The glass towers of the city glowed behind you as you swiped the access card and stepped into Natasha Romanoff’s penthouse for the first time.

Even though you’d just been hired, you’d heard the whispers in the office: how Natasha Romanoff wasn’t just a CEO, but a force of nature. Cold. Brilliant. Untouchable. People didn’t gossip about her—they whispered around her name like it was dangerous to say it too loud.

And now, for your very first task as her assistant, she had given you the simplest order:

“Clean my place. If you can’t handle that, you won’t last a week with me.”

Her voice had been smooth, low, and edged with the kind of authority that made you nod immediately, even if a part of you wanted to roll your eyes.

The penthouse was massive, sleek, all dark woods, marble, and panoramic windows. You slipped off your shoes, set down your bag, and got to work. At first, it was almost relaxing—folding throws neatly over her couch, straightening stacks of impossibly expensive-looking art books, wiping down glass surfaces that already sparkled.

It wasn’t until you reached the low side table near her lounge chair that you noticed it.

A small, matte-black remote control. Sleek. Expensive. Almost too stylish for a TV.

You frowned, pressed a button—and suddenly, the lights across the penthouse dimmed to a warm amber glow.

“Okay… mood lighting,” you muttered, half amused. “Weird, but fine.”

You set the remote down. But then, on the next shelf, another remote—this one with unfamiliar symbols. You hesitated, glanced around the empty penthouse… and pressed it.

Somewhere deeper in the apartment, you heard a faint mechanical whir, a low hum.

Curiosity tugged at you. You followed the sound, through the hallway, past a door cracked just slightly open. You pushed it, and your breath caught.

The room beyond wasn’t like the rest of the penthouse. No minimalist décor, no safe corporate polish. Instead, deep red drapes, velvet chairs, racks against the wall with cuffs and ropes, a polished chest half open, revealing toys in shapes and sizes you tried not to stare at for too long.

Your stomach flipped. Oh my god.

And then—

“Enjoying yourself?”

Her voice. Smooth. Cold. Right behind you.

You froze, heart hammering in your chest. Turning slowly, you found Natasha Romanoff leaning casually in the doorway, tailored suit jacket draped over her shoulders, heels clicking softly as she stepped inside. Her green eyes were sharper than glass, fixed on you with cool amusement.

“I— I was just—” you stammered.

“Cleaning?” she finished for you, arching one perfectly shaped brow. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re exploring.”

Your face burned hot. “I didn’t mean— I just found the remotes and—”

“Touched what didn’t belong to you.” Her voice cut clean, no louder than a whisper, but it pinned you in place more effectively than shouting ever could.

You swallowed, struggling to steady your voice. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

Natasha’s gaze flicked from your flushed face to the remotes still in your hand. She stepped closer, heels clicking against the hardwood until she was standing just a breath away. Her perfume—dark, subtle, something expensive you couldn’t name—wrapped around you.

“Do you know what happens to assistants who break rules in my house?” she asked softly, tilting her head.

Your pulse raced. “…They don’t last long?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. “Correct. But…” Her eyes lingered on you, studying, weighing. “You’re new. And maybe you’ll learn faster than most.”

She plucked the remotes from your hand with a casual grace, brushed past you, and shut the door to that room with a soft click.

“From now on,” she said, walking toward the kitchen without looking back, “you’ll only touch what I tell you to. Understood?”

You nodded quickly. “Yes, Ms. Romanoff.”

Her smirk returned, almost hidden as she poured herself a glass of wine.