Elena Hartley stepped into Cross Tower with her head held high and her heels clicking like gunfire against the marble floor. The lobby was a cavern of glass, steel, and oppressive silence. Every suit she passed wore the same expression — wary, stiff, hollow-eyed.

She’d been warned.

“Watch yourself around Damien Cross,” her boss had said back in New York. “He’s not just cold. He’s arctic.”

Elena wasn’t impressed.

She’d faced corporate sharks before — aging CEOs who underestimated her because of her age or her gender. She didn’t scare easy. And she wasn’t about to start now.

Still, something prickled at the back of her neck as the elevator ascended in silence. By the time the doors opened on the top floor, she felt it — that strange, electric awareness.

The glass office stretched out before her, panoramic windows framing the London skyline. And at the far end of the room, standing with his back to her, was Damien Cross.

Six foot three of tailored menace.

His black suit cut sharp lines over broad shoulders. His dark hair was thick, perfectly styled, though a lock had fallen forward onto his brow. He stood motionless, one hand in his pocket, staring out at the city as if daring it to challenge him.

“You’re late,” he said without turning.

Elena arched a brow. She checked her watch.

“I’m early.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Damien turned.

God, he was beautiful. In a way that wasn’t soft or sweet — but cut from marble. High cheekbones, a hard jaw, straight nose. Eyes the color of storm clouds, flat and unreadable.

“I don’t tolerate people who waste my time.” His voice was low, smooth, and as frigid as the Thames in winter.

Elena met his gaze without blinking. “Good thing I’m not here to waste it.”

Their eyes locked. The air stretched tight between them.

For a moment — just a heartbeat — something flickered in Damien’s expression. Surprise? Amusement?

It vanished so quickly, she wondered if she imagined it.

He moved to his desk and picked up a folder. “Your company thinks you can fix my London division in three months. What makes you think you can succeed where dozens have failed?”

Elena strode forward, stopping at the edge of his massive oak desk. “Because unlike them, I don’t make excuses. I get results.”

Damien’s gaze dropped, slowly, to her outstretched hand. She realized she’d set her business card on the desk, right on top of the folder he held.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Confident.” His lips curled — not a smile. More like a silent warning. “Or naive.”

Elena didn’t flinch. “Is that how you motivate your teams? Scare them into submission?”

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly. He set the folder down, placing his hand over it — covering her card in the process.

“I don’t need to motivate anyone,” he said, voice soft as a blade’s edge. “I replace them.”

Her heartbeat kicked.

So this was the infamous Damien Cross.

“I see,” Elena said evenly. “And that’s been working out for you?”

The look he gave her was pure ice. “I built this empire by cutting dead weight.”

Elena smiled — sweet and sharp as glass. “Careful, Mr. Cross. Someday you’ll cut too much and find you’re the only one left standing.”

The air crackled.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Damien leaned back in his chair, regarding her with a look that could freeze oceans.

“Let’s see if you last the week.”

The next two hours passed in a blur of meetings, financial reviews, and sharp, biting comments from Damien.

Elena stood her ground. Every snide remark, every withering look — she met with cool professionalism. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of rattling her.

By noon, she found herself walking beside him through the executive floor — a sleek, modern space lined with glass offices. The employees glanced up from their screens, eyes wide, before snapping back to their work.

“They look terrified,” Elena murmured.

Damien didn’t break stride. “Good.”

She turned her head sharply. “You think fear makes people perform better?”

“It makes them think twice before wasting my money.”

They stepped into the boardroom. Damien held the door for her — though not out of courtesy. It felt more like he wanted to watch her walk in first. Like a predator letting its prey step into the trap.

Elena shook the thought off and entered.

The meeting that followed was a warzone of subtle power plays. Damien sat at the head of the table, silent but deadly, while department heads presented reports. Every time someone stumbled, his gaze cut them down.

Elena watched, noting every shift in the room. The way people flinched under Damien’s scrutiny. The way Vanessa Laurent — Cross Corp’s VP of International Relations — smiled a little too sweetly at Damien and glared daggers at Elena when she thought no one was looking.

Vanessa was beautiful. Sleek, blonde, polished to perfection. And cold as the man beside her.

After the meeting, as the room cleared, Vanessa brushed past Elena with a soft hiss.

“Watch yourself, darling.”

Elena blinked. “Excuse me?”

Vanessa’s red lips curved. “You’re the new pet project. They never last long.”

Elena tilted her head. “I guess I’ll have to disappoint you.”

Vanessa’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You already have.”

Hours later, Elena stepped onto the rooftop terrace, needing air.

London spread out before her — grey, misty, alive with distant lights.

She braced her hands on the stone ledge, breathing deep.

A soft voice cut through the night.

“Contemplating jumping?”

Elena turned. Damien stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets. The city wind ruffled his hair.

She shook her head. “Just wondering if your company policy includes scaring every employee into an early grave.”

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “It works.”

“Fear isn’t loyalty, Mr. Cross.”

Damien stepped closer. “Neither is friendship.”

Elena met his gaze — and for the first time, saw something beneath the ice.

Pain.

It was gone in an instant.

“You don’t trust anyone,” she said quietly.

His expression didn’t change. “I’ve never met anyone worth trusting.”

Elena’s heart twisted — and she hated that it did.

She lifted her chin. “Maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong places.”

Damien held her gaze for a long moment.

Then, softly — “Or maybe I stopped looking.”

Their eyes locked.

Something flickered between them — sharp, raw, almost magnetic.

The wind whipped around them. The city hummed below.

And for the first time that day, Damien Cross didn’t look cold.

He looked… haunted.

Elena opened her mouth to speak — but he stepped back.

“Don’t get attached, Miss Hartley,” he said, voice cool again. “It’ll only hurt.”

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the terrace.

Elena stared after him, her heart beating faster than she liked.

She wasn’t sure if it was anger… or something far more dangerous.