Page 3

CHAPTER 3

CORA

T he clock on my phone flashes 5:45 a.m. as I stand in front of the full-length mirror, my reflection staring back at me with a mix of determination and nerves. The charcoal blazer hugs my shoulders just right, and the off-white blouse underneath is crisp, but my gaze keeps dropping to the skirt versus trousers debate playing out on my bed.

“Skirt or no skirt. That is the question.”

I step closer to the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the blazer. “Orion Weller. Billionaire. Ruthless. Not the type to care about fashion but definitely the type to notice if you’re not sharp.”

I glance at the trousers again, and that’s when I see it—a tiny stitch out of place near the hem. My stomach sinks. “Great. Just great. Orion’s probably the kind of guy who inspects every thread on his employees’ clothes. One mistake and he’ll fire me on the spot.”

My eyes flick back to the skirt. It’s professional but flirty, and I can’t deny the strategic advantage of showing a little leg. “Fine. Skirt it is. If he’s distracted by my legs, maybe he won’t notice if I mess up something important.”

I snort at my own reasoning, but I slide the skirt on anyway, adjusting the waistband and pulling the hem down just enough to feel confident. I grab my bag, double-checking that I’ve got everything—notebook, pens, phone, the works—then tiptoe out of my room.

The house is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I pause at the top of the stairs, listening for any sign that my parents are awake. Mom’s voice echoes in my head. “Cora, honey, why don’t you ever take risks? You’re too cautious!”

“Well, Mom,” I whisper to myself, “today’s a risk.”

I pad down the stairs, my heels in one hand so they don’t click against the hardwood. The front door creaks when I open it, and I freeze, waiting for the sound of footsteps or a groggy voice calling out. Nothing. I slip outside, the cool morning air hitting my face, and pull the door shut behind me with a soft click.

The cab’s already waiting at the curb, the driver scrolling through his phone. I shove my heels on and climb into the backseat, giving him the address for Orion Plaza.

“Big day, huh?” he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“You could say that. Either I’m about to start the best job of my life or get fired before lunch.”

He chuckles. “Good luck with that.”

I lean back in the seat, staring out the window as the city lights blur past. Orion Plaza looms in the distance, its glass facade catching the faint glow of the rising sun. My stomach twists, but I push the nerves down.

“Skirt or no skirt,” I mutter under my breath. “Let’s see if this gamble pays off.”

I hand the cab driver a crumpled twenty and step out onto the curb, craning my neck to take in the full height of Orion Plaza. The building looms over me like a steel-and-glass monolith, its mirrored surface reflecting the faint pink streaks of dawn. My stomach twists, but I square my shoulders and stride toward the entrance.

The lobby is a cathedral of modern design—three stories of gleaming marble and glass, with a massive chandelier hanging like a frozen waterfall. The reception desk sits in the center, a sleek, circular island manned by a woman with a perfectly coiffed bun and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Cora Daniels,” I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. “I have an appointment with Mr. Weller.”

She taps at her keyboard, her nails clicking like tiny hammers. “Elevator to the top floor. He’s expecting you.”

The elevator ride feels like it takes forever, the numbers ticking up with agonizing slowness. When the doors finally slide open, I step into a dimly lit office that smells faintly of leather and something metallic. The space is vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. But my attention is immediately drawn to the man sitting at the desk, his face illuminated by the cold glow of his computer screen.

Orion Weller.

His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and unyielding, like he’s already dissecting me. I freeze in the doorway, my hand still gripping the strap of my bag.

“Do you speak?” His voice is deep, resonant, and carries an edge that makes my spine stiffen.

I flinch, my mouth dry. “Y-yes?”

“Are you asking me a question, Ms. Cora Daniels?” The way he says my name—slow, deliberate—makes it sound like a challenge.

“No,” I blurt out, my voice firmer this time. I straighten my posture, refusing to let him see how much he’s rattling me.

He rises from his chair, and I swear the room feels smaller as he steps out from behind the desk. The shadows cling to him like a second skin, but as he moves into the light, his features become clear. He’s massive—broad shoulders, towering height, and a presence that feels like a physical weight. His black hair is slicked back, and his purple eyes bore into me with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

“First lesson,” he growls, his voice low and commanding. “You will address me as Mr. Weller or Sir when you speak to me. This includes when you respond to a question. Is that clear?”

"Yes, Sir, Mr. Weller," I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My voice sounds foreign, like it belongs to someone else—someone who doesn’t mind being talked down to. My cheeks burn, but it’s not just from humiliation. There’s something else, something hot and electric that coils low in my stomach. I hate it. I hate him. And yet, I can’t look away.

Orion grunts, a sound that’s more dismissal than acknowledgment. He steps closer, his presence looming over me like a storm cloud. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of leather and something sharp, like ozone, filling my lungs. He starts to circle me, his boots clicking against the polished floor. Each step feels deliberate, calculated, like he’s mapping out my weaknesses.

I stand frozen, my hands clenched at my sides. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. His gaze sweeps over me, and I feel it like a physical touch—heavy, invasive, and impossible to ignore. My skin prickles, and I have to fight the urge to fidget. I’ve never felt so exposed, so… small.

"Mr. Robbie Dalton speaks highly of your qualifications, Ms. Daniels," he says, his voice low and smooth, like velvet wrapped around steel. "He says that you possess a keen mind, flexibility of thought and perception, and creatively applied ambitions that made you a standout at University."

"Thank you, Sir," I reply automatically, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Don’t thank me," he snaps, and I flinch, my gaze dropping to the floor. His tone is like a whip, sharp and cutting, and it leaves a sting that lingers. My stomach churns, a mix of anxiety and something else I can’t quite name. The thought of displeasing him makes my chest tighten, and I hate how much it bothers me. "Thank him. Or perhaps, you should offer no thanks, because he has placed you here. In the palm of my hand."

His words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. I swallow hard, my throat dry. My mind races, trying to find a way to regain some control, but all I can focus on is the way he’s looking at me—like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.

I force myself to meet his gaze, my chin lifting in defiance. "And what are you going to do with me, Sir?" The question comes out bolder than I feel, and I can’t tell if it’s bravery or stupidity.

His knuckles graze my cheek, rough and deliberate, and I flinch at the touch—not because it’s harsh, but because it’s electric. My heart slams against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out all rational thought. He’s close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and earthy, like a storm rolling in.

“Sir,” I manage to whisper, but the word feels inadequate, like a pitiful attempt to claw back some control. Control I don’t have. Control I’m not sure I even want.

His hand cups my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. Those purple eyes bore into me, and I can’t look away. I don’t want to. There’s something hypnotic about the way he studies me, like he’s peeling back every layer of my carefully constructed facade.

“Now that I have you,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, “what am I to do with you?”

The question hangs in the air, thick and heavy, and I feel my face flush. My skin burns where his fingers touch, and I’m painfully aware of every inch of space between us. His dominance should terrify me—hell, it does terrify me—but there’s a thrill in it too, a forbidden heat that coils in my stomach and spreads like wildfire.

“Sir,” I start again, but my voice wavers, betraying the storm of emotions churning inside me. Anger at his arrogance. Humiliation at how easily he’s reduced me to this trembling mess. And something else—something I don’t want to name but can’t ignore. Attraction. Raw, unrelenting attraction.

His lips curve into a faint smirk, as if he can see straight through me.

“You’re full of potential, Ms. Daniels,” he says, his tone almost taunting. “But potential is worthless without discipline. Without direction.”

He releases my chin and steps back, his gaze lingering on me as if he’s assessing a piece of art. I take a shaky breath, my mind racing. He’s testing me. Pushing me. But for what?

“Sir,” I say, my voice steadier this time, “I’m here to prove myself. However you see fit.”

His smirk widens, and there’s a glint in his eyes that sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

“Good. Then let’s begin.”

Orion walks away from me, his movements deliberate, almost predatory. He stops by his computer, his broad shoulders blocking the screen for a moment before he glances back at me. His eyes narrow, and I feel like prey caught in the gaze of a predator.

“Come.” The word is a command, low and rumbling, and my body moves before my brain can catch up. His fingers snap, sharp and demanding like a whip crack. I’m at his side before I even realize I’ve taken a step.

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Weller,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. My cheeks flush as I fumble over the titles, my tongue tripping over itself.

“It’s Sir or Mr. Weller,” he says, his tone laced with something that might be amusement if it weren’t so sharp. “You don’t have to use both.”

“Sorry, Sir.” I can’t meet his gaze, my eyes darting to the screen instead. The spreadsheet displayed there is a labyrinth of numbers, formulas, and projections. I take it in at a glance, my mind already racing to piece together the puzzle. “Is this the financial projections for second quarter, Sir?”

His silence stretches for a beat too long, and I glance up to see him studying me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in the way his eyes narrow, a flicker of something that might be approval. He’s impressed. I can feel it, and it sends a jolt of pride through me, even as I force myself to stay focused.

“I suspect an error has been made on this Excel document,” he says finally, his voice a deep rumble that seems to vibrate in my chest. “I want you to find it and fix it.”

He doesn’t move, his massive frame looming over the desk, so I squeeze in beside him, my arm brushing against his as I reach for the keyboard. His presence is overwhelming, his height and breadth making the space feel impossibly small. I can smell his cologne—something dark and earthy, like a storm brewing on the horizon.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up linked financial documents, cross-referencing numbers, and verifying equations line by line. His closeness is distracting in ways I don’t want to admit, but I force myself to focus on the task at hand. I won’t let him see how much he’s getting under my skin.

Orion sighs, the sound impatient and gravelly. I glance up at him, my fingers pausing mid-keystroke.

“It’s easier to concentrate when you sit down,” he says, his tone clipped.

“I’m fine,” I reply, my voice steady despite the way my pulse quickens under his gaze. I want to prove myself, to show him I don’t need to be coddled.

His eyes narrow, and before I can react, his hand is on my shoulder, firm and unyielding. He pushes me into the office chair, the motion rough but not painful. The leather seat is warm from where he’d been sitting, and I feel a shiver run down my spine as my body sinks into it.

“Sit when you are told to sit,” he commands, his voice low and firm.

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, my voice softer than I’d like. My thighs squeeze together involuntarily, a warmth spreading through me that I’m not ready to examine. Being manhandled by him—even in such a small way—stirred something deep inside me, something I’ll have to unpack later.

Much later. In the privacy of my bedroom, late at night when I can’t sleep and the memory of his touch lingers like a ghost.