The ex Billionaire's Secret Desire

Elena Hart had never seen so much glass and gold in one place.

The entrance to Luxe Atelier stood like a monument to power and exclusivity-floor-to-ceiling windows shimmered in the early morning light, polished to perfection, while the iconic gold "L" etched into the door glinted like a crown jewel. It didn't just say "fashion empire." It whispered You don't belong here.

She hesitated outside the revolving doors, adjusting the strap of her worn leather bag on her shoulder. Her heart thudded beneath the neckline of her cheap blazer, but she straightened her back anyway. You do belong here, Elena. You earned this.

The moment she stepped inside, the world changed.

It smelled like clean leather, soft vanilla, and power. Interns bustled down white marble floors in heels and hushed whispers, and towering photographs of past Luxe campaigns lined the halls-models wrapped in silk, stiletto heels slashing across the sky, every shot bold, raw, and painfully beautiful.

One day that'll be your design, she reminded herself.

"Elena Hart?" a voice asked.

She turned-and nearly stepped back.

The woman approaching was all elegance and ice. Hair twisted in a flawless bun, deep red lipstick sharp enough to cut. Her black sheath dress clung to a figure that said power didn't have to shout.

"Yes, I'm Elena."

"I'm Margot DeLuca. Chief Editor. Follow me."

Margot didn't wait.

Elena trailed behind her through the pristine halls, taking mental notes of every gliding door and silver placard. The deeper they went, the quieter it became-until they reached a black-and-glass elevator at the end of the hall.

Margot turned to her, one brow lifting. "Let me be clear, Ms. Hart. Luxe Atelier doesn't coddle interns. You either rise, or you disappear. Damien Blackwood doesn't tolerate weak links."

Damien Blackwood. The name alone sent a current through her spine.

The man who had turned Luxe into a global empire. Billionaire. Visionary. Untouchable. She'd read every profile, every whispered scandal. Ruthless in boardrooms. Silent at galas. No one really knew him.

And now, she was entering his domain.

The elevator opened directly into a private suite. Glass walls overlooked the skyline, and the center of the room housed a sleek black desk like a throne. A single figure stood beside it, back turned, hands in his pockets, dressed in a tailored suit so sharp it made her breath hitch.

Margot cleared her throat. "Mr. Blackwood, your new intern."

He turned.

Their eyes met.

Steel gray met forest green.

He was taller than she imagined-broad shoulders, dark hair perfectly tousled, jawline sharp enough to carve statues. His gaze swept over her, slowly, deliberately, lingering for a moment too long at the neckline of her blouse before meeting her eyes again.

And holding.

"Elena Hart," he said, voice smooth, low, and rich like bourbon. "You're late."

Her lips parted, heat rushing up her throat. "By one minute."

He stepped forward.

"That's one minute too long."

She blinked.

Was it her imagination, or had his gaze just flicked to her lips?

Margot's voice cut through the air. "I'll leave you to it."

When the elevator closed behind her, silence stretched between them like tension on a wire.

Damien walked around the desk, leaning against the edge, crossing his arms. He was studying her like an equation. Slowly. Thoroughly.

"So," he said. "What makes you think you can survive here?"

Elena met his gaze, fire flickering in her belly. "Because I didn't come this far to be invisible."

A beat passed. Then a small smile curved his lips-dangerous and magnetic.

"You're bold."

"You're testing me."

He laughed-quiet and low-and her skin prickled.

"I like knowing what I'm dealing with."

"And what do you think you're dealing with, Mr. Blackwood?"

He tilted his head, gaze dipping again to the curve of her hips. "Something unexpected."

Her breath caught.

This man was playing a game, and she wasn't sure of the rules yet-but she wanted in. Even if it burned her.

"Follow me," he said, standing suddenly. "I want your opinion on something."

They entered a private studio-black velvet curtains, spotlights, mannequins clothed in art.

And there, on the center platform, was the red dress.

It was bold. Sculpted silk that clung to invisible seams, dipping low in the back, slit high enough to hint at danger. A dress meant for women who devoured the world in heels.

"It's our finale piece for Paris," Damien said. "I've fired three designers over it already."

Elena couldn't look away. "It's... fearless."

His gaze landed on her. "Try it on."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I want to see it on someone who understands it.

"I'm not a model."

"No," he said. "But you have the attitude."

Heat flared in her chest. Is he serious?

And yet... something in the way he said it-his voice roughened, lower-made her shiver.

"I'll try it," she said. "But I'm not doing it alone."

He stepped back, folding his arms. "You won't be."

She changed behind a screen, fingers trembling slightly as she slid the silk up her skin. It hugged every inch of her, the slit revealing just enough leg to make her hesitate. But when she stepped out-

Damien's eyes darkened.

He said nothing for a long time. Just let his gaze roam-slow, deliberate, unapologetic. From her bare shoulder to the line of her thigh.

"Elena," he said, voice rough. "That dress was made for sin."

She swallowed. "And what does that make me?"

He took one step closer. "Dangerous."

The air between them sparked, electric and hot.

For a moment, the world narrowed to breath and tension. His hand lifted, as if to brush her shoulder-but stopped short. Inches from her skin.

He didn't touch her.

He didn't have to.

She could feel him.

And then-he turned away.

"Send it to the runway," he said. "It's perfect."

The door opened, breaking the spell. An assistant peeked in.

"Mr. Blackwood, your next meeting."

He nodded. "Miss Hart will be joining me. She's now assigned to my personal team."

Elena blinked. "What?"

"Any objections?"

She caught her breath. "No, sir."

His lips curled. "Good. I like women who follow orders."

As she followed him out of the room, the hem of the red dress swaying around her thighs, Elena knew two things for certain:

One-she'd just stepped into a game she didn't fully understand.

And two-she was already addicted to playing it.

To be continued...