Linda didn't crumble under his gaze. She didn't even blink. She just held out an open palm, her fingers still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of the scuffle.
"I don't care about whatever you have to say!" she spat, her voice cutting through the heavy air of the garage. "I worked. You pay. Hand over the money for the wash, or we go another round right here in front of your boys."
Robert gave a short, dry laugh—a sound as cold as a winter morning in the capital. He looked her up and down, taking in the frayed edges of her clothes and the smudges of grime that seemed a permanent part of her silhouette. To a man who lived in a world of bleached white marble and filtered air, she looked like a walking disaster.
"It's fascinating," Robert mused, stepping closer until he could smell the grit and cheap soap clinging to her. "That such a pathetic, insignificant amount of money could make you risk a prison sentence. Your life must be truly... filthy... for you to react with such desperation."
Linda's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away.
"Since your 'filthy' life clearly leaves you with plenty of free time," Robert continued, his voice dripping with mock-generosity, "I have a proposition. I have a fleet of twenty vehicles. They require daily, surgical-level maintenance. I could offer you a permanent position as my personal detailer. The pay would be more than you've likely seen in a year."
He paused, a cruel, handsome smirk playing on his lips. He expected her to flare up, to let her pride win and storm out. He wanted to see her walk away from the money just to prove him right.
"But then again," he added with a shrug, "a woman like you probably can't handle the discipline of working for someone like me."
Linda looked at him—really looked at him. She saw the trap. She saw the mockery. But then she pictured her mother's empty medicine cabinet and her siblings' worn-out shoes. Pride was a luxury she had traded for survival years ago.
"Fine," she said, her voice flat and hard.
Robert's smirk faltered. "Fine?"
"I'll take the job," Linda said, stepping into his space until she was the one invading his bubble. "Under two conditions. First, you pay me every cent you owe me for today, right now. Second, I don't work for you. I work for the money. You stay out of my way, and I'll keep your precious toys so clean you can eat your overpriced steak off the hubcaps. Do we have a deal, 'Boss'?"
Robert stared at her, genuinely stunned. He had tried to insult her into submission, but she had just turned his mockery into a business transaction. For the first time in his life, Robert Greg felt like he had lost a negotiation.
"John," Robert said, never taking his eyes off Linda. "Pay her. Double what was agreed."
Linda snatched the cash from John's trembling hand the moment it appeared. She counted it once, tucked it into her pocket, and turned her back on the billionaire without a second glance.
"See you tomorrow, Sir." she called out over her shoulder. "Try not to get any dust on yourself before then. It might break your heart."
As Linda stomped through the massive glass revolving doors of the Canberg Tech lobby, she moved with the stride of a woman who had just won a war. Her pockets were heavy with cash, and her mind was already at the pharmacy.
Coming the other way was a man in a tailored navy blazer, his face partially obscured by a pair of oversized sunglasses. It was the "Iron Vault" giant. Job, a venture capitalist and Robert's oldest friend, was nursing a jaw that felt like it had been hit by a freight train.
They passed within inches of each other. Linda didn't even turn her head; to her, he was just another obstacle she'd cleared earlier in the day. She vanished into the Ottawa afternoon without a backward glance.
Job, however, froze. He spun around, his mouth hanging open as he watched her walk away. A shiver of pure, unadulterated terror raced down his spine, followed immediately by a frantic, thumping heartbeat.
Minutes later, Job burst into Robert's executive suite. He didn't knock. He slumped into the Italian leather armchair opposite Robert's desk, let out a shaky breath, and groaned.
Robert didn't look up from his holographic display. "You're late, Job. And you smell like a locker room."
"I think I just saw an angel," Job wheezed. "An angel who knows how to perform a perfect hip throw."
Robert paused, his fingers hovering over the interface. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the dark, blossoming bruise on Job's cheek and the slight cut on his lip.
"Good God," Robert remarked, a rare spark of amusement in his cold eyes. "Who was she this time? Did you finally try your luck with a professional wrestler's wife?"
"Worse," Job said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling with a dazed expression. "I met a woman at the gym this morning. Gorgeous. Built like a goddess. I... I might have misread the situation and reached out. Robert, I didn't even see her move. One second I was standing, the next I was tasting the floor mat and she was threatening to rearrange my DNA."
Robert's mind flashed instantly to the underground garage—to the feel of a rough hand on his silk collar and the scent of grit and soap.
"Feisty," Robert murmured, the word feeling strange on his tongue.
"Feisty? She was a hurricane," Job corrected, a goofy, terrified smile spreading across his face. "And I think I'm madly in love. I've never felt so alive and so close to death at the same time. I need to find her."
Robert went back to his work, his voice flat. "She sounds like a liability. You should get an ice pack and forget her."
"That's the thing!" Job sat up straight, pointing toward the window. "I just saw her. Right now! She was walking out of your lobby like she owned the place. Does she work here? Tell me she works here, Rob. I'll double my investment in your next project if you give me her HR file."
Robert's hand stilled, a dark, unreadable emotion crossing his face.
"She doesn't work in HR, Job," Robert said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, low baritone. "She's the new detailer for my fleet. And if I were you, I'd keep your investments—and your hands—far away from her. She's already proven she has a taste for blood."