Chapter 4

Ethan Gray's office took up half the top floor.

His side of the space was all authority and glass. The city spread out behind his desk. The black ebony surface looked like a throne disguised as furniture.

My side was a joke.

In a cramped corner near the entrance, someone had shoved a narrow white desk against the wall. No window. No plant. No view. Not even a decent chair.

It looked like a station for temporary help.

The hierarchy was obvious.

Ethan sat at his desk with a file open in front of him. He wore a black shirt with the collar loose at the throat. Even in the wheelchair, he gave off enough controlled pressure to make breathing difficult.

Serena marched me over to my little desk and dropped a stack of files so hard the wood shook.

"Miss Blake, this is Mr. Gray's schedule for the next two weeks and the files for several key projects currently in progress." She spoke fast, like she was trying to drown me in information on purpose. "Your task this morning is to memorize all of it."

Before I could even respond, she glided to Ethan's desk and transformed.

The sharpness she used on me vanished.

Her voice turned sweet and soft.

"Mr. Gray, I've revised the South District development proposal based on your notes." She bent down slightly as she handed him a file. "Would you like me to change anything else?"

He didn't even look up.

"Leave it. Go."

Four words.

Ice cold.

The smile on her face froze.

But she recovered almost instantly.

"Of course, Mr. Gray. I won't disturb you and... Mrs. Gray."

She emphasized the title again before leaving.

When the doors shut behind her, the office went silent except for the rustle of paper and the faint hum of the air system.

I stood there awkwardly, not even sure where to put my hands.

"Bring me the blue file."

His voice cut through the stillness.

Relieved to finally have something to do, I pulled the blue folder from the stack and brought it over.

He took it and tossed it back onto the desk in front of me without opening it.

"By three this afternoon, I want a risk assessment report I can actually read."

I opened the file.

It was a contract renewal for an overseas supplier Gray Group had worked with for years.

My degree was technically in business administration, but my college had been mediocre, and I had spent most of those years working side jobs just to survive. Still, after reading the first few pages, even I could see something was wrong.

The figures contradicted each other.

Important liability clauses were worded vaguely enough to hide almost anything.

Worst of all, the financial statements in the appendix showed an obvious hole in the cash flow.

Someone was cooking the books.

This wasn't a normal file.

It was a trap.

A carefully prepared one.

Serena had dug it, covered it with fake numbers, and left it there for the clueless new girl to fall into.

I looked up at Ethan.

He was already reading another set of documents, calm and detached, as if none of this concerned him.

Anger rushed up so fast it made my vision blur.

Of course he knew.

He was Ethan Gray.

He had seen right through this file the moment it touched his desk.

Which meant he had let it happen.

He had let Serena set me up because he wanted to watch me fail.

He wanted me humiliated.

He wanted me sent packing.

My fingers tightened around the file until the edges bent.

I was seconds away from throwing it back on his desk and walking out.

Then something else rose up inside me.

That old, stubborn thing I had built in the Blake household just to survive.

Fine.

If he was paying me, then I was going to make him regret underestimating me.

I said nothing.

I went back to the tiny desk, turned on the computer, and got to work.

I dug through industry data. Pulled legal references. Rebuilt the cash flow line by line on scratch paper. Highlighted every suspicious clause in red. Made notes beside every contradiction.

I forgot to drink water.

Forgot to breathe normally.

Forgot everything except the numbers in front of me.

At 2:59 p.m., I dropped a marked-up report on Ethan's desk. It was color-coded, blunt, and attached to three core questions and two alternative solutions.

It was probably crude by professional standards.

But it was everything I had.

I stood there, chest heaving from exhaustion and nerves, and waited for judgment.

He didn't even glance at the report.

He looked straight at my face instead.

At my bloodshot eyes.

At my trembling mouth.

And then, in a tone that had nothing to do with the file in front of him, he asked:

"What exactly did you major in?"