Chapter 1
Kayna’s POV
If nerves had a taste, mine would be bittersweet black coffee laced with the metallic tang of self-doubt.
The elevator chimed, its polished steel doors gliding open to reveal the top floor of Marshall Dynamics Inc. It didn’t feel like an office building. It felt like a fortress—every panel of glass, every strip of marble engineered to remind you that power lived here, and you were a guest at best.
I tugged the collar of my thrifted blazer, forcing my legs to move. Each click of my heels against the marble sounded like a countdown to execution.
“Ms. Kayna Scott?”
The voice cut sharp through the silence. I turned to see a woman in her forties, tablet in hand, French manicure immaculate. Precision seemed to radiate from her. Slate-grey sheath dress. Zero warmth. The type who could file your termination letter with the same ease she’d order lunch.
“That’s me,” I managed.
“You’re five minutes early.”
“I… don’t mind waiting.”
No smile. “Follow me.”
Her heels clicked briskly as I trailed behind, trying not to wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt. The hallways were lined with frosted-glass offices. Behind them: muted voices, sharp suits, the hum of power that never slept.
I had applied three hours after the job went up. I hadn’t expected so much as an auto-reply, let alone an interview within twenty-four hours. But here I was, walking deeper into the corporate citadel of Damian Marshall.
I swallowed. “Who am I meeting?”
She didn’t falter. “Mr. Marshall. He insists on final interviews.”
My stomach dropped. The Damian Marshall. Ruthless strategist. Merciless CEO. A man who had assistants fleeing in tears and board members second-guessing their own memory after speaking with him.
We stopped at a black door. Its silver plaque: CEO, Marshall Dynamics Inc.
The woman turned to me, her expression both warning and challenge. “Don’t interrupt. Don’t speculate. Don’t assume he’s joking.”
I nodded, though my knees nearly buckled.
She rapped once, opened the door. “Mr. Marshall, your ten-thirty is here.”
“Send her in,” came the low, clipped reply.
Her parting glance was a silent, good luck surviving him.
I walked in. Spine straight. Chin up. If I was going to drown, at least I’d look like I belonged in deep waters.
The office was sprawling, all clean steel and walnut. But it wasn’t the décor that stole my breath.
It was him.
Damian Marshall stood at the window, back to me. His suit was navy, his stance precise, a hand tucked casually into his pocket as if the entire skyline bowed to him. When he turned, I nearly forgot to breathe. His jawline was sharp, his steel-blue eyes sharper still, the kind of gaze that cut away excuses before they could form.
“Good morning, Mr. Marshall,” I said, though my throat felt scraped raw.
His gaze swept me top to bottom, clinical. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Is that… a problem?”
“One I’ll decide in five minutes.” His voice was all blade, no softness. “Step forward.”
I obeyed, holding out my resume. He didn’t take it.
“I’ve already reviewed your file.”
Of course he had.
“You worked three jobs through college: coffee shop barista, medical receptionist, warehouse inventory.” His words were flat. “You graduated with average scores but your professors described you as persistent. One even wrote you were ‘unreasonably determined to succeed’ nevertheless you have no internships or references from industry players.”
Heat burned at my cheeks. “Yes, but—”
“You are underqualified.”
My chest tightened. “I know. But qualifications don’t measure how fast someone adapts. Or how much pressure they can take.”
His silence pressed against me like weight.
Finally, he crossed to the desk, leaning against it. “You also have a tendency to challenge authority.”
My breath caught. “I—”
“Why apply for a position you have no business filling?”
His voice hit like a strike. My instinct was to shrink, but I forced myself upright. “Because no one will outwork me. I learn fast. I can handle pressure.”
His eyes narrowed, weighing me like a flawed diamond. “Pressure, hm? Let’s test that.”
He picked up my file. “You corrected your former supervisor’s calendar in front of a board member. He filed a complaint.”
My stomach lurched. “The board member had the wrong launch date. I wasn’t trying to embarrass anyone, I was trying to prevent a costly mistake.”
“You did prevent it,” Damian said, voice cold. “But you humiliated him. That partnership was lost.”
The words landed heavy. My throat burned. Maybe this was the breaking point. Maybe I was already done.
“Tell me, Ms. Scott.” His eyes locked on mine, unflinching. “Do you have a habit of being right at the wrong time?”
I swallowed. “I… have a habit of refusing to stay silent when something could go wrong if I stayed silent.”
The silence stretched, unbearable. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth tugged—not a smile, more a recognition.
“You worked sixty-hour weeks while maintaining a full course load.” His tone shifted, low. “You never missed a shift. Not once.”
My breath caught. He’d noticed.
“You were the only receptionist at that clinic who lasted longer than six months. Everyone else quit under the workload.” He tilted his head. “You stayed a whole year.”
“Yes.” I whispered.
“And in the warehouse…” His eyes flicked to the file. “…you were promoted to inventory lead in under four months. No degree. No training. You have good reviews from your employees so that’s a plus for you on being diligent.”
I hadn’t thought he’d even read that far. My heart pounded.
“You’re underqualified” he repeated, voice like steel. Then—after a pause—“But you are resilient. Relentless. Loyal, if given a reason to be.”
He closed the file with a decisive snap.
“Those traits interest me more than qualifications.”
The air between us tightened, charged. He leaned back against the desk, arms folded, eyes still dissecting me. “So, Ms. Scott. Do you have any loyalty to me?”
My throat worked. “We just met.”
His mouth twitched, dangerously close to a smirk. “Exactly.”
Then, without breaking his gaze, he slid a folder across the desk. “Two-week trial. Starting salary. Confidentiality agreement.”
My legs willed me forward, though my brain scrambled. “I… I’m hired?”
“You’re being tested.” His tone was clipped. “If you last, you’ll handle board-level strategy. My last assistant vacated suddenly.”
“Why?”
His eyes cooled instantly. “Not your concern.”
“Understood.”
He pressed his phone. “Ava. Nondisclosure forms. Ms. Scott will be joining the team.”
My pulse spiked. I hadn’t even signed yet.
“You have ten minutes to review,” Damian said. “Then you’ll accompany me to an audit review.”
My head jerked up. “An audit? Today?”
“If you’re as fast a learner as you claim,” his eyes cut into me, “this won’t be a problem.”
He studied me, his gaze unflinching. “I don’t tolerate mistakes. I don’t condone incompetence. And I don’t repeat myself.”
“Understood, sir,” I said quickly.
The door opened. Ava swept in, a folder in hand, shooting me a look that was half warning, half pity. Her eyes giving me with a silent message that seemed like another: Good luck surviving him
I wasn’t sure I’d survive. But Damian Marshall had decided I was worth the risk.
And for reasons I couldn’t yet explain, that was enough to make me want to fight.
