The heels of her red-bottom stilettos clicked like a ticking bomb across the marble floor of the office lobby. Every step Arielle Sinclair took was deliberate—loud enough to turn heads, sharp enough to cut egos. She didn't walk into places. She arrived—like a storm in diamonds and designer silk.
The glass doors to the executive floor slid open, and she breezed in without looking at anyone. Her phone was in her hand, her sunglasses still perched on her nose though they were indoors, and she was chewing gum like she was preparing for war.
She didn't want to be here. Correction—she shouldn't have to be here.
"Elevator to the left, Miss Sinclair," the receptionist said meekly as if she wasn't sure if she should speak at all.
Arielle didn't answer. She only tilted her sunglasses down her nose and offered the girl a slow, judgmental glance. The kind that said, You poor thing. You work for a living.
When the elevator doors opened with a quiet ding, Arielle stepped inside and leaned against the mirrored wall, sighing. Her father's words echoed in her head:
"You need to learn discipline. And if you don't want to do it the easy way, I'll send you straight into the lion's den. You're reporting to Dominic Raine from now on."
Ugh. That man. She'd seen his name in business magazines, his brooding face gracing Forbes covers, always wearing a black suit and an expression like someone had just spat in his espresso. He was cold, distant, and according to rumor—completely uninterested in women like her.
Well. That was about to change.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened.
She stepped into a minimalist office so quiet you could hear ambition breathing.
His assistant looked up, startled. "Miss Sinclair—Mr. Raine is expecting you."
She brushed her hair behind one shoulder and smiled, catlike. "Oh, I bet he is."
Dominic Raine didn't look up from his desk when she entered. That irritated her.
He was in a sleek gray suit, no tie, his black shirt unbuttoned at the top. His fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard as if she wasn't even there. His profile was razor-sharp—dark hair, chiseled jaw, lips that looked like they hadn't smiled in years.
"I'm Arielle Sinclair," she said, planting herself in the chair across from him with a huff. "Not that you asked."
He typed for a moment longer before pausing.
"I know who you are," he said without looking at her. "You're late."
Her perfectly plucked brows lifted. "Excuse me?"
He finally looked at her. His eyes were steel-gray and merciless.
"You were expected at nine. It's nearly ten."
She leaned back in the chair, folding one leg over the other, her skirt riding up just enough to test boundaries. "Traffic," she said lazily.
"Interesting," he replied, not even glancing at her legs. "Because you posted a video from a rooftop pool party an hour ago. With champagne."
Her face twitched. He had receipts. Damn.
"So you stalk me?" she asked with a smirk.
He ignored her tone. "You're here because your father thinks you need correction. I don't play babysitter, Miss Sinclair. You'll earn your place here, or I'll make you regret wasting my time."
She laughed. "Correction? Are we in a boot camp? Look, I don't do offices. Or rules. Or…" she gestured vaguely at him, "men who think they're in charge of me."
He stood slowly.
"I don't care what you do, so long as you do your job. You'll be shadowing me for the next two weeks. No special treatment. You speak only when spoken to. You arrive before I do. And if you're ever late again—don't bother coming."
The air in the room thickened.
"You think you scare me?" she asked, standing to face him.
He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
"No," he said, voice low. "I know I do."
Her breath caught. There was no flirtation in his eyes. No amusement. Just ice and control—and something darker lurking underneath.
"Anything else?" she asked, softer this time.
He looked her over—not like a man checking her out, but like a predator assessing prey. Then he turned back to his desk.
"You'll start with organizing this week's calendar. Don't get distracted by the color-coded system—it's intentional. Unlike you."
She clenched her jaw. She wanted to throw something. Instead, she stomped over and grabbed the iPad with the schedule on it.
Just as she turned, he added calmly, "And take off the sunglasses. You're not at a fashion show."
Her cheeks flamed. She yanked them off and stalked out.
He wasn't like the others.
Not the men who tried to impress her.
Not the boys who bent at her smile.
Dominic Raine didn't give a damn about her daddy's money or her beauty. And for the first time in her life… she was curious.
A dangerous curiosity.
The door slammed behind her, but Dominic didn't flinch.
He returned to his screen, unmoved by stilettos, slammed glass, or the scent of perfume that still lingered like rebellion in the air. His fingers tapped keys, precise and indifferent, but his jaw ticked once—just once—before going still again.
Out in the hallway, Arielle leaned against the wall and stared at the tablet he'd handed her.
Color-coded. Organized. Every meeting, call, and task meticulously planned down to the minute. It was like a war map—strategic, brutal, unforgiving.
She rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, "Control freak."
Still, something in her tightened as she scrolled through the calendar. The man didn't just run a company. He commanded it. There were zero wasted minutes, no time for fluff. Meetings with international board members, private flights, performance reviews that probably made grown men cry.
And she was supposed to shadow that?
She snorted.
But the heat from earlier still curled in her stomach. The way he'd looked at her—like he wasn't impressed, wasn't intimidated, wasn't tempted. Like he saw through all the diamonds and pout and knew she had no clue what to do with real authority.
It pissed her off.
It thrilled her more.
She made her way to the open-concept bullpen outside his office, where two assistants were working in silence like lab mice terrified of waking the snake. One of them—an older woman with sleek hair and a clipped tone—handed her a printed report.
"Mr. Raine asked for this to be added to his briefing folder. And for you to be the one to deliver it."
Arielle stared at the file. "You deliver it. That's literally your job."
The woman didn't flinch. "Not anymore."
Arielle narrowed her eyes.
Back at the glass-walled office, Dominic didn't look up when she knocked. Just waved a finger without even glancing at her.
She walked in, heels clicking like a ticking bomb again.
He was back at his desk, reading something intensely. The light from the windows caught the silver in his watch, the stark contrast of ink on his wrist as his shirt sleeve slipped back just slightly.
"Your paper," she said, dropping the folder on his desk with unnecessary force.
"Briefing," he corrected without looking at her. "Try not to get overwhelmed by the concept of professionalism."
"Professionalism?" she said, planting both hands on the edge of his desk and leaning in. "Is that what we're calling this now? Because from where I'm standing, this feels a lot like ego."
That made him look at her.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His eyes lifted and locked with hers, and she swore the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Tell me something, Miss Sinclair," he said, voice smooth as smoke but cold as steel. "What exactly do you think you're doing here?"
"Serving a sentence," she snapped. "I didn't ask to be dropped into a corporate prison."
"You're not in prison," he said, standing now, slowly, like a beast uncoiling from stillness. "You're in training. Unfortunately for you, the luxury suite came with rules."
She straightened, chin up, shoulders stiff. "I don't follow rules. Never have."
He stepped around the desk and stopped directly in front of her.
There was no space between them. None at all.
"That's obvious," he murmured. "But here's the thing—my office isn't built for girls who've been told they're special their whole lives. It's built for people who produce results. You'll either become one of them… or you'll be broken trying."
A shiver ran down her spine. Not from fear.
From challenge.
From the pull of something magnetic and dangerous—something she'd never felt before.
She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand, silencing her with nothing more than a look.
"Today's lesson," he said, stepping closer. His voice dropped, intimate. "When you walk into my space, you walk with respect. That means being on time. That means listening when I speak. That means no more gum, no sunglasses indoors, and no attitude unless you're prepared for consequences."
She laughed—soft, breathy, disbelieving. "Consequences? What are you going to do, Raine? Spank me?"
He didn't laugh.
He didn't blink.
His eyes dipped, just once, down her body and back up—measured. Controlled. Then he leaned in, so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her ear.
"I don't spank children," he said darkly. "I discipline adults."
Her breath caught.
He pulled back, his face unreadable, then nodded to the schedule still clutched in her hand. "Review the day. First meeting is in twenty minutes. Bring your notebook."
"I don't—"
"You do now."
With that, he turned away and walked back to his desk, dismissing her completely.
And for the second time that day, Arielle Sinclair found herself speechless.