The elevator doors slid open on the forty-second floor, and Selina Voss stepped into a place that felt more dream than office: glass everywhere, light everywhere, everything sharp and impossibly polished.
Cross Tower wasn't just a building; it was a declaration. Nobody here bothered hiding the power that
dripped from every glossy surface.
Sunlight crashed through the miles of windows, painting the white marble with shifting gold. Outside, Velmora fanned out toward the horizon, blurry with distance but still carving its mark into the morning.
The city flexing its wealth, cranes reaching, rooftops stacked like playing cards, and the private port’s curve flashing silver.
Selina had memorized every architectural photo she could get her hands on, hoping for an edge, but none of those late-night web searches really prepared her for how the place pressed in on you when you were actually standing inside it.
She fixed her blazer, muscle memory from a hundred missions, most way less risky than this one. Her heels clicked across the floor, the sound echoing as she moved toward reception.
She made herself into the picture of competence, straight back, careful smile, steady eyes.
She looked friendly but forgettable, which was perfect. Executives never remembered the assistants who didn't stand out.
"Miss Voss?" The receptionist barely glanced up, already digging out a badge. "Mr. Cross is expecting you."
Of course he was. Nobody in this building ever looked surprised. They moved through their day like everything was exactly as it should be, like anticipation was part of their DNA. Selina felt that unspoken certainty slice at her nerves more than she’d care to let on.
She’d studied Damian Cross’s file so many times the details unspooled in her mind without effort: thirty-four, chairman and CEO of a sprawling empire, his inheritance hand-delivered before he could even rent a car, and yet he’d expanded it all instead of torching the legacy.
No scandals in the newsfeeds, no romantic slip-ups, no friendly debts stashed anywhere that even her team’s best snoops could dig up.
He was a man constructed like a puzzle box: sealed, silent, no edges for your fingers to work.
She reminded herself she’d broken into places like that before.
The receptionist led her down the hall, and Selina’s pulse steadied on that thought. She’d never failed at finding the hinge.
The last office had no nameplate. It didn’t need a label; power rarely announced itself.
"Come in," called a voice, cool and sure, before her hand so much as touched the door.
She stepped inside and took in Damian Cross for the first time at least not just over a photo or a digital dossier.
He wasn’t behind a desk. He stood at the window, city streaming around him, one hand in a pocket, phone to his ear.
His suit wasn’t anything off a department store rack; it looked like Italian fabric, cut so well the lines stayed crisp even when he moved.
And he didn’t fidget just this unwavering stillness, not tense exactly, almost like he had all the time in the world. It made Selina recalibrate; most powerful men couldn’t wait to fill the empty space, but he let silence breathe around him.
"Handle it," he told whoever was on the other end, voice low and calm. "I don’t need your excuse. Tell me when it’s fixed." He ended the call and turned, watching her with that steady, unreadable gaze.
Her training kicked in years of learning to keep her face still before she’d ever learned espionage, etiquette, or language.
Never betray surprise. Never let your nerves show up on your skin.
The moment Damian Cross saw her, Selina was grateful for every drill, every minute spent dissecting her own reflection.
He wasn’t movie-star handsome; he carried a different kind of gravity.
His features were cut sharper, his jaw angled like a carving, his gray eyes tracking her in a way that said he wasn’t looking at her but through her, past her, as if solving a puzzle.
She recognized the look. She’d worn it herself so many times.
"Miss Voss," he said. "Thank you for coming in."
"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Cross." She got the tone politely, warm without being ingratiating, the tiniest hint of interest that usually worked like a charm. She reached out to shake his hand.
He closed the distance with the same measured step. His handshake told her as much as his resume, firm, quick, straight to the point.
No unnecessary squeezing, no message in the grip. She marked it softly as odd; men at this level always gave something away:ego, boredom, even greed. Not him.
"Have a seat," he said and motioned to the chair across from him. He moved around his desk without any rush, wearing the space like it had been built for him, which, given the rumors, it probably had.
"I’ve read your resume." He thumbed through a folder she hadn’t noticed, plucking data points from memory;CFO’s executive assistant at Halvorsen Group, three years. I am fluent in four languages. Unquestionable references. He paused, meeting her eyes. "Your references were almost too glowing. It made me curious."
Her heart skipped, just a beat, but she’d learned long ago how to keep her pulse from reaching her cheeks. "Is that a concern?"
"Not especially." He snapped the folder closed. "But in my experience, the people who work the hardest to stay off the radar are usually the most interesting in the room."
She smiled, practiced and was inviting. "I’ll choose to take that as a compliment, Mr. Cross."
"You should." His face barely shifted, but his eyes did something flickering, gone as fast as it came. "This job? You’ll report directly to me. You’ll keep my schedule, handle sensitive files, see the board’s dirt and the company’s clean laundry.
You’ll be everywhere I am, sometimes when I’m the only one who knows you’re there. You’ll know more about Cross Holdings than most of my executives ever will."
He watched her for a long beat. "I take loyalty seriously, Miss Voss. More seriously than most people in this city understand."
"I understand," she said quietly.
He leaned back, folding his arms. The temperature in the room chilled a notch. "Really? Velmora is full of people who say that, but eventually, you learn most folks mean something else when they say ‘loyalty.’ I’ve learned to tell the difference."
Selina held his gaze. She would not break because a guilty person looked away too soon, and she refused to be guilty. She needed to own this moment, and screw up now and the next nine months would fall apart before they ever began.
"I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself which kind I am," she said evenly.
For a second, something shifted in his eyes again, sharp and unreadable. And for the first time in her career, Selina felt her feet unsteady beneath her just a hair, just enough to notice.
Damian took one last measure of her, then stood and buttoned his suit jacket. "Welcome to Cross Holdings, Miss Voss." He held the door for her. "Let’s hope both for your sake and mine that I’m right about you."
Selina followed, catching her own reflection in the window,her pose perfect, her mask in place. But her eyes gave her away for just a moment, and in that glint of glass, she saw a flicker of something she almost didn’t recognize: uncertainty. And in a place like this, that could be more dangerous than any lie.