Isabella POV
The elevator was a gilded cage, rising toward the heavens but feeling more like a descent into hell. Polished brass and black marble reflected my own pale, composed face, hiding the turmoil that had been churning in my gut since I left Union Station forty minutes ago.
I wasn't a bride today. I was an employee. I had to be.
"It's quite unusual," the woman beside me said, breaking the heavy silence. Colette Spears, the Director of Public Relations. She was beautiful in a sharp, manufactured way, with blonde hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. "Mr. Maddox doesn't usually approve transfers directly. Especially for someone... without a standard vetting process."
Her eyes, rimmed in heavy eyeliner, raked over my outfit. I had changed out of the red dress into a charcoal pencil skirt and a silk blouse, but I still felt exposed. She was hunting for weakness, sniffing for the scent of a scandal.
"I suppose my portfolio spoke for itself," I replied, keeping my voice even. I glanced pointedly at the ID badge clipped to her lapel. "Though I was under the impression that Prosperity Group valued results over procedural gossip, Ms. Spears."
Colette's jaw tightened, a flush of irritation creeping up her neck. The elevator chimed, saving her from having to formulate a retort. The doors slid open to reveal the penthouse floor.
"Right this way," she clipped, stepping out with aggressive strides.
The antechamber to the CEO's office was vast, a minimalist expanse of glass and dark leather that smelled of expensive scotch and raw power. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Chicago skyline looked like a jagged set of teeth biting into the gray sky.
"Wait here," Colette commanded, checking her watch with a theatrical sigh. "Mr. Maddox is running a few minutes behind. He cleared his entire morning schedule to personally pick up a family member from the train station."
She paused, looking at me with a mixture of reverence and warning. "He takes family obligations very seriously. Loyalty is everything to him."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
He went to the station.
A bitter, cold laugh threatened to bubble up in my throat. The irony was suffocating. Here was Damien Maddox, the most powerful man in the city, clearing his schedule to greet a loved one with respect. And then there was my husband—Maverick—who couldn't even be bothered to send a driver, let alone show his face.
I hated Maverick then. I hated him with a clarity that burned. I didn't know Damien Maddox, but at least he was a man of honor. My husband was a ghost, a coward who treated a wife like lost luggage.
"He's ready," Colette said, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper as the heavy double doors opened.
I smoothed my skirt, took a breath that didn't quite fill my lungs, and walked into the lion's den.
The office was darker than the hallway, dominated by a massive ebony desk that looked more like a barricade than furniture. And behind it sat the devil himself.
Damien Maddox was terrifying.
That was my first thought. He didn't look up immediately. He was reading a file—my file. He was broader than he looked in the magazines, his shoulders filling out a black suit that cost more than my grandfather's house. When he finally lifted his head, the air left the room.
His eyes were dark, abyssal voids that seemed to absorb the light. There was no warmth in them, only a cold, surgical calculation.
"Sit," he ordered. It wasn't an invitation.
I sat. My hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling.
"You applied for Public Relations," he said. His voice was a deep baritone, smooth but edged with danger, like velvet wrapped around a knife.
"Yes, sir. My experience in—"
"But you design," he interrupted. He flipped the page of my resume, his finger tracing the edge of a sketch I had included—a branding concept for a luxury hotel. "Architecture. Interiors. You understand structure."
I blinked, thrown off balance. "I... yes. I believe understanding the product is essential to selling it. Design creates the narrative."
He stared at me for a long moment. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. He wasn't looking at me like a boss looks at an employee. He was looking at me like a predator inspecting a trap to see if it had sprung correctly.
He closed the folder with a definitive snap.
"Isabella Preston," he said.
He didn't ask it. He stated it. The way my name rolled off his tongue felt like a violation, or perhaps a verdict. His gaze dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes, searching for something I couldn't name.
A shiver raced down my spine, primal and warning. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff in the dark.
"Yes, Mr. Maddox," I whispered.
"Colette will show you to your desk," he said, his face an unreadable mask of stone. "Do not make me regret hiring you."
He turned his chair toward the window, dismissing me as if I were nothing more than a speck of dust in his kingdom. I stood up on shaky legs and walked out, unaware that the man I had just met was the same man who had already sentenced me to ruin.
