Reporting to Mr. Wrong

The elevator to the sixty-third floor smelled like money - leather, polished steel, and something faintly citrus that probably cost more per ounce than Elara Ashford's weekly grocery budget. She smoothed the front of her cream blouse and forced herself to breathe. You earned this, she reminded herself. You're here because you deserve to be. Not because her last name once opened doors. Not because her father used to own half the skyline. The mirrored walls reflected a version of her she barely recognized - composed, professional, deliberately unremarkable. Hair in a neat bun. Minimal makeup. Her mother's pearl earrings, the only indulgence she'd allowed herself. Pearls were classic. Safe. Neutral. When the doors opened, she stepped into a reception floor that felt more like a museum than an office. All glass, marble, and silence. Behind it all, windows framed the city like it belonged to the man standing before it. Damien Hale didn't stand when she entered. He simply looked at her. "Miss Ashford," he said. "Sit." "You'll start Monday," he said. "You'll report directly to me." She blinked. "Directly?" "You'll be my personal intern. Scheduling. Meetings. Client coordination. Long hours. High pressure. No margin for error." Content warnings: possessive behavior, privacy invasion, controlling behavior, emotional intensity.