Where It all began
Camila's POV
"I'm here, Camila. I'm not going anywhere."
His voice wrapped around me like silk and sin, igniting something primal deep in my chest. God, that voice could destroy me.
"You always say that," I breathed slowly.
His thumb gently traced the curve of my jaw. "Because it's the only truth that matters. You're not alone anymore, sweetheart."
Then his lips pressed against mine, soft yet demanding, eliciting a subtle moan of pleasure.
At that moment, I just wanted to be lost in his arms and let this feeling consume me forever.
But then—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I snarled, thrashing at the alarm clock like it had personally murdered my firstborn. Of course, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, my phone erupted into a seizure of vibrations at the same time.
Samantha.
Who else would have the audacity to shatter my perfect dream at 6:15 AM on a Monday? The woman had the timing of a serial killer.
"If this isn't about fire, blood, or nuclear warfare, I'm hanging up."
"Oh, it's blood alright," Samantha's voice dripped with wicked delight. "Your boss is going to paint the walls with yours if you're late again.”
Ugh. Right. Asher fucking Reyes.
A groan tore from my throat. "That man treats me like I wake up plotting his personal destruction."
"Well, don't you?"
"...That's beside the point."
"He probably has a whole PowerPoint presentation titled 'Camila Jackson: A Study in Professional Chaos.'"
" I hate you, Sam."
Samantha's laughter was pure evil. "Still dreaming about Mr. Perfect Future Husband? Let me guess—tall, dark, and doesn't make you want to commit homicide before 9 AM?"
My heart clenched. "He was... God, Sam, he was perfect. Like, ‘ruin-me-completely’ perfect."
"Well, Cinderella, dream time's over. You've got exactly eighteen minutes to transform from hot mess to professional goddess. And considering your track record, I'd start praying now."
The line went dead before I could unleash the creative cursing she deserved.
The dream still clung to me like smoke—his voice, his touch, the way he looked at me…
Oh heavens! I wish I could go back and let him explore me a bit longer.
But fairy tales were for little girls who didn't have bills to pay. Reality was Asher Reyes: ice king, soul crusher, and the man who could destroy my entire existence with one perfectly arched eyebrow.
Somehow, I managed to throw myself together in nine minutes flat, then bolted out of the door clutching my heels and what might have been toast (or cardboard, honestly, who had time to check?).
Monday morning chaos? Check.
Running late again? Absolutely.
Ready to face Asher Reyes without spontaneously combusting? Not even close.
---
I'd barely cleared security when Samantha materialized beside me like some kind of corporate ninja.
She worked in planning, just floors above my little corner of hell.
"You've got two minutes, maybe less," she announced with the gravity of a war general. "His Royal Iciness just stepped into the elevator."
"I'm screwed, fuck!" I shot back, already sprinting toward the stairwell like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
I attacked those stairs like they owed me money, clutching the file he'd demanded the night before. My lungs were screaming, my legs were jelly, but my job? My job was worth the torture.
I exploded onto the executive level, tore down the hallway, and slammed the file onto his pristine desk with the grace of a hurricane.
Victory was mine.
"Impressive."
The voice—low, smooth, and completely unimpressed—froze my blood.
I turned slowly, like a deer sensing the wolf.
Asher Reyes emerged from his private office, and Christ, he was devastating. All sharp angles and cold perfection, wrapped in a suit that probably cost more than my rent. His gray eyes—the color of storm clouds—fixed on me with predatory focus.
"Did you actually think you made it on time?"
"I—" My mouth went desert-dry. "I apologize, Mr. Reyes. I thought—"
"Punctuality isn't a guessing game, Camila." He moved with the fluid grace of something dangerous. "It's a basic requirement of employment. One you seem incapable of grasping."
He picked up the file like it was contaminated.
"You're late. Again."
I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper.
He flipped through the pages, each turn of paper cranking my anxiety higher.
Then he stopped.
His eyes lifted to mine.
"Where's the supporting analysis?"
The world tilted. Shit. Shit. Shit.
"I—" The words died in my throat like cowards.
"Are you completely incompetent, or do you just enjoy wasting my time?"
The question hit like a slap.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. “I'll get it immediately."
He didn't respond. Just tossed the folder towards me like it physically pained him to touch it.
When I returned minutes later with the missing documents, he didn't even look up. Just took the file with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a death sentence.
The silence was more brutal than screaming.
I turned and walked out quietly.
I need this job. I need this job. I need this goddamn job.
Working at Pinnacle Holdings was the golden ticket in Las Vegas and it's exceptionally impossible to get into. I was lucky to be here, even if most days felt like slow psychological torture.
And Asher? He wasn't just my boss. He was a temptation wrapped in a three-piece suit: razor-sharp jawline, eyes like winter storms, and a voice that could either freeze your blood or melt your bones, depending on his mood. Arrogant, brilliant, and so devastatingly attractive it should have been illegal.
But I wasn't here to lust after him. I was here to survive.
My office was a glorified closet just outside his domain—close enough that I could feel his presence through the walls like some kind of dark energy, always eager to drain life out of ‘Camila Jackson’.
Honestly, if my sanity goes missing, someone should check his office first because he would be the highest suspect.
---
By lunch, Samantha and I had claimed our usual corner table in the cafeteria.
"Jesus, you really tempted fate this morning," she said, attacking her salad with unnecessary violence. "When I saw you bolt for the stairs, I genuinely thought you'd collapse halfway up."
"I almost did," I groaned. "But I made it."
"Barely. By what, thirty seconds?"
I was about to launch my napkin at her head when my phone lit up.
Mom.
"Hi sweetheart," she said, her voice warm but carrying that edge of exhaustion she tried to hide.
"Hey Mom," I replied, angling the screen so Samantha could wave.
"Good day, Mrs. Jackson!"
We chatted for a few minutes, but I could see the tiredness in Mom's eyes, and when I tried to ask about it, she waved me off with practiced ease.
Then another call came in.
Asher.
My stomach performed an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.
"Mom, I have to go. The Ice King is summoning me."
Her smile flickered with concern. "Still as charming as ever?"
"He makes winter look cozy," Samantha muttered.
"I'll call you later," I promised, ending the call.
I answered Asher on the second ring, my voice steady despite my racing heart.
"Yes, Mr. Reyes?"
"My office. Now."
The line went dead with the finality of a coffin lid.
Samantha winced dramatically. "Yikes. Nice knowing you."
I stood, grabbing my phone like it might serve as a weapon.
"Say a prayer for my soul."
"Already lighting candles and calling priests."
---
I walked into his office to find Asher behind his desk, with Elias—his right-hand man and fellow demon—hovering nearby with his tablet.
"You summoned me, sir?"
Asher didn't even grace me with eye contact. "Rajvik Enterprise. Explain to me why I'm just discovering that a deal worth fifty million dollars is still dangling in legal limbo."
My heart performed a death spiral. "I've followed up multiple times, sir. Their legal team keeps requesting extensions—"
"And you thought silence was an acceptable response?"
"I didn't think—"
"Obviously." He leaned back in his chair with the lazy confidence of a predator. "Which is precisely why you're going to rectify this situation."
Every survival instinct I possessed started screaming. "How... exactly?"
A look passed between him and Elias.
Then Elias slid a folder across the obsidian desk. Inside: a photograph of a man who looked like he'd stepped off a magazine cover, a hotel itinerary for somewhere impossibly expensive, and a red dress that definitely hadn't come from my closet.
Asher's smile was winter itself. "Seduction, Miss Jackson, is simply another form of negotiation."
The blood drained from my face. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Pinnacle Holdings doesn't outsource delicate operations," he continued with terrifying calm. "If word spreads that we hired an external... persuasion... our reputation would suffer irreparable damage. But you're already on our payroll. You understand discretion."
"I don't... I don't understand wh
at you're asking me to do."
Those storm-gray eyes finally met mine, and the impact nearly knocked me off my feet.
"You're going undercover, Miss Jackson. And you're going to close this deal by any means necessary.”