business practices. This obligation continues indefinitely following termination.
Dalia read the list twice, her disbelief growing with each item. This wasn't a job description; it was a blueprint for complete control over every aspect of her life.
"These aren't employment guidelines," she said finally, looking up to find him watching her with that predatory stillness that made her feel like prey. "These are prison rules."
"They're protection," he corrected smoothly. "For both of us. My life, my business, my privacy are worth more than most people make in a lifetime. Anyone with access to me becomes a potential security risk."
"Monitored devices? Approved relationships? You want to control who I talk to, who I date, where I go?"
"I want to ensure your safety and mine." His tone remained calm, reasonable, as if he were explaining basic mathematics instead of proposing to own her life. "The salary reflects the comprehensive nature of the position."
He slid another page across the desk. The number at the top made her breath catch despite her anger. It wasn't just the six-figure sum from yesterday's job description. It was nearly double that, with benefits that included full medical, dental, housing, food, transportation, and a clothing allowance that exceeded what she currently made in six months.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"This is business." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in a gesture that somehow made him look even more dangerous. "I'm offering you a life most people only dream of. Financial security, luxury, protection from the kind of circumstances that destroyed your family. All I ask in return is loyalty and discretion."
"And my freedom."
"Freedom is overrated when you're sleeping on the street."
The words hit like a physical blow, all the more effective because they were true. In twenty-eight days, freedom would mean a cardboard box under a bridge and her mother working herself into an early grave trying to support them both.
"Why me?" she asked again, though she suspected she wouldn't like the answer any more today than she had yesterday.
Cassian was quiet for a long moment, studying her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost contemplative.
"Because you understand loss. Because you know what it means to have everything taken away through no fault of your own. Because you're smart enough to recognize opportunity when it's offered and desperate enough to take it."
"And because I have no choice."
"Everyone has choices, Dalia. Some are just more palatable than others."
He stood and moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back in what she was beginning to recognize as a habitual gesture. Against the backdrop of Manhattan's skyline, he looked like a king surveying his domain.
"I'll give you twenty-four hours to decide," he said without turning around. "But understand that this offer won't be repeated. If you walk away now, you walk away permanently."
She looked down at the contract again, at the salary that could solve every problem she had, at the rules that would trade one kind of prison for another. The numbers blurred as she tried to calculate what twenty-four hours of consideration was worth against a lifetime of financial security.
"What happens if I say yes?"
Now he did turn, and the smile that crossed his face was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Then you start your new life tomorrow. A car will pick you up at 8 AM to bring you to the estate. Your belongings will be moved, your apartment lease terminated, your financial obligations handled. By this time tomorrow, Dalia Moreno the struggling graphic designer will cease to exist."
"And what will exist instead?"
His eyes held hers, dark and fathomless and utterly certain.
"Whatever I need you to be."
The words hung in the air between them like a promise and a threat, and Dalia realized she was standing at a crossroads where every path led into darkness. The only question was whether she'd walk into it alone or let Cassian Ward guide her deeper than she'd ever imagined possible.
Outside the windows, Manhattan glittered in the afternoon sun, beautiful and brutal and utterly indifferent to the choice she was about to make.
Twenty-four hours to decide between salvation and surrender.
She suspected they might be the same thing.