Into The Lion's Den

The towering glass skyscraper loomed in front of Sage like a monument to everything she despised about men like Damian Cross—cold, unyielding, and polished to perfection. The words Cross Global Enterprises gleamed in silver letters above the pristine entrance, and for a brief moment, Sage considered turning around. She could go home, pack up what little pride she had left, and find another way to survive.

But the image of Bluebird Café—her café—flashed in her mind like a beacon, and her feet refused to move backward. With a deep breath, Sage adjusted her worn messenger bag on her shoulder and marched through the automatic glass doors into the belly of the beast.

The lobby was all marble and glass, accented with dark steel that somehow made the space feel colder than it already was. Men and women in tailored suits hurried past her, their heels and shoes clicking against the floor in a rhythmic beat that made Sage feel wildly out of place. She was painfully aware of her faded jeans, scuffed boots, and the blouse she’d ironed three times that morning, hoping it might make her look presentable.

She approached the sleek, black reception desk where a young woman with sharp glasses and an even sharper gaze sat typing away at a computer. The receptionist barely glanced up before speaking.

“Name and business?”

Sage cleared her throat. “Uh, Sage Whitmore. I’m here to see Damian Cross. He’s… expecting me.”

The woman’s eyes flicked up to Sage, her perfectly arched brow raising just enough to make Sage’s stomach twist with embarrassment. “Miss Whitmore, you’re late.”

Sage blinked, her mouth falling open. “It’s 7:58!”

“Mr. Cross considers on time to be late,” the receptionist replied with a tight smile. “You’re expected to arrive early. He’s on the 45th floor.”

Before Sage could argue, the woman pointed to the nearby elevator bank and returned her focus to the computer screen. Sage muttered something under her breath as she stomped toward the elevators, her fingers clenching the strap of her bag.

When the elevator doors slid open, Sage stepped inside and jabbed the button for the 45th floor, ignoring the growing lump in her throat. She was not going to let Damian Cross intimidate her. The man could hurl as many rules and expectations at her as he wanted, but she was here to fight for her café—not to play by his rules.

Still, as the elevator shot upward, Sage’s confidence wavered. She couldn’t stop picturing the way Damian had looked at her yesterday, like he was studying a puzzle only he knew how to solve. His offer had been as generous as it was suspicious. Why her? Why this café? She needed answers almost as much as she needed the money to buy her dream back.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened into a space that took Sage’s breath away. The 45th floor was Damian Cross’s domain. Expansive windows wrapped around the entire floor, offering a dizzying view of the city below. The space was minimalist, elegant, and far too perfect for anyone who wasn’t a robot. She stepped out, her boots sinking into carpet that probably cost more than her truck.

At the far end of the floor, Damian’s office loomed behind a set of frosted glass doors. Sage straightened her spine and marched forward, her heart pounding harder with every step. She barely had time to knock before a deep voice called from the other side.

“Come in.”

Sage pushed the doors open and stepped into the office. Damian Cross sat behind a black desk the size of a small car, his sleeves rolled up as he typed something on a sleek laptop. He didn’t look up when she entered, which made her blood boil instantly.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice cool and matter-of-fact.

Sage ground her teeth. “It’s exactly 8 a.m.”

Damian finally looked up, those piercing blue eyes locking onto her like a laser. “As I said—late.”

She opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. She’d already learned yesterday that arguing with Damian Cross was about as productive as yelling at a brick wall. Instead, she dropped into the chair across from him, her posture defiant.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, crossing her arms.

Damian leaned back in his chair, studying her with an expression Sage couldn’t read. His shirt sleeves were rolled up just enough to show the edges of expensive-looking cufflinks, and she hated the fact that he somehow looked effortless in his perfection.

“I admire your enthusiasm, Miss Whitmore,” Damian said, though the hint of a smirk on his face suggested otherwise. “But if you plan to work for me, there are rules you’ll need to follow.”

“Of course there are,” Sage muttered.

He ignored her and opened a leather folder, sliding a piece of paper across the desk toward her. Sage stared down at it, recognizing the clean, sterile language of a contract.

“This outlines the terms of your employment,” Damian said. “One year as my personal assistant, as we discussed. You’ll report directly to me, handle my schedule, and manage the tasks I assign. In return, you’ll oversee operations at Bluebird Café and maintain its current business.”

Sage hesitated as she scanned the document, her heart pounding faster with every line. One year. One year of working for Damian Cross.

Her gaze shot up to him. “And if I quit?”

“Then the deal is off, and I retain full ownership of the café,” Damian replied smoothly. “If you fail, you lose. If you quit, you lose. The only way you win, Miss Whitmore, is by seeing this through to the end.”

Sage bit her lip as the weight of his words settled over her. She didn’t trust him, but the stakes were too high to walk away now. Slowly, she reached for the pen he offered and scrawled her name across the bottom of the contract.

The moment she signed, Damian leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Welcome to Cross Global Enterprises.”

The smug satisfaction in his voice made her want to hurl the pen at his head. Instead, she shoved it back across the desk and stood.

“Now what?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly.

“Now,” Damian said, rising from his chair with a grace that only seemed to emphasize his height, “we get to work.”

---

The rest of the day was a blur of chaos. Sage quickly realized that “personal assistant” didn’t come close to describing what Damian had in mind for her. She followed him through endless meetings, scribbling notes on a legal pad while he fired off decisions about billion-dollar deals with frightening speed.

By noon, her head was spinning. She’d barely kept up with half of what Damian had said, let alone processed it.

“You’re slower than I expected,” Damian commented as they walked through the bustling office halls.

Sage shot him a glare. “Maybe because I’m not a robot.”

“Robots are efficient,” Damian said without missing a beat. “Try to keep up.”

The day didn’t end until long after the sun dipped below the horizon. Sage sat at the desk Damian had assigned her—conveniently located right outside his office—her eyes burning as she tried to sort through a stack of emails he’d told her to organize.

“This is insane,” she muttered under her breath, dropping her forehead onto the desk.

The door to Damian’s office opened, and she shot upright as he stepped into the hallway. He glanced at her, looking annoyingly unfazed by the sixteen-hour workday he’d just put her through.

“You survived the first day,” he said. “I’m mildly impressed.”

“I don’t need your approval,” Sage snapped before she could stop herself.

Damian’s lips quirked faintly, as though her defiance amused him. “Get some rest, Miss Whitmore. Tomorrow will be worse.”

With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Sage slumped in her chair. As much as she hated to admit it, Damian Cross was right about one thing: if she was going to survive this

, she’d have to fight for it.

And no matter how hard it got, she wasn’t going to let him win.