Little Argent Derek Hale

New York City was loud, ruthless, and relentless-just like every ambition Ivy Carter had ever chased.

She stood in the sleek marble lobby of Blackwell Innovations, her worn leather portfolio clutched tightly in her hands. Everything about the space screamed money. The minimalist design, the digital art screens pulsing against white walls, the receptionist who looked like she moonlighted on runways-all of it whispered that only the elite belonged here.

Ivy adjusted her blazer and reminded herself: she belonged here too.

Freshly graduated with an MBA from Columbia, Ivy had clawed her way through internships, night shifts, and networking events filled with glassy-eyed finance bros just to be seen. This-this interview-was more than just a shot. It was a ticket out of the debt-heavy, ramen-fueled hustle of her twenties.

The elevator chimed. "Ms. Carter?" a crisp voice called.

A tall woman with a severe bun and clipboard appeared, eyes scanning Ivy with clinical efficiency.

"Yes," Ivy said, stepping forward. "That's me."

"I'm Elaine. Mr. Blackwell will see you now."

That name-Blackwell-carried weight in this city. Damian Blackwell. Billionaire tech tycoon. Reclusive genius. Ruthless negotiator. There were more headlines than sightings, and most employees at his own company had never even met him.

And now Ivy was about to walk into his office.

The elevator ride was silent. The 47th floor opened into a space that contrasted the sterile efficiency below-it was warm, masculine, dark wood and glass, with floor-to-ceiling windows that swallowed the skyline. And there, behind a sleek black desk, stood the man himself.

Damian Blackwell.

Tall. Unapologetically handsome. Sharp-jawed with storm-gray eyes that didn't just look at her-they dissected her.

"Ivy Carter," he said without preamble. "Sit."

Her heels clicked too loudly as she crossed the floor. She sat, spine straight, hands composed, but her heart pounded like a drum line.

"Impressive résumé," he said, skimming her papers. "Top of your MBA class. Interned with Harper & Lyons. Led a student investment fund."

"Yes," she said. "And I handled administrative operations for a venture capital firm last year-managed schedules, due diligence, logistics-"

"I read it," he cut in. "But I don't care about your grades or what acronyms you can drop. I want to know what you do under pressure."

Ivy met his gaze. "I don't break."

"Everyone breaks," he said simply. "The question is how far they bend first."

The silence stretched between them like piano wire. He was testing her. She smiled. "Then I suppose you'll find out where I bend."

Damian's lips almost quirked. Almost. "Follow me."

He stood and moved to the glass wall. With a flick of his hand, the transparent panel transformed into a digital interface. Data flooded the screen-market forecasts, real-time server analytics, calendar overlaps in chaotic red.

He glanced at her. "Solve the scheduling conflict on my executive calendar without canceling my quarterly board meeting, or missing the federal compliance audit. You have ten minutes."

It wasn't a test. It was a gauntlet.

But Ivy's brain switched into gear. She stepped forward, navigating the touchscreen. Meetings bled into each other; time zone mismatches screamed at her in neon alerts. She isolated the choke point: a double-booked investor meeting and compliance prep session. She rerouted the audit briefing to a virtual slot over Damian's treadmill meeting the next morning-he had a habit of walking during brainstorms, which she'd caught in an obscure interview podcast.

Nine minutes later, she stepped back. "Done."