Damn. Not again.
The man across from me leaned back in his chair, his swollen lips curling into a suggestion that made my stomach twist. For a moment, the office felt smaller, the walls closing in around his stench and his arrogance. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction; I simply gathered my files, stood, and headed for the door.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. A sharp hiss. A warning.
I came here for a job — an opportunity — and he offered me filth.
Men like him always do. Men placed in power by CEOs who never step foot in these offices, never see the rot growing under their own company name.
Disgusting. All of them.
I walked down the long corridor of the oversized office building, the fluorescent lights humming above me like they were mocking my mood. Everything in this place felt too polished, too cold, too big for the kind of filth I had just escaped from. My chest was still tight with disgust, the manager's slimy words lingering somewhere behind my ribs.
I just needed to get out before the whole place made me sick.
I was halfway through the hallway when—
"BAM!"
My body collided with something hard—someone hard—and the impact jolted through me. My files exploded out of my hands, fluttering across the floor like panicked birds. At the same time, something cold and wet splashed onto my shirt. The shock made me gasp, and then the realization hit me like a slap.
Fuck.
Not the shirt.
Not today.
The dampness seeped into the fabric, darkening it instantly. And of all shirts to stain, it had to be the one I rented. Miss Irene was going to skin me alive. I didn't even have the money to replace a button, let alone pay for a ruined shirt.
Heart thudding, I dropped to my knees and scrambled to gather the papers, my fingers shaking with frustration I tried to swallow. The hallway suddenly felt louder—footsteps, whispers, the squeak of trolley wheels—and I didn't want to be seen like this. Not vulnerable. Not messy. Not after everything.
"I'm so sorry," a voice said—deep, warm, smooth in a way that cut through the chaos like a bass note.
I looked up and saw him crouched beside me, reaching for the scattered sheets. His hand brushed mine briefly—steady, deliberate—before picking up one of the damp pages.
"It's fine," I muttered, barely looking at him. "It's… no problem."
A lie so obvious it tasted bitter. The stain was already drying into an ugly shape. Miss Irene was definitely going to ask questions I couldn't afford to answer.
"I really didn't mean to do that," he said again, his tone earnest. "I was in a hurry… wasn't watching where I was going."
When we finally gathered everything, we stood at the same time.
And that was when my breath just… paused.
Because standing right in front of me was a man who looked like he'd been carved from all the best parts of trouble. Tall, well-built, with a presence that felt like it moved before he did. His jawline was sharp enough to cut pride. His eyes—dark, focused—met mine with an intensity that made my lips part without thinking.
And damn.
This man wasn't just fine.
He was fineeeeee.
The kind of fine that made you forget your own name for two seconds too long. The kind that didn't just walk into a room—he shifted the gravity of it. Every detail of him pulled the eye: the fit of his suit, the subtle cologne threading through the air, the quiet confidence in the way he held himself.
For a moment, the stain, the files, the frustration—all of it fell away.
All I saw was him.
And that alone felt dangerous.
His mouth moved once.
Then twice.
Then a third time.
I didn't hear a single thing.
All I could focus on were his lips—full, smooth, the kind of lips that made a girl start imagining things she had no business imagining in public. My brain tried to warn me—"Get it together, Zarah." But honestly? I couldn't. Not with that face in front of me. My imagination had range… and it was sprinting.
"Miss—" his baritone voice rumbled again, snapping the fantasy at its spine.
"Yes?" I responded a little too quickly, eyes widening as I realized I had basically been staring into his soul for way too long.
Fuck me. Not literally—well… actually, never mind.
"Are you fine?" he asked, brows drawn slightly in concern.
That was when I realized people had begun to gather around us.
A whole crowd.
Of course—this was an office. Chaos attracts eyes faster than free lunch.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you," I said, bowing awkwardly—why did I bow?—then turning to leave, eager to escape before the hallway turned into a full-blown spectacle.
"Hold on," he called out. "You were here for a job, right?"
I paused, clutching my files. "Yes, I was. Didn't get it though." I shrugged, bitterness slipping into my tone. "Don't want it anymore anyway. That manager is ass."
"Uhn?" His brows lifted, intrigued.
"Yes!" I snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface again. "He's ass. And disgusting. Grooming people—eew!" My voice rose a little too loud, but the anger was still fresh, still burning. "I came for an interview; man was talking like I came for… something else."
The crowd murmured.
He stared at me—really stared—like he was piecing something together.
And the hallway suddenly felt heavy again, but this time… different.
His eyes sharpened, the concern fading into something colder… something authoritative. The bystanders around us seemed to sense it too, because the hallway shifted—quiet, tense—like everyone suddenly remembered who he was.
"Grooming?" he repeated, voice low.
I nodded, suddenly self-conscious but still furious. "Yes. He was being inappropriate during my interview."
His jaw tensed. Not at me—for me.
"What's his name?" he asked.
"Mr. Dalton."
Without breaking eye contact, he turned to an assistant who had stopped to watch the commotion.
"You," he said, voice crisp. "Get Mr. Dalton. Tell him to meet me in my office in two minutes."
The assistant rushed off instantly.
I blinked. "Your office?"
He lifted an eyebrow like it should've been obvious.
"Yes," he said simply. "My office."
And then it clicked.
The posture.
The tailored suit.
The authority dripping from every word.
"You're the CEO," I whispered.
He gave a tiny, knowing smile. "That would be correct."
My soul left my body for a moment.
Before I could sink into embarrassment, he gently took the files from my arms.
"Let me see what you brought," he said.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he cut in, already flipping through the documents.
He scanned everything with frightening focus. Page after page, his expression shifted—curiosity, then interest, then a quiet, impressed stillness. Like he wasn't expecting what he found.
"You created all of this?" he asked.
"Yes," I said softly. "Every part."
He closed the file carefully, his eyes locking onto mine.
"You're incredibly qualified, Zarah."
My heart skipped.
He said my name like he was testing how it felt in his mouth.
Before I could respond, Mr. Dalton—the manager—arrived, pale and sweating.
"Sir, you wanted to see me?"
The CEO didn't even pretend to hesitate.
"You're fired," he said calmly. "Security will escort you out. Effective immediately."
Gasps spread through the hallway like wildfire.
Dalton's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
The CEO didn't care.
"Leave," he repeated, tone final.
Security stepped in. Dalton disappeared.
The CEO turned back to me like he was switching scenes in a movie.
"Zarah."
"Yes?" My voice trembled.
"How does Manager sound to you?"
I froze. "Manager… as in… me?"
He nodded once. Confident. Certain.
"You have structure, talent, confidence—and you're not afraid to speak up when something is wrong. That's the kind of leadership this place needs. If you want the position, it's yours."
I stared at him, breath stuck in my throat.
"Starting today," he added.
I think my heart actually forgot its job for a full three seconds.
My eyes went wide. I stared at him for moments that stretched like hours—his dark, calculating eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet authority in the way he stood. Then, reluctantly, my gaze drifted to the file still clutched in his hands… and finally to the large, ugly brown stain spreading across my shirt.
Shit. Coffee.
"What do you mean… today?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly, as I jabbed a finger at the stain. "Look at my shirt, Mr—" I trailed off, waiting for him to give his name.
"Sinclair," he said simply, his tone calm, unshaken.
"Sinclair… hmm. Old money," I muttered, more to myself than him, my eyes studying him carefully. There was something about him—controlled, composed, commanding—but also… oddly human. Like he could snap his fingers and everyone would obey, yet he somehow made the world pause when he looked at me.
"Yes. Old money," he confirmed, his baritone smooth and deliberate. "My assistant will replace your shirt. You can resume in your office. Would that be all?"
I blinked, processing the ease with which he'd just dismissed the disaster. "Well… wait—Zarah, will that be all?" I whispered to myself, scratching my chin.
He shook his head, then let out a soft, almost uncharacteristic laugh. The small crowd that had gathered froze and glanced at each other, murmuring under their breath. Sinclair—the infamously cold, uptight, untouchable CEO—was laughing. Laughing. And directed at me.
I swear, the hallway shifted. The fluorescent lights suddenly seemed dimmer, the polished floors quieter. The very air seemed to hum around him, and the onlookers couldn't believe the transformation. To them, he was always precise, controlled, intimidating—never… human. Not like this.
"If that's all, I'll take my leave. If you need anything, my office is upstairs," he added, stating it like a command wrapped in velvet. His eyes flicked to mine, calm, almost teasing, as if daring me to question him.
"That office—" I began.
"Change the interior for all I care. You're dismissed, Zarah," he interrupted smoothly, with that same quiet authority that left no room for argument.
And just like that, he walked away. I didn't even get a chance to say thank you—though I desperately wanted to—but he'd disappeared before the thought could form.
My heart raced. I had just landed a job. Just like that. GOD DOES EXIST. Miss Irene would be so proud.
The assistant stepped forward, voice gentle, snapping me out of my daze. "Miss Zarah, please follow me to change your shirt."
I hesitated for a moment, still watching Sinclair's back, noticing the effortless way he carried himself, even as he returned to his usual, perfectly composed self. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet now, the crowd staring after him like they'd seen a miracle: the untouchable CEO, relaxed, smiling… and only for me.
I swallowed hard, clutching my files. My chest was pounding. This wasn't just a job. Something about him—about thismoment—felt like it could change everything.