Sophia's POV
I threw up twice before leaving Maya's apartment.
Breathe, Maya said, holding my hair back. You've got this.
I wore my best suit—the navy one from my first day at Chen Industries, back when I'd thought I had a future.
Cross Capital's headquarters stabbed toward the sky like a knife. I walked through the doors, my heart hammering.
The receptionist barely looked up. Name?
Sophia Chen. Interview with Mr. Cross.
Something flickered in her expression. Pity. Top floor.
The elevator ride felt endless. I practiced my confident smile in the mirrored walls.
You can do this. You're qualified. You're
The doors opened.
A secretary sat at a massive desk. Mr. Cross is expecting you. Go right in.
No waiting? No time to prepare?
I pushed open the double doors.
The office was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, and behind a desk the size of my bedroom sat
No.
My heart stopped.
Gray eyes. Sharp jaw. Dark hair.
The stranger from the bar.
Miss Chen, he said, his voice dark with amusement. What a pleasant surprise.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
My one-night stand was Damien Cross.
The Devil of Wall Street.
Please, he gestured to the chair. Sit down.
My legs moved on autopilot.
He stood and walked around the desk, every movement predatory. You ran out before I could get your name. Imagine my delight when your resume crossed my desk.
I didn't know— My voice strangled. I didn't know who you were.
Obviously. He leaned against his desk, studying me. If you had, you probably wouldn't have been quite so... enthusiastic.
Heat flooded my face. I wanted to die.
Mr. Cross—
Damien, he corrected. I think we're past formalities.
The memory of that night hung between us—his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the way he'd made me forget everything that hurt.
I should go, I said, starting to stand. This was a mistake
Sit. Down.
The command froze me. I sat.
He picked up a folder. My resume. Sophia Chen. Age twenty-seven. NYU Stern, top of your class. Three years at Chen Industries. He looked up. Engaged to Marcus Wellington III. Or formerly engaged?
My stomach dropped. How did you
I make it my business to know things. He flipped through papers. Publicly humiliated at your engagement party. Fired from your father's company. Accused of fraud—though those charges were mysteriously dropped. His gray eyes locked on mine. And now you're desperate enough to work for me.
Each word was a knife.
If you're just going to humiliate me more
Humiliate you? He tilted his head. I'm impressed. Most people would've left the city by now. But you're still here. Still fighting.
I blinked. What?
Tell me about Marcus Wellington. What did he do at Chen Industries?
The question threw me. He was... consulting. On the merger.
Did you ever see his actual work? Reports? Analysis?
I frowned. No. My father said it was confidential.
Something dark flashed in Damien's eyes. Your ex-fiancé wasn't consulting. He was stealing. And when he needed a scapegoat, you were convenient.
The words hit like a punch. What?
The Wellingtons have been using your father's company for their own purposes. They destroyed your reputation so thoroughly that even with the investigation dropped, everyone believes you're guilty.
Rage burned through me. Why are you telling me this?
Because I need someone who knows Chen Industries from the inside. He leaned forward. Someone who wants revenge as badly as I do.
Revenge? Against the Wellingtons?
His expression went cold. They took something from me. I've spent years preparing to take everything from them. You're the missing piece.
This was insane. Taking down one of the most powerful families on Wall Street.
What are you offering? I asked carefully.
A job. Personal assistant. Six months. You help me, and when I destroy the Wellingtons, you'll have a front-row seat.
And if I say no?
Then you leave with nothing. In three months, your father's company goes bankrupt. The Wellingtons absorb what's left. Your family legacy disappears. And you stay broke and blacklisted forever.
I should run. Should refuse.
But I thought about Marcus's smug face. Vanessa's fake tears. My father blocking my number.
Why me specifically? I asked.
Because three months ago, you were brave enough to take what you wanted when your world was falling apart. His voice softened slightly. I need that bravery again.
The memory of that night pulsed between us.
This is about more than business, I said quietly. You want to destroy them completely.
Yes.
At least he was honest.
$287.43 in my account. One month until I had nothing.
Six months, I said finally. Then we're even.
He stood and extended his hand. Six months.
When our hands touched, electricity sparked—the same fire from that night, now weaponized.
Welcome to Cross Capital, Miss Chen. His smile was wicked. Start Monday. 7 AM. Don't be late.
That's it? No other details about what you actually need from me?
His gray eyes glittered with secrets. All in good time. First, I need to see if you can handle working for me. Most people can't.
I'm not most people.
No, he agreed, his gaze burning into mine. You're definitely not.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
Sophia?
I looked back.
The night we met—I knew who you were. I knew about the engagement party, about Marcus Wellington, all of it. His smile was dark. I've been waiting for you to walk through that door for three months. So don't think for a second that anything about this is coincidence.
My blood turned to ice.
What are you saying?
I'm saying that everything happens for a reason. And you ended up in my bed—and now my office—because I made sure you would. He tilted his head. The real question is: are you angry about it? Or are you intrigued?
I should be furious. Terrified.
Instead, heat coiled in my stomach.
I'll see you Monday, Mr. Cross.
His laughter followed me out the door.
As the elevator descended, my mind raced. He'd known who I was that night. He'd orchestrated this somehow.
Which meant everything—the bar, the night together, the job offer—was part of some bigger plan.
I should run. Should never come back.
But Maya's words echoed: This is your last shot.
And beneath the fear was something else. Something dangerous.
Curiosity.
What did Damien Cross really want from me? What had the Wellingtons taken from him? And why did he need me—specifically me—to get his revenge?
I had until Monday to decide if I was brave enough to find out.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Wear something that says 'I'm not afraid of you.' You'll need the armor. —D
I stared at the message.
The Devil of Wall Street had my number.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything else that had happened today.