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Blurb: Emery Blake has three rules: no dating clients, no falling for billionaires, and never, ever mix business with pleasure. But when she's hired to redecorate the penthouse of cold, brilliant venture capitalist Roman Hart, all her rules start to unravel. Roman isn't just devastatingly handsome he's charming, impossible to read, and seems determined to break down her walls. What starts as a clash of wills soon ignites into something neither of them saw coming. But Roman didn't get to the top without making enemies, and Emery's caught in the crossfire. In a world where money talks and secrets burn, will love be enough to survive?
Chapter 1 Rules Are Meant to Be Broken
Chapter 1
Emery's POV
I had three rules. They weren't complicated.
One: Never date a client.
Two: Never work with billionaires.
Three: Never, ever mix business and pleasure.
Those rules had been my sanity for the past four years. From the moment I quit my old job and started my own interior design business, they were my bible. And now, as I sat in the back seat of a sleek black car speeding toward Manhattan's Upper West Side, I could practically hear those rules taunting me.
I glanced down at the leather portfolio in my lap, then up at the electronic address blinking on the GPS. Penthouse. 77th floor. Hart Enterprises. The biggest venture capital firm on the East Coast.
Roman Hart.
The man was a walking headline. Genius, merciless, cold-blooded. Worth over five billion dollars and apparently allergic to interviews, relationships, and smiling. Forbes claimed he'd turned a tech startup graveyard into an empire. Everyone else claimed he made Gordon Ramsay look like a teddy bear.
And I was being invited to redesign his penthouse.
I almost said no. Almost.
But when your business is two late invoices from folding into oblivion and your partner gives the "we're drowning" speech across a lukewarm cup of coffee, you don't say no to an offer even one that makes every danger signal in your body scream.
"This is an error," I muttered to myself as I stepped from the car and into the building's atrium. It all gleamed as though cleaned by OCD-afflicted angels. Polished marble, chrome elevators, and a receptionist who looked like a Vogue cover model working part-time at a desk.
"Ms. Blake?" she said with a pinched smile. "Mr. Hart is expecting you on the top floor."
Naturally he was.
The elevator ride was silent and agonizingly slow. I caught a reflection of myself in the mirrored walls dark curls pinned up, white blouse tucked into black pants, and my lucky leather sketchbook clutched like a liferaft. I looked professional. Calm. In control.
I was shaking inside.
The doors opened and I stepped out into.money. That was the only way to describe it. Floor-to-ceiling windows, exposed steel beams, austere modern lines. Cold. Monochrome. Under-furnished. It was like a luxury prison with a view of the city.
And there he was.
Roman Hart stood at the windows, his back to me. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sleek in a charcoal suit. He filled the room before he'd even turned around.
"You're late," he said, not turning.
I blinked. I was exactly two minutes early.
"I'm on time," I said, my voice cooler than I was.
He turned then, finally meeting my gaze. And God help me, he was unfairly good-looking. Chiseled jaw, stormy gray eyes, black hair slightly tousled like he didn't care or like someone else had cared for him. And yet, somehow, the moment he looked at me, the air turned frigid.
"You're the designer."
Not a question. More like a diagnosis.
Yes. Emery Blake. You requested the meeting," I said, trying not to shake at the sound of my own voice.
He walked toward me, slowly, hands in pockets, sizing me up like I was a bad investment.
"I reviewed your portfolio," he said. "You have a.whimsical style."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to describe it."
"I don't do whimsical."
"I figured," I said, taking a look around the freezer he called a home.
He smiled. Barely.
This space is for entertaining," he said to me. "Not a playground. No bright colors. No quirky furniture. Nothing cushy."
I crossed my arms. "Then why hire me?"
He paused. "Because my board wants me to appear more 'approachable' to the media. Apparently, 'soulless shark' doesn't play well on TV."
I tilted my head to the side. "And you think putting a rug over your frozen personality is going to accomplish that?
His eyes narrowed. "Are you always so forthcoming?"
"Only when I'm bored," I said. "Or annoyed."
We glared at each other. The silence stretched out.
For a second, I thought he was going to kill me right there on the spot.
Instead, he said, "I don't think this is going to work."
I nodded once. "Neither do I."
I turned on my heel and walked back toward the elevator, warmth seeping into my cheeks. It was fine. Let him remain in his marble cave.
Halfway, he said,
"Ms. Blake."
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"You're emotionally constipated in glass and steel," I said to him. "That's not a style issue. That's a therapy one."
And with that, I hit the elevator button and got in.
By the time I reached the street, I had a pounding heart and trembling hands.
Two hours later, I was sitting in my little studio office with my shoes kicked off and my face in a pint of salted caramel ice cream. Nora, my business partner and best friend, was pacing.
"You told him what?"
"I may have insulted his soul," I admitted.
"Emery!"
"I couldn't help it. He was awful."
"But we needed that contract!"
"I know. I just." I sighed. "He made me feel like a project. Like I was being measured and rejected before I even had a chance to open my mouth."
Nora groaned. "Well, that's that. We'll find something else. Maybe Mrs. Cavanaugh will finally let us do the wine cellar."
I snorted. "She still thinks chevron is cutting edge."
My phone buzzed on the desk. Unknown number.
I stared at it.
Then I answered.
"Emery Blake."
There was a pause. Then a familiar voice.
"I changed my mind."
My heart sank.
Roman Hart.
"I want you to design the space."
I opened my eyes. "I thought you said this wasn't going to happen."
"I said I didn't think so. My board thinks otherwise. They've met you. And seen your work."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Not even remotely."
I glanced over at Nora, who was halted mid-step, mouthing What the hell?
I swallowed. "Okay. I'll take the job. But on my own terms, Mr. Hart."
There was a pause.
"Send them to my assistant."
And he hung up.
I sat there, staring at the phone.
"What just happened?" Nora asked, eyes wide.
I shook my head. "I think I just signed on for the most dangerous design job of my life.".
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