I stood before the towering glass facade of Stone Enterprise, heart drumming like a war march in my chest. Even with the morning rush, the energy around the building felt different—electric. It was the kind of place that buzzed with ambition, whispered secrets behind polished doors, and made legends out of people who dared to dream too loud.
I dared.
Tugging at the sleeve of my cream blouse, I adjusted my pencil skirt and took a calming breath. "This is it," I whispered to myself. "No more hiding. Just Bianca Rosewood—the girl with a résumé, not a legacy."
Because today, I wasn't the daughter of Elijah Rosewood, media mogul of Rosewood Inc. I was just a hardworking Ivy League graduate, top of my class, valedictorian, fighting for a shot at becoming the personal assistant to the elusive billionaire CEO, Ian Stone.
Except, as fate would have it, he wasn't even in today.
"Miss Rosewood?" The receptionist smiled. "Miss Stacy will see you now."
I followed the woman through the sleek halls, past digital boards displaying global stock tickers, and stepped into a modern office where a stylish blonde in a navy blazer glanced up from her tablet.
"Have a seat," Stacy said, her tone clipped but professional.
I sat, spine straight.
"Valedictorian of Yale. Majored in business and international relations." She scanned my file. "You had a job lined up at Rosewood Inc., didn't you?"
I hesitated for a second, smiling calmly. "I had other plans."
She raised an eyebrow, then smiled thinly. "Interesting. Why Stone Enterprise?"
"Ian Stone is a visionary," I said without missing a beat. "He built this empire from the ground up. I want to work somewhere where talent and hard work matter more than bloodlines or family names. I need to prove myself—on my own."
She nodded, slightly impressed. "And you're applying to be his assistant?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what that entails? The stress? The hours? The fact that he's...not the easiest man to work with?"
"I've been trained for worse," I said with a wink.
She chuckled. "Alright, Miss Rosewood. You'll hear from us by Monday."
I thanked her and walked out, feeling a rush of pride swell in my chest.
Until I walked right into disaster.
Or rather, Vivian Stone—the statuesque wife of the man I might soon be working for.
My arm knocked into her just enough to send the contents of her coffee cup splashing across her expensive cream dress.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry—"
"You stupid little—do you know how much this cost?" Her voice was razor-sharp. Heads turned.
I flushed crimson. "I said I'm sorry, I didn't see—"
"Well, maybe you should keep your eyes off your damn shoes and on where you're walking," she snapped. "Clearly your kind doesn't belong in buildings like this."
You're kind.
I stood there frozen, blinking hard, trying not to cry. A few people gawked. No one intervened.
With what little dignity I had left, I turned and walked away.
Later that evening, Becky was determined to erase the incident from my memory.
"I'm not letting that Barbie villain ruin your day," she declared, dragging me toward the club's glowing entrance. "You crushed that interview. Tonight, we celebrate"!
"Do we have to do it surrounded by sweaty bodies and EDM?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, grandma."
Once inside, the bass hit like thunder. I winced. Becky, of course, disappeared into the flashing lights of the dance floor like a magnet.
I made a beeline for the bar. Crowds swirled around me. The scent of perfume, cologne, and ambition lingered in the air.
From a private booth upstairs, two men watched silently.
Ian Stone leaned back against the velvet couch, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. His friend, Steve, nudged him.
"God, you look like you just buried your marriage."
"I probably should," Ian muttered. "She thinks I'm cheating all the time—might as well give her a reason."
Steve glanced down, spotting the redhead dancing like she owned the room. "Well, damn. I think I just found mine."
He stood and vanished into the crowd, leaving Ian alone.
Back at the bar, a man approached me. Charming smile. Soft voice. A little too smooth.
I should've seen it coming.
We chatted briefly. Then he offered to buy me a drink. I hesitated.
"It's on me," he insisted.
Before I could object, a tall glass of something pink and fizzy was set before me. I took a sip.
The next few minutes were a blur.
Heat. Tingling. My skin began to prickle. My thighs clenched together. Something was wrong.
From across the room, Ian stood. His eyes locked on me and the man beside me.
He saw it.
He pushed through the crowd, shoving people aside.
Just as I took another gulp, the stranger leaned closer, smirking.
"Hey!" Ian barked, ripping the drink from my hand. "What the hell did you give her?"
"What's your problem, man?"
Ian didn't answer. His fist connected with the man's jaw so fast the crowd gasped.
Security swarmed. The guy was dragged away.
"I think—" I mumbled. "Hot. It's hot..."
Ian wrapped an arm around me. "Come on, let's get you out of here."
"What's your name?" he asked, and he carried me to his car. "Bianca," I said as I poked his chest.
"What's your name?" I asked, giggling. "Ian," he simply said.
In his car, I was barely coherent. He buckled my seatbelt, brushing my cheek by accident—and I leaned forward and kissed him.
He tried to pull away, but it was too late. The drug was transferred.
His pupils dilated.
"Shit," he whispered, gripping the wheel. "Shit, Bianca...what the hell are you doing to me?"
The hotel wasn't far.
And neither of us was thinking straight.
In the Hotel room.
The room was dimly lit, a golden glow spilling across crisp sheets and city shadows flickering through the high-rise windows. Ian kicked the door shut with his foot, carrying Bianca in his arms as though she weighed nothing.
Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and her lips pressed against his skin like a secret. "You smell like whiskey and danger," she murmured, and he laughed low, breath hitching.
"You kissed me," he said, his voice hoarse. "I should be the one angry."
"I should be the one embarrassed," she replied, eyes glinting. "But I'm not."
Their gazes met—challenging, electric.
He set her down slowly. "You're not thinking straight. We should—"
"I've never thought clearer," she interrupted. "I want this. I want you."
Her words unlocked something in him.
Ian closed the space between them, cupping her face with hands that trembled—not from fear, but restraint. Their lips met again, but this time it wasn't clumsy or rushed. It was slow, searing, like fire licking along skin.
Bianca's fingers clutched the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no room for doubt between their bodies.
His mouth moved to her neck, down to her collarbone. Every place he touched burned, and her breath caught with every press of his lips.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his voice raw.
She looked at him, vulnerable but certain. "I don't want you to."
He exhaled, the last of his control slipping.
Ian was surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. He peeled off her clothes like they were sacred—touching, exploring, and asking without words if she was still okay. And when she told him she was a virgin, something shifted in him.
He slowed everything down.
Held her like she was fragile and precious all at once.
Their first time wasn't fast or wild—it was emotional, intense, and quietly earth-shattering. There were moments of laughter, gasps, and soft reassurances. He whispered her name like a prayer, and she clung to him as though he was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
They moved together like instinct, like fate had been waiting for them to collide this way all along.
After, she lay curled against him, heart racing, lips swollen from kisses that felt too real.
"Ian," she whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "That was...everything."
He stared at the ceiling, arm around her bare shoulder, and whispered back, "You have no idea."