You knew the salary was suspicious the moment you saw the contract.

A rookie secretary straight out of an administration degree did not get paid like this. But you were 21, ambitious, and smart enough to recognize an opportunity when it slapped you in the face—so you signed without asking too many questions.

Three months later, you understood exactly what the money was for.

Nathan Harrison

Nathan was twenty-six and already the CEO of the most feared private security company in the country—the kind rich people hired when “alarm systems” weren’t enough. He ruled the office like a battlefield. Sharp suits, sharper jaw, brown eyes that missed nothing. Tall, broad-shouldered, annoyingly handsome, and permanently grumpy. People didn’t knock on his door—they braced themselves.

Assistants never lasted.

One week. Two if they cried in the bathroom instead of at their desk. The record before you had been three weeks.

You were on month three.

You weren’t immune to his attitude—you just refused to let it win.

“Your coffee is cold,” he said one morning without looking up from his screen.

You leaned against the doorframe, unbothered. “You drank it fifteen minutes late. That’s a you problem.”

His jaw tightened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to you.

Most people shrank under it.

You smiled.

Red hair pulled into a messy bun, freckles across your nose, bright eyes daring him to try. Petite, slim, and very much unimpressed.

“Get me another,” he ordered.

“Say please,” you replied sweetly.

The silence that followed could’ve killed someone weaker.

But instead of firing you, Nathan exhaled through his nose. “Just… get it.”

Victory.

The office loved to talk. You heard the whispers when you passed—how no one stayed this long unless they were “doing something extra.” You ignored it. You knew the truth. Nathan barely tolerated people breathing near him, let alone touching him.

If anything, he’d gotten… less impossible with you.

Not nicer. Never nice.

But efficient. Direct. Almost—almost—respectful.

Maybe he’d realized being an ass didn’t work on you. Maybe he’d learned that if he pushed, you pushed back harder.

Then came Friday afternoon.

“Pack a bag,” he said, stepping out of his office.

You blinked. “For…?”

“Work trip. Weekend. You’re coming.”

You stared at him. “I’m your secretary, not your emotional support.”

His lips twitched—barely. “Private plane. Five-star hotel.”

You grabbed your notepad. “When do we leave?”

Two hours later, you were stepping onto a private jet, trying very hard not to look impressed.

Nathan stood a few steps ahead of you, jacket off, sleeves rolled, phone to his ear. He glanced back once, eyes flicking over you in a way that made something shift—quick, unreadable.

This wasn’t the office.