Caleb Pov

I believe in myself.

That's the foundation of everything I've built.

Self-belief, self-reliance, and an absolute refusal to depend on anyone else for validation or success. At thirty years old, I'm the CEO of one of the most successful investment banks in the country. I answer to no one. I bow to nothing. And I sure as hell don't let emotions dictate my decisions.

So why the fuck did my hands shake when I signed the last contract?

Two hours. Two solid hours of signing documents, reviewing proposals, and pretending to care about percentages and profit margins when all I wanted to do was throw the entire stack of papers out the window and watch them scatter across downtown Manhattan.

I pushed back from my desk and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, loosening my tie as I stared out at the city sprawling beneath me. From up here, everything looked small.

Manageable. Controlled.

My phone beeped.

I pulled it from my pocket, already knowing who it would be. My mother had an uncanny ability to sense when I was having a bad day and make it exponentially worse.

Darling, I'm coming to New York next weekend. I simply must meet your princess. I've been patient long enough. Prepare her for lunch on Saturday. Somewhere nice.

Love you.

"Shit." The word escaped before I could stop it.

This was exactly what I'd been trying to avoid.

Months ago, in a moment of weakness during one of her relentless phone calls about my unmarried status, I'd told her I was seeing someone. Someone special. Someone I could actually envision a future with.

It had been a lie, of course. A desperate attempt to stop her weekly blind date arrangements and her lectures about family legacy and the importance of settling down before I became one of those sad, lonely old men with nothing but money to keep them warm.

The irony was that I'd never felt lonely. I had everything I needed power, money, influence, and an endless supply of women willing to warm my bed without the suffocating burden of emotional entanglement.

Marriage was a trap. Love was a weakness. And I'd built an empire by refusing to fall into either.

But now my lie had caught up with me, and I had exactly one week to produce a girlfriend who didn't exist.

"Perfect," I muttered, tossing my phone onto the desk. "Just fucking perfect."

A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.

Finally. My new secretary was supposed to have started at eight-thirty. It was now nearly nine.

Lateness was one of my few absolute deal breakers, and whoever this person was, they were about to learn that lesson the hard way.

The door opened.

Instead of my new hire, Mia Ballack glided into my office like she owned the place. She was wearing a tight red dress that left nothing to the imagination, her blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders, lips painted the color of fresh blood.

"Mr. Theller," she purred, closing the door behind her with a soft click. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Yes, you absolutely are, I thought, but what came out was, "Ms. Ballack. What can I do for you?"

She moved closer, hips swaying deliberately. "My brother's investment is going through smoothly, I hear. I wanted to thank you personally."

"That's not necessary. It's just business."

"Is it?" She was in front of me now, close enough that her perfume something expensive and cloying filled my senses.

"Because I think we both know there could be more between us than just business."

Her hand found my chest, fingers trailing down to my belt. I should have stopped her. Should have maintained professional boundaries and reminded her that her brother's business relationship with my company made this incredibly inappropriate.

But it had been a long day. A long week. And Mia was offering exactly what I needed, a distraction that required nothing from me emotionally.

"This is a bad idea," I said, even as my hands found her waist.

"The best ones usually are." She pulled me toward the adjoining lounge, and I let her, already knowing how this would end.

We barely made it to the couch before her lips were on mine, demanding and insistent. Her hands worked at my tie while mine found the zipper of her dress. This was familiar territory pure physical release without the messy complication of feelings.

She pushed me down onto the leather couch, straddling me with practiced ease.

"God, you smell so good," she breathed against my neck.

I didn't respond. I never did during these encounters. Words implied connection, and connection was something I actively avoided.

Her dress was halfway down her shoulders when I heard it, a soft, feminine gasp from the doorway.

My head snapped up.

And there she stood. A tall, slim woman in formals.

Mia scrambled off me with a muttered curse, grabbing her purse and shoving past the woman in the doorway hard enough to make her stumble.

But the woman, my new secretary, I realized with dawning horror, simply steadied herself and maintained that same serious, unreadable expression.

"I apologize for the interruption," she said, her voice cool and professional. "The door was unlocked."

I stood, straightening my tie and trying to regain some semblance of control.

"Who are you?"

"Selena Carter." She stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind her. "I'm here for the position of executive assistant."

Selena.

The name suited her something elegant and sharp.

I moved toward her deliberately, using my height to establish dominance the way I always did in business negotiations. She was tall for a woman, probably five-seven or five-eight, but I still towered over her by several inches.

Up close, I could see details I'd missed from across the room. Sharp brown eyes behind those glasses. A small beauty mark near her left eyebrow. The faint scent of something floral and clean, so different from Mia's overpowering perfume.

"You're late, Ms. Carter," I said, keeping my voice cold. "Seven minutes late on your first day."

"The elevato-" she began.

"I don't accept excuses. I accept results." I circled around her slowly, watching her spine straighten but her expression remain neutral. Most people wilted under this kind of scrutiny. She simply stood there, meeting my gaze without flinching.

"Being late suggests a lack of respect for my time and this position. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes,"

"So there will be consequences. Consider it your first lesson at Theller International, every action has a consequence. Every mistake has a price."

Still, she didn't flinch. Didn't argue or make excuses or flutter her eyelashes and try to charm her way out of punishment. She simply nodded once, accepting her fate with a dignity that was oddly... compelling.

"What kind of consequences?" she asked quietly.

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it.

"That, Ms. Carter, is what you're going to spend the rest of the day finding out."

~

I'd intended to break her.

The storeroom task was designed to be exhausting, humiliating, the kind of grunt work that would make her reconsider whether this job was worth it. Most assistants quit within a week when they realized I had no patience for weakness or incompetence.

But when she returned hours later, exhausted and disheveled but with the work completed perfectly, something shifted in my chest. An unfamiliar sensation that felt almost like... respect.

"Is your work finished, Ms. Carter?" I asked from her doorway, genuinely curious.

"Yes, sir. Every file is organized alphabetically and labeled by year. You're welcome to inspect it."

The confidence in her voice, despite her obvious exhaustion, made my pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with anger.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I'd spent the lunch meeting deliberately denying her food, watching for signs of weakness, waiting for her to crack. But she'd sat through the entire meal with perfect composure, taking notes and maintaining professionalism even as I could see hunger making her hands shake.

It was cruel.

I knew it was cruel. But I couldn't seem to stop myself from testing her, pushing her, seeing how far she could bend before breaking.

The coffee incident changed everything.

When the hot liquid had burned my hand, my first instinct had been anger at my own clumsiness. But then she was there, taking control with such natural authority that I'd found myself following her orders without question.

She'd dragged me to the bathroom, held my hand under cold water, and tended to the burn with gentle efficiency. And when she'd looked up at me and smiled, actually smiled, like my wellbeing mattered to her, something in my chest had cracked open.

Her fingers on my skin had been torture. Not painful, but intimate in a way I hadn't experienced in years. She wasn't trying to seduce me or manipulate me. She was simply... caring. For no reason other than basic human decency.

It terrified me.

So I'd channeled that fear into anger, snapping at her when she'd interrupted me with that other woman. I'd needed to reestablish distance, remind both of us of the power dynamic and the impossibility of whatever strange connection was forming.

But then she'd nearly fainted, and I'd caught her, and for one suspended moment with her body against mine and her face pale with exhaustion, I'd wanted nothing more than to carry her home and make sure she was safe.

This is wrong

I'd told myself as she'd refused my help and walked away with wounded dignity.

She works for you. She's off-limits. Get it together.

That's why I'd left for Chicago two days later without telling her. Distance would help. A few days away from those intelligent eyes and that serious mouth, and I'd be back to normal.

Except it didn't work.

I'd thought about her constantly. Wondered if she was eating properly. If she was still angry about the lunch incident. If she thought about me the way I couldn't stop thinking about her.

By the time I landed back in New York on Saturday night, I was wound so tight I could barely think straight. I headed to Storm my club, my sanctuary, the one place where I could usually lose myself in alcohol and anonymity.

The VIP section was busy, filled with the usual crowd of wealthy socialites and business associates. I grabbed a whiskey and positioned myself near the glass overlooking the main floor, content to watch the chaos below from a safe distance.

That's when I saw her.

At first, I didn't believe it. Couldn't believe it. The woman dancing under the spinning lights, body moving with sensual confidence in a green sequined dress that caught every flash of color, it couldn't be her.

But it was.

Selena Carter. My serious, professional, glasses wearing secretary was dancing like she'd been born to command attention. Her hair fell in loose waves over bare shoulders. Her body moved with the music in ways that made my mouth go dry. And when she threw her head back and laughed at something her friend said, I saw a joy and freedom in her expression that I'd never seen in the office.

She looked breathtaking.

I gripped my whiskey glass so hard I was surprised it didn't shatter.

This was the woman I'd denied lunch to. The woman I'd punished with menial tasks and cruel indifference. And here she was, vibrant and alive and completely unaware that her boss was watching her dance like his world was ending.

Our eyes met across the crowded club.

Even from that distance, I saw the exact moment she recognized me. Saw her freeze, eyes widening, body going still in the middle of the dance floor.

I should have looked away. Should have left before she could confirm it was me.

Instead, I held her gaze, letting her see exactly how much she affected me. Letting the want show in my eyes for just a moment before I locked it down again.

Then I turned and walked away, because staying meant doing something stupid. Something that would cross lines I'd spent my entire adult life maintaining.

In the hallway outside the VIP section, I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding like I'd just run a marathon. My hands were shaking.

I need to make myself hate her.

I need her to hate me. It's the only way this doesn't end in disaster.

Because the alternative admitting that Selena Carter made me feel things I'd sworn never to feel, that she'd gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever had was unacceptable.

I was Caleb Theller. I didn't do feelings. I didn't do vulnerability. And I sure as hell didn't fall for my secretary like some cliché from a bad romance novel.