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CHAPTER 1

CLARICE

T he bus lurches forward, the humid New Orleans air pressing against the windows. I tug at the hem of my blazer, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. The elderly woman next to me, her face lined with years of stories, gives me an approving nod.

“Sweetheart, you look like you just stepped out of one of those fancy magazines. Corporate, right?”

“Thank you,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “Yes, I’m on my way to a job interview.”

Her eyes light up, and she leans in closer. “Oh, how exciting! Where at?”

“The Parthenon,” I reply, my voice steady despite the knot tightening in my stomach.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s quite the place. Must be a big job. You nervous?”

“A little,” I admit, staring out the window. The street blurs as we pass the historic district—or what’s left of it, anyway. “The man interviewing me… he’s my ex.”

She lets out a low whistle, shaking her head. “Well, isn’t that a twist. You sure you’re up for that?”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” I say, more to myself than to her. The bus slows, and I stand, clutching my bag. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, dear. Just remember—you’re the one with the power now.” She winks, and I offer a tight-lipped smile before stepping off the bus.

The Parthenon looms ahead, its sleek glass facade glinting in the sunlight. My stomach churns as I crane my neck to look at the top floor. “Please don’t make a pass at me, please don’t make a pass at me,” I mutter under my breath, pushing through the revolving doors.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity, the muzak version of a blues song—my favorite genre—grating on my nerves. When the doors finally ding open, I’m greeted by the sight of a secretary who barely looks up from her nail polish. “Go on in,” she says, waving a hand toward the frosted glass door.

I take a deep breath, pushing it open. The scent of artificial citrus hits me as I step inside. Silas stands in the middle of the room, VR goggles strapped to his head, practicing his golf swing with a futuristic putter.

“Claire, is that you?” His voice is smooth, practiced. Too familiar. “Go ahead and take a seat. Make yourself a drink if you want. I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I say, bypassing the wet bar and settling into the chair opposite his desk. The leather squeaks under me, cold and unyielding.

At least he’s not naked. Small victories.

I scan the office while Silas finishes his VR golf swing, my eyes landing on the photos lining the walls. There he is, shaking hands with industry giants, his plastic smile plastered on every frame. One shot catches my eye—Silas standing beside a former president, looking like he’s just won the lottery. My gaze shifts to his desk, where a photo of him with a wife and a toddler sits front and center. At least that’s one thing he’s managed to stick with—marriage.

Silas yanks off the VR goggles, his hair slightly disheveled, and bounds over like he’s just won the Masters.

“Claire!” He grabs my hand, pumping it like he’s trying to start a lawnmower. “You look amazing. Corporate chic really suits you.”

“Thanks,” I say, pulling my hand back and subtly wiping it on my skirt. “So, what’s this about?”

He gestures for me to sit, leaning against the edge of his desk.

“I’ve got an opportunity for you. Something big. I know you’re sharp, Claire. I’ve seen your work.”

I pull a memory stick from my bag and hold it up.

“I’ve got my full resume here, transcripts, references—everything you’d need.”

He waves it off like it’s a fly. “I don’t need to see that. I already know you’re overqualified for the business stuff. But I need someone who can handle… extra duties.”

I stand so fast the chair wobbles. “Oh, no. I knew this was a mistake. I should’ve listened to my gut. You’re not getting me into your bed again, Silas.”

He’s in front of me before I can take a step, hands up like he’s surrendering. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Claire, stop. It’s not that. I’m a happily married man now. Believe it or not, I’ve moved on. Just hear me out.”

I glare at him, my arms crossed. “Fine. But if this is another one of your vague, manipulative schemes, I’m walking out that door and blocking your number.”

He steps back, holding his hands up like I’m pointing a gun at him. “Fair enough. Let’s sit down.”

I hesitate, then reluctantly sink back into the chair.

“All right, Silas. What do you mean by extra duties ? And don’t give me some corporate double-talk. Be specific.”

His grin widens, and I swear his plastic surgery makes it look like it’s about to crack. “Okay, here it is. I want you to be a corporate spy.”

I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the start of a headache creeping in. “You can’t pay me enough to break the law, Silas.”

He puts his hands up like he’s surrendering. “I’m not asking you to. Not really.”

“Oh, that’s comforting,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “What’s the job, then?”

Silas leans forward, his plastic smile stretching. “See, there’s this guy—Simon Karr. He’s been poking around New Orleans lately. Big guy, flashy, owns a Formula One team. He’s been sniffing around my business, and I need to know why.”

“Wait, Simon Karr? The guy who races his own car?” I frown, trying to place the name. “I’ve seen him in the news. What’s he doing here?”

Silas waves a hand dismissively, his face twisting like he’s swallowed something sour. “Oh, please. Driving around in circles isn’t exactly brain surgery. He’s just another rich guy with too much time on his hands.”

“Jealous much?” I raise an eyebrow.

He scoffs, leaning back with a forced chuckle. “Hardly. But here’s the thing—I’ve got reason to believe he’s been spying on me. And not just the corporate kind.”

Silas swivels his monitor around, tapping the keyboard. A video plays on the screen—a grainy security feed of a masked figure sneaking through the Parthenon’s server room. The guy’s huge, easily a head taller than the filing cabinets he’s rifling through.

“That’s him,” Silas says, pointing at the screen. “Or at least, I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

I squint at the video. The guy’s wearing a black mask and gloves, but his build is unmistakable—broad shoulders, towering height, and a stride that’s almost predatory. “How can you possibly know that’s Karr? The man’s wearing a ski mask.”

Silas gives me a look like I’m missing the obvious. “Claire Bear, look at him. He’s built like a brick house. How many guys that size are walking around New Orleans? Come on, it’s gotta be him.”

“Don’t call me Claire Bear,” I snap, leaning back in the chair. “But okay, fine. Let’s say it might be him. Why not just go to the police?”

Silas groans, rolling his eyes. “I already did. They came up with jack and shit. And jack left town. The NOPD doesn’t exactly specialize in corporate espionage, Claire. I need someone—someone like you—to get close to him. Find out what he’s up to.”

I shake my head, my stomach churning. “I’m not some private investigator, Silas. I don’t even know the first thing about spying.”

“That’s where I come in,” he says, leaning forward with that sleazy salesman grin. “I’ll get you a job as his personal assistant. You’ll have access to his office, his devices, everything. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open.”

“And if I get caught?”

“You won’t,” he says, but the way he avoids my eyes tells me he’s not as confident as he sounds.

“Silas, this is insane. I’m not risking my career—or my freedom—for this.”

He sighs, pulling a checkbook out of his desk drawer. “How does half a million sound?”

I freeze, my mouth going dry. “That’s… that’s a lot of money.”

“And if you find proof—either way—I’ll fund your own startup. Any business you want. You’ll be your own boss.”

My heart skips a beat. My own business. No more late nights in a cubicle, no more answering to people like Silas. It’s tempting—too tempting.

I chew on my lip, staring at the floor. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably,” he says. “But it’s also your ticket out of corporate hell. Think about it, Claire. Your own company. Your own rules.”

I take a moment to try and think, my mind racing. This is insane. Dangerous. Reckless. But… it’s also the kind of opportunity I’ve been dreaming of.

“Fine,” I say, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. “I’ll do it. But if this blows up in my face, I’m taking you down with me.”

Silas grins, his teeth gleaming like a shark’s. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Claire Bear.”

“Don’t call me that.”

My heels click against the marble floor as I enter Simon Karr's office building. The security guard barely glances at my ID before waving me through. Three days of research, two spa appointments, and one maxed-out credit card later, here I am. Ready to spy on a man who might be spying on my ex.

My life has become a bad romance novel.

The elevator mirror shows a woman I barely recognize. The aesthetician worked miracles with my skin—it practically glows. My honey-blonde hair falls in perfect waves, each strand exactly where it should be. The charcoal blazer hugs my curves without being obvious about it.

But it's the skirt that's making me second-guess everything.

I smooth my hands over the fabric for the hundredth time. The hem hits right at the knee—professional enough for an interview, but with just enough leg showing to catch attention. At least, that's what the saleswoman promised.

"He likes precision," I mutter to myself, adjusting my blazer. "Focus on that, not your legs."

The elevator dings at the top floor. My stomach lurches, and not from the altitude. What if Silas is wrong? What if Simon Karr isn't spying on him at all? What if I'm about to make a complete fool of myself?

The receptionist points me toward a set of heavy oak doors. My hand trembles as I reach for the handle.

"I should have worn pants," I mumble, pushing through the entrance of Simon's office.

I step into the small lobby outside Simon’s corner office, and my stomach drops. More than a dozen applicants crowd the space, perched on sleek leather chairs or pacing anxiously. Men and women in sharp suits clutch portfolios, their eyes darting toward the frosted glass door like it’s the entrance to a lion’s den. I scan the room, my heart pounding. Silas said this was a sure thing. He said I’d walk right in. But this… this looks like a cattle call.

I hover near the edge of the room, clutching my bag like it’s a life preserver. Every seat is taken, so I lean against the wall, trying to look casual. The air smells like expensive cologne and desperation.

“How long have you been waiting?” I whisper to the woman next to me. She’s got a tight bun and a jacket that costs more than my monthly rent.

“Forty-five minutes,” she mutters, checking her watch. “He’s only seen three people so far. Two came out crying, and the third…” She trails off, her eyes narrowing. “Let’s just say I didn’t catch his name.”

Great. Just great.

Before I can respond, the door to Simon’s office swings open. A man stumbles out, his face pale and tear-streaked. He’s clutching a wrinkled tie like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“He’s a monster,” the man says, his voice trembling. He looks around the room, his eyes wide and haunted. “A monster!”

The room goes silent. The man doesn’t say another word. He just bolts for the elevator, leaving the rest of us staring after him.

“That’s it,” someone says, standing up. “I’m out.”

One by one, the applicants get to their feet and head for the exit. The woman with the bun gives me a sympathetic look before following the herd. Within minutes, the lobby is empty—except for me.

My heart hammers in my chest, and my palms are slick with sweat. I glance at the frosted glass door, then back toward the elevator. I could leave. I should leave. But Silas’s promise of half a million dollars and a fresh start taunts me.

“Next,” comes Simon’s voice from the other side of the door. His tone is deep, commanding, and it sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not just a voice—it’s a force of nature.

I freeze. My feet feel like they’re rooted to the floor.

“Next!” he barks again, and this time, his words are sharper, more impatient. “Or are there nothing but cowards in this swampy metropolis?”

Swampy metropolis? Okay, rude. But also… not wrong.

I square my shoulders, and force myself to move. The door creaks as I push it open, and I step inside, plastering a smile on my face. Here goes nothing.

“Good morning,” I say, stepping into the office. The words hang in the air, half-formed, as my gaze locks with Simon’s. For a split second, the room seems to tilt, and I swear I see something monstrous—scaly skin, sharp teeth, eyes like molten lava. My breath catches, and I blink hard. Nerves. It’s just nerves. I keep my expression blank, but my pulse is racing, and my palms feel slick against the handle of my bag.

Simon is seated behind a massive desk, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. His gray eyes are sharp, assessing, and they don’t waver as I step fully into the room. For a moment, he’s perfectly still, like a predator sizing up its prey. Then something shifts. His eyes widen, just a fraction, and his chest rises with a quick, uneven breath. His gaze sweeps over me—quick, deliberate—and lingers on my legs. A flicker of heat flashes across his face, and I can feel it in the way his eyes linger, in the way his jaw tightens.

So the skirt was a good move after all. The thought flits through my mind, unbidden, and I swallow hard. There’s something primal in the way he’s looking at me, something that makes my skin prickle and my stomach twist. It’s not just attraction—it’s something deeper, something that feels like it’s stripping me bare.

“Name,” he says, his voice low and rough, cutting through the silence like a blade. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I feel pinned under it, exposed.

“Claire Redding,” I manage, but my voice cracks on the last syllable. I clear my throat, trying to steady myself, but it’s no use. I’m trapped in his gaze, and it’s terrifying—and exhilarating. Normally, when men look at me like this, I feel disgusted, or at least annoyed. But with Simon, it’s different. My heart is pounding, my mouth is dry, and there’s a strange, fluttering sensation low in my stomach. It’s terrifying, but it’s also… fun.

Simon leans back in his chair, his eyes still on me, the weight of his silence pressing down on me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and I can’t tell if he’s waiting for me to say something or just enjoying the way I’m squirming.

“I’m here for the assistant position,” I finally say, breaking the silence. My voice is steadier this time, but my hands are still trembling, and I grip the strap of my bag like it’s a lifeline.

Simon’s lips twitch, just barely, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Do you know what this job entails?” His voice is still low, but there’s a edge to it now, a challenge.

“Organizing your schedule, managing communications, handling logistics—” I start, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand.

“That’s the job description,” he says, his voice sharp. “I’m asking what it entails . Can you handle pressure? Deadlines? Demands? Can you keep up with me?”

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. “I can handle it,” I say, and my voice doesn’t waver this time. I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to look away. If he’s trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work. Not completely, anyway.

Simon rises from his seat, and I feel the weight of his presence before he even moves. My hands instinctively clasp behind my back, my spine straightening as if I’m standing at attention. He’s big—taller than I remember from the security footage—and the room seems to shrink as he steps around the desk. His shoes thud against the polished floor, each step deliberate, measured. I can hear the faint creak of leather as he moves, the scent of it—warm, earthy—wafting toward me.

He begins to circle me, slow and predatory. My skin prickles as his warm breath brushes against the back of my neck, stirring the fine hairs there. I force myself to remain still, my gaze fixed on the wall ahead, though every nerve in my body is screaming to turn, to face him, to run. I don’t dare fidget. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“I put stock in deeds, not words, Ms. Redding,” he rumbles, his voice low and resonant, like the growl of distant thunder. It vibrates through me, settling somewhere deep in my chest. “If I hire you, I will expect you to show me your worth, not try to sell me on it.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Imminently logical, Sir,” I say, and I mean it. There’s no fluff in his words, no empty promises. It’s refreshing, in a way, after years of Silas’s slick sales pitches and hollow charm. I respect a man who values results over rhetoric.

Simon pauses mid-step, his shoes scuffing against the floor. I can feel his gaze on me, sharp and assessing, though I don’t dare look at him. He leans in, his mouth inches from my ear, and I catch the faintest whiff of something smoky, like a campfire on a cold night.

“What did you say?” he demands, his breath hot against my skin. I can’t tell if he’s testing me or if he genuinely didn’t hear. Either way, my heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it.

“I said, ‘Imminently logical, Sir,’” I repeat, louder this time, though my voice doesn’t waver. “I prefer an employer who values results instead of sycophantic assurances of personal quality.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, the seconds ticking by like drumbeats in my chest. Then, I hear it—a soft inhale, like he’s taking in my scent. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but the thought is enchanting to say the least.

“I believe you,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. He steps back, resuming his circle, though his pace is slower, more deliberate. “So far, we seem of a mind, Ms. Redding.”

I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. It feels like I’ve passed some unspoken test, though I know this is only the beginning. Simon Karr isn’t the kind of man who hires on a whim, and I’m not fool enough to think a few well-placed words are enough to win him over.

I haven't landed the job yet—and the job is just a stepping stone to my real mission. But if I don't get the job, I can't exactly spy on Simon Karr and find out if he's the one who broke into the Parthenon a few weeks ago.

No job, no payday. No payday, no funding to start my own business.

I have to get this job. I have to.