Mara Steele’s POV

His name was a warning, one every woman in Manhattan whispered with fascination and fear.

Damian Voss.

The billionaire who built an empire from nothing and destroyed anyone who stood in his way. Including my father.

Three years ago, Voss Enterprises swallowed my father’s small tech consultancy like it was nothing, a “business acquisition,” they called it. But my father lost everything: his clients, his reputation, his will to keep fighting.

And I lost him.

Now, I was walking into the same building that broke him.

The revolving glass doors of Voss Enterprises gleamed like a mirror, reflecting the part of me I had to become to survive this plan. A woman who didn’t tremble. A woman who smiled when she wanted to scream.

The marble lobby was vast, modern, cold, echoing with the quiet rhythm of power. Women in pencil skirts moved like clockwork, men in expensive suits spoke softly into phones. My heels clicked against the floor, announcing my arrival to a world that never expected me back.

“Name, please?” The receptionist’s tone was polite but distracted.

“Mara Steele,” I said, keeping my smile polite, my nerves buried deep. “For the private chef position.”

She typed, her perfectly manicured fingers clicking across the keyboard. “Mr. Voss will see you now.”

That surprised me. The CEO himself interviewing a chef? Either my forged credentials worked better than I thought, or this was already part of his game.

“Top floor,” she said, gesturing toward the private elevator.

The mirrored doors closed around me. As I ascended, the city fell away, streets, lights, noise, all replaced by a slow hum and my pounding heart. I watched my reflection in the elevator’s polished steel: high bun, red lipstick, calm expression. I looked like I belonged. That was the trick.

When the elevator opened, silence greeted me.

And him.

Damian Voss stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the night skyline painting his silhouette in silver. He didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t have to. The air seemed to bow to his presence.

“You’re late,” he said, voice deep, rich, the kind that could command or destroy with a whisper.

“I prefer fashionably on time.” My tone was even, though my pulse betrayed me.

He turned.

And for a second, just a second, I forgot my plan.

He was devastatingly composed. Broad shoulders beneath a fitted suit, dark hair slightly tousled as though he’d run a hand through it between meetings. His eyes were gray, cold, deliberate, and far too sharp.

“Private chef?” he asked, scanning my file. “Five years of experience. Paris, New York, private estates.” His gaze flicked up. “And yet no online portfolio. That’s… unusual.”

“I prefer discretion,” I replied, careful not to flinch.

“Do you?” He stepped closer, closing the distance between us. “In my world, Miss Steele, discretion isn’t a preference. It’s survival.”

“I can handle that.”

“I hope so.” His eyes dragged over me, not lewd, but assessing. Calculating. “I don’t tolerate mistakes in my kitchen… or in my house.”

My breath hitched slightly. “Understood.”

He circled around me, the way a predator circles something it’s not sure whether to kill or keep.

“I’ve gone through a dozen chefs this year,” he said. “Too loud. Too curious. Too eager to impress.”

“I’m none of those things.”

“Then you might last a week.”

He stopped in front of me, eyes locking on mine. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Should I be?”

His lips twitched, half amusement, half threat. “Everyone should be.”

I didn’t blink. “Then maybe you need someone who isn’t.”

That earned me a flicker of something almost human in his expression.

The tension in the room thickened. I could smell the faint trace of his cologne, spiced amber and smoke. My heartbeat echoed in my throat.

“Tell me something,” he said softly. “Why do you want this job?”

The question cut too deep. My throat tightened. Because I want to destroy you. Because you took everything.

But I only smiled. “Because I’m the best.”

He studied me in silence for so long I almost thought he could hear the truth clawing behind my calm. Then he nodded once.

“You start tomorrow.”

Just like that. No interview questions. No trial meal. No references checked.

It was too easy. Which meant he already suspected something, or wanted me close for his own reasons.

As I turned toward the elevator, I could feel his gaze follow me. It burned between my shoulder blades, heavy and possessive.

I stepped inside, pressed the button for the lobby, and exhaled for the first time since entering the building.

But just before the doors closed, his voice drifted through the air, smooth and dangerous:

“I hope you can handle the heat, Miss Steele.”

The doors slid shut with a hiss.

And I smiled—a slow, dangerous smile meant for no one but myself.

Because I had just stepped into the fire.

And this time, I wasn’t planning to get burned.