STUCK WITH MR. BILLIONAIRE FOR CHRISTMAS

STRANGER-DANGER.

CINNAMON:

Three years.

Three years of late nights, brutal deadlines, and campaigns that saved the company's ass more times than I could count. Today, all of it would finally mean something.

I smoothed my hands over the navy blazer I'd splurged on last month. Tailored, professional.  It was perfect for claiming what I'd earned. My reflection in the apartment window looked ready. Confident. A woman who'd already won.

The promotion was mine.

I grabbed my bag and bolted out the door, heels clicking against the pavement as I speed-walked toward the junction. The staff bus always left at 7:45 sharp, and I'd rather chew glass than miss it today of all days.

The bus rumbled into view just as I rounded the corner, brake lights glowing red.

"Wait!" I broke into a jog, waving my arm like a lunatic.

The door hissed open. Thank God.

I reached for the handle, ready to haul myself up and collided with a wall of muscle and expensive cologne.

A man stood at the door, one hand already gripping the rail, his body angled to board. Dark hair, sharp jawline, face that belonged on a magazine cover as a supermodel.

We both froze.

Then his eyes dropped to my hand on the door. His tightened.

Oh, hell no.

I yanked harder, wedging my shoulder into the narrow gap. He pulled back, crowding closer, his suit jacket brushing my arm.

"Excuse me," I said through gritted teeth.

He didn't move. Just stared at me like I was gum on his thousand-dollar shoe.

Fine. Two could play this game.

I twisted my body, slipped past him with a grunt, and hauled myself onto the bus. Victory tasted sweet until I realized there was exactly one seat left.

I lunged for it.

The bus jerked forward as I dropped into the worn vinyl seat, exhaling in relief. Behind me, footsteps thudded up the stairs.

The stranger appeared in the aisle, scanning the packed bus with an expression that could've frozen hell. His gaze landed on me.

I felt it like a brand.

He moved closer, stopping directly in front of my seat. Didn't say a word. Just stood there, looking down at me with those cold, unreadable eyes that somehow commanded, "get up."

I blinked up at him, all innocence. "Don't look at me. I'm not giving up this seat for you."

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked near his temple.

For a second, I thought he might actually say something. Instead, he turned and grabbed the overhead rail, positioning himself among the other standing passengers as the bus filled in behind him.

I slipped my headphones on, cranking the volume until soft piano music drowned out the world. My body relaxed into the seat, tension melting from my shoulders.

Today was going to be perfect. I could feel it.

Except my eyes kept drifting back to him.

He stood three feet away, one hand wrapped around the rail, the other hanging loose at his side. The fluorescent bus lights caught the edge of his profile. Strong nose, full mouth set in a hard line. His charcoal wool suit was custom tailored and it evidently cost more than anyone earned in my company.

And that watch. Jesus. Must have a price tag I didn't want to know.

Then I noticed the ring on his pinky finger. Thick gold, understated but unmistakable.

Who the hell wears a pinky ring on a staff bus?

I nudged Eric, the guy sitting beside me. He looked up from his tablet, thick-framed glasses sliding down his nose.

"Who's that?" I whispered, nodding toward the stranger.

Eric squinted, then shrugged. "No idea."

Weird.

I let it go, deciding he was probably one of those city types who dressed like they owned the world but couldn't afford the cab fare. Fake it till you make it, right? Also maybe a new employee who was trying hard to be noticed.

I closed my eyes, letting the music wash over me. My mind drifted to the conference room, to the moment my name would be called, to the applause and congratulations and the raise that would finally let me breathe.

By the time the bus lurched to a stop outside the office, I was practically glowing.

I waited until everyone shuffled off, then stood, smoothing my skirt and squaring my shoulders. The building rose in front of me, glass and steel catching the morning sun.

All my sacrifices had all led here.

The entrance was decked out in Christmas decorations now, garland wrapped around the columns, a massive wreath hung above the revolving doors. Twinkling lights framed the windows, casting festive glow.

I hummed under my breath, some half-remembered carol, and practically skipped toward the entrance.

"Morning, James!" I called to the janitor mopping the lobby floor.

He looked up, startled, then grinned. "Someone's in a good mood."

"Best day of my life," I sang back, waving at the window cleaners on their scaffolding, at the decorators stringing lights across the reception desk.

I floated into the building, riding that high all the way to my office.

The moment I sat down, Risa knocked and pushed the door open without waiting for an answer. She held a small gift box wrapped in silver paper, a ridiculous bow perched on top.

"For you," she said, setting it on my desk.

I tore into it immediately. Inside was a delicate gold chain bracelet with a tiny charm shaped like a four-leaf clover.

"Risa..."

"For luck. Not that you need it." She pulled a stick of incense from her bag, lit it, and began waving it around me in exaggerated circles. "But just in case. Gotta ward off the bad vibes."

I laughed, even though the smell made my nose itch. "I don't believe in this stuff."

"Doesn't matter. I do." She grinned, extinguishing the stick. "You've earned this, Cin. Go claim what's yours."

My throat tightened. "Couldn't have done it without you."

She squeezed my hand, then checked her watch. "You've got fifteen minutes. Go."

I hugged her tight, let out a squeal I couldn't contain, and bolted for the elevator.

The hallway stretched ahead of me, empty except for-

Him.

The guy from the bus stood in front of the elevator, jabbing the button like it owed him money.

The doors began to slide shut.

"Wait! Hold it!"

He glanced back. Saw me running.

And kept pressing the button.

I knew I wouldn't meet up before the doors closed.

"Are you kidding me?!" I kicked off one flat, aimed, and hurled it at the elevator.

It got through and landed on his chest. He was still visible through the closing gap, and I swear to God, he smirked.

I flipped him off with both hands.

So much for good luck.

I checked my phone. Ten minutes until the meeting. Thirty flights of stairs between me and the conference room.

I yanked off my other flat shoe, hiked up my pencil skirt, and ran.

By the time I reached the top, my lungs burned, my hair stuck to my forehead, and I was pretty sure I'd sweated through my blazer.

Catherine's desk sat just outside the conference room. She looked up as I stumbled toward her, eyes widening.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Long story." I grabbed the edge of her desk, gasping. "No time."

Before she could protest, I kicked off her heels, patent leather stilts that were at least two sizes too big and snatched a handful of paper towels from her drawer.

"Cinnamon-"

I was already at her mirror, dabbing at my face, smoothing my hair, trying to look like someone who hadn't just sprinted up thirty flights of stairs.

Good enough.

I grabbed the coffee sitting on her desk and took a long sip.

"Hey! That's mine!"

"I owe you!" I called over my shoulder, already halfway to the conference room.

The heels pinched. Every step was agony, my feet sliding forward with each stride, but I wasn't about to walk into the most important meeting of my life barefoot.

The conference room door loomed ahead, brass handle gleaming under the hallway lights.

Almost there.

A figure stepped into view from the side corridor, reaching for the same door.

The guy from the bus.

Again.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

Rage boiled up so fast I didn't think, just acted.

I took one intentional step, let my ankle wobble in Catherine's death-trap heels, and launched the coffee directly at him.

It hit perfectly.

Brown liquid exploded across his suit jacket catching his inner white shirt, dripping down his chest, soaking into his tailored pants.

He froze, staring down at himself in disbelief.

"Oops," I said, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Lost my balance. Sorry about that."

His head snapped up. His face had gone crimson, jaw locked so tight I could hear his teeth grinding.

"Are you fucking blind," he bit out, "or just stupid?"

I smiled. "Neither. But I guess only one of us is making it to the conference."

Before I could reach for the handle, he shoved past me, hard enough that I stumbled sideways, catching myself against the wall.

The door slammed shut in my face.

I stared at the polished wood, then let out a breathless laugh.

Oh, this was perfect. Martin hated mess. Hated disruption. The man once fired someone for spilling water on a presentation deck. And this guy just walked into the most important meeting of the quarter looking like he'd been attacked by a Starbucks barista.

He was done.

I could practically hear Martin's clipped voice tearing into him right now.

Served him right.

I straightened my blazer, still grinning, and reached for the door handle.

It swung open before I touched it.

Martin stood in the doorway, his face drained of color, eyes wide with something that looked horribly close to panic. Behind him, the entire executive team sat frozen around the long conference table, all eyes locked on the scene unfolding.

And standing at the head of the table, arms crossed, coffee still dripping from his suit and shirt, was the stranger.

Martin's voice came out strangled, like someone had their hand around his throat.

"Ms. Wealth. Perfect timing." He swallowed hard, his gaze darting between me and the man I'd just drenched. "I'd like you to meet Dante Moretti." He gestured weakly toward the coffee-soaked figure. "Our new CEO."

IRREPLACEABLE.

DANTE:

This was a mistake.

I knew it the second Tate pitched the idea about going undercover, experiencing the "authentic employee journey," understanding the company from the ground up before implementing changes.

Idiotic.

I didn't care about process. I cared about results. Numbers. Growth. Exponential profit that would cement my name at the top of every business magazine in the country and shove it directly in my stepfather's smug face.

But Tate insisted. "You need to see what you're working with, Dante. You can't fix what you don't understand."

So I rode the staff bus like some corporate tourist. Used the general elevator. Walked through the building without an assistant clearing the path ahead of me. All the mundane indignities regular people endured daily.

That wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was her.

That barely-five-foot menace with raven hair and a death wish. She'd looked at me like I was an inconvenience, something to be shoved aside and forgotten. No deference. No intimidation. Just pure, unfiltered hostility from the moment our eyes met.

Who the hell did she think she was?

I'd dealt with CEOs, politicians, investors who could buy and sell entire companies before breakfast. None of them had the audacity to glare at me the way she did. To fight me for a bus seat. To refuse me with that defiant little tilt of her chin or throw their dirty shoe at me.

Standing here, drenched in coffee, my two hundred thousand dollar suit ruined beyond repair.

She was reckless.

The boardroom fell silent as I stepped inside, Martin pale as a ghost behind me. Good. At least someone here understood the gravity of the situation.

I walked to the head of the table, ignoring the way coffee dripped from my shirt cuff onto the polished wood. Every executive sat frozen, eyes wide, mouths shut. Exactly how I preferred them.

Then she was in the doorway when Martin opened the door after suggesting getting paper towels to somewhat clean me up.

Her face shifted from smug satisfaction to horror in the span of a heartbeat. I watched it happen, the realization creeping in, the color bleeding from her cheeks.

Beautiful.

Nonetheless, I should've dismissed her entirely. But almost no one manages to get under my skin except Tate. She'd unsettled something in me the second our paths crossed. I hated that her defiance didn't just anger me. It sharpened something in me making it impossible to overlook like a splinter I couldn't ignore

I crossed my arms, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable.

"Mr. Martin," I said, my voice cutting through the tension. "Who is she?"

Martin straightened, clearing his throat. "This is Cinnamon Wealth, sir. She's our-"

I held up a hand. "Wait." A laugh escaped before I could stop it. "Her last name is Wealth?"

"Yes, sir."

I wiped an imaginary tear from my eye. "There's nothing wealth-related about her." I glanced at her, then back at Martin, speaking as if she weren't standing three feet away. "I'm guessing her parents were the superstitious type. Name your kid after what you don't have, hope it magically sticks." I waved dismissively. "Proceed."

"Mr. Moretti, I-" Her voice came alive through the room.

I turned my head slowly, pinning her with a glare that had made grown men stammer. "I wasn't talking to you."

Martin jumped in, apologetic. "Sorry, sir. Yes, her name is Wealth. She's been with us for three years and is one of our top performers. She brought in the highest revenue last year and continues to lead our metrics this quarter. Today, we were planning to announce her promotion to-"

She stood a little straighter. Pride across her face as Martin listed her accomplishments, and I felt annoyance twist in my chest.

I wanted to crush her.

"Stop." My voice dropped. "I didn't ask you to bore me with her résumé. Everyone under this company's paycheck is supposed to perform. That's why they're paid." I leaned forward slightly. "I asked what her position is."

Martin swallowed. "She's our Chief Executive Strategist and Lead Marketer."

"And she's due for a promotion simply for showing up for three years?"

"It goes beyond that, sir. Her strategies have-"

I cut him off by shifting my gaze back to her. She stood rigid, chest heaving with barely restrained fury. Her face had turned a deep shade of red, fists clenched at her sides.

Perfect.

I let the silence linger, then spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

"You're fired."

The room erupted.

"What?" She stepped forward, shaking. "You can't-"

"I just did."

"You arrogant piece of-" She was shouting now, words spilling out in a torrent of rage and disbelief. Cursing. Threatening. Telling me exactly where I could shove my authority.

I didn't flinch. Didn't react. Just watched her unravel.

She shouldn't have been that pretty when she was furious.

"Dante, get your head right," I scolded myself. I shouldn't be noticing something as trivial as that right now.

When she finally paused for breath, I looked at Martin. "Call security."

No one moved.

"Now."

Martin opened his mouth, then closed it. None of the executives spoke. They just sat there, trapped between self-preservation and whatever misguided loyalty they felt toward her.

Pathetic.

Martin finally found his voice. "Mr. Moretti, with all due respect, Ms. Wealth is our most competent strategist. If you could reconsider-"

"Anyone who objects joins her." I let that sink in, scanning the room. "Understood?"

Silence.

Security arrived two minutes later. She fought them the whole way, hurling accusations, promising lawsuits, telling me I was threatened by her competence because I'd never earned anything in my life, everything had been handed to me.

Her words hit closer than I'd ever admit.

A single, unwanted memory clawed up my spine. My stepfather's voice, dripping with the same accusation. Useless. Undeserving. Nothing without him.

"I earned my place!" she screamed as they escorted her toward the door. "You inherited yours!" She pointed at me like she could see straight through the steel.

I smiled. Cold. "Then I'll see you in court, Ms. Wealth. I look forward to it."

The door slammed shut behind her.

I turned back to the room. "Things are changing. This company was dying because of too many incompetent hands holding it back. That ends now." I straightened my cuffs, ignoring the coffee stains. "Meeting dismissed."

They filed out in silence.

***

Tate was already waiting in my office when I walked in, leaning against my desk with that insufferable smirk.

"That went well."

I didn't answer. Just stripped off my jacket and threw it onto the couch. The shirt followed. Coffee had soaked through to my undershirt, sticky and cold against my skin.

"She really got to you, didn't she?"

Tate still had his tongue attached to his mouth because beyond being my personal assistant, he was my best friend. Something I rarely had.

"She ruined an expensive suit."

"That's not what I mean."

I shot him a look. He raised his hands in mock surrender but didn't leave.

I changed into the spare clothes he knew to keep any office I used. Perfectly tailored, identical to the one now crumpled on the couch. My hands moved mechanically, buttoning the shirt, fastening the cuffs.

But I kept seeing her face. Hearing her voice.

I yanked the tie tighter than necessary.

Tate was still watching. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"You don't look fine."

I ignored him, focusing on the knot until it sat perfectly centered. My reflection stared back from the window. I was composed, controlled, exactly how I needed to be.

Except my jaw was clenched. My shoulders tight.

She'd gotten under my skin. Some nobody marketer who thought she could talk to me like an equal.

I hated that it bothered me.

Hated that I could still smell the coffee on my discarded shirt. Hated that her defiance played on a loop in my head, her words cutting deeper than they should have.

"You know," Tate said carefully, "firing your top strategist on day one might not be the best move."

"She disrespected me."

"She threw coffee on you. You didn't know who she was. And she didn't know who you were."

"She should have."

Tate sighed. "This company needs to succeed, Dante. You need it to succeed."

I turned, meeting his gaze. "What's your point?"

"Your stepfather's been waiting for you to fail. So has your brother. This acquisition, turning it into a parent company is your shot to prove them wrong. To knock them off the top of the business rankings and take their spot." He paused. "You can't afford mistakes."

My hands curled into fists. He was right, and I hated him for it.

This company had to succeed. Not just succeed, dominate. Become the crown jewel that proved I didn't need their name, their money, their approval.

I built this. Me.

And no one, especially not some reckless, sharp-tongued woman with a ridiculous last name was going to jeopardize it.

"I made the right call," I said.

Tate didn't argue. Just nodded and left.

The office felt too quiet after he was gone.

I sat at my desk, pulled up the quarterly reports, forced myself to focus on the numbers.

But her voice kept creeping back in.

"You inherited yours."

I snapped the pen in my hand.

The crack echoed through the silent room. Ink bled across my fingers.

I stared at the broken pieces, then swept them into the trash and wiped my hand clean.

Focus. I needed to stay focused.

I wouldn't let a woman who knew nothing about the hell I'd crawled through rattle me with her cheap assumptions. She thought I inherited my power. She thought I'd been handed everything I owned.

If she knew the truth, she would've kept her mouth shut.

She didn't know what it took to survive in a house where weakness was eaten alive. She didn't know the things I'd had to do just to stand in a room without being crushed.

I bled for every inch I stand on. And I'd burn this entire company including my world to the ground before I let someone like her disrespect who I was.

BATTLELINE HAS BEEN DRAWN.

DANTE:

The next day, the office felt different.

Employees avoided eye contact when I walked past. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the executives moved carefully, speaking in measured tones, correcting themselves before I had to.

Fear.

Good. I'd rather be feared than loved. Fear kept people sharp. Kept them obedient.

I was halfway through a meeting with the finance team when Martin knocked.

"Sir, I need a moment."

I waved him in. "Make it quick."

He hesitated, glancing at the others in the room. "Privately, if possible."

I dismissed the team, then leaned back in my chair. "What is it?"

Martin set a folder on my desk. "The Meadowbrook project. It's our next major acquisition. It's a land development for a luxury resort. The investors are traditional, family-oriented. They only work with people they trust."

"And?"

"The land is in Ms. Wealth's hometown."

I went still.

Martin continued, oblivious. "She knows the area. Knows the people. She's the only one who can navigate the local politics and convince them to sell. Without her..." He trailed off.

"Without her, what?"

"Without her, the deal might be difficult."

I stared at the folder, not moving or opening it.

"She's irreplaceable on this, sir," Martin added quietly. "Essential."

That word sat heavy in the room.

Irreplaceable.

I hated it. Hated needing anyone. Especially her.

"Find someone else."

"There is no one else. She's been cultivating relationships there for months. If we bring in a stranger, they'll shut us out."

My hands rested flat on the desk. I could feel the tension coiling in my chest, pressure building behind my ribs.

I needed this deal. Needed this company to succeed.  Not just succeed but dominate. Become the crown jewel

And she was the only way to make it happen.

Martin shifted his weight. "Should I... reach out to her?"

I looked up. Met his gaze.

"I don't bring people back."

Martin nodded slowly, understanding the weight of what I'd just said.

But as he turned to leave, I felt the heat in my nerves that wouldn't let go.

I loosened my tie. Just enough to breathe.

Martin paused at the door. "Sir?"

"Find someone else," I angrily repeated, loud enough for him to hear. "What could be so difficult about convincing a town full of retirees to sell their boring properties for compensation they'll never see again in their lifetimes?"

Martin turned back, his expression careful. "With all due respect, sir, that demographic is the hardest to negotiate with. They don't care about money the way younger sellers do. They care about legacy. Trust. Tradition. They need someone who understands their values, someone they can relate to." He paused. "Someone from their community."

I said nothing.

"This deal is massive, Mr. Moretti. The profit projections from the resort exceed anything we've done before. It would be the largest development in that region's history. The small sacrifice of reinstating Ms. Wealth is worth it."

Exhaling out of defeat, "temporarily," I muttered.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Ms. Wealth will be brought back temporarily, just for this project."

"Understood, sir."

I leaned back, jaw tight. "How long do we have?"

"Until New Year's. Other companies are circling. Whoever presents the most strategic, trustworthy proposal wins." He hesitated. "We need to move fast."

I waved him off. "Leave the files."

He set the folder on my desk and left.

The room felt too quiet again.

I opened the folder, scanning page after page of projections, land surveys, investor profiles. Everything looked solid. Clean. Profitable.

Then I saw the list of competing companies.

Third from the top: Moretti & Ashford Holdings.

My stepfather's company.

My vision narrowed. Blood rushed in my ears. Old anger stirred like something with teeth.

Of course he was after this deal. The bastard probably had his sights on it the moment the investors made their intentions public. And if he won? If his company secured the Meadowbrook project while mine failed?

He'd make sure the entire world knew.

I could already hear his smooth, condescending voice, reminding everyone that I'd tried and failed. Meaning, I wasn't cut out for this level of business, that I should've stayed in his shadow where I belonged.

Not a chance in hell.

I pushed emotion aside, forcing myself to think logically. The deal was worth billions. The prestige alone would cement my company's reputation not just as a real estate mogul but a major and strategic developer. And if I beat my stepfather in the process?

That was worth swallowing my pride.

I pressed the intercom. "Martin. Get her back today."

"Yes, sir."

***

Hours passed.

I worked through emails, calls, contract revisions to keep my mind occupied. But every few minutes, I found myself glancing at the door, waiting.

Unconsciously, I found myself remembering the curve of her mouth when she argued with me-soft shape, fierce words. It irritated me that I could picture it so clearly. I shoved the thought away, shaking my head like I could force my mind back into line.

Finally, someone knocked.

Thank goodness. That was a welcome distraction.

Martin announced himself before stepping inside.

I didn't look up from my laptop. "Of course she came back." I closed the screen, leaning forward. "We'll start next week. I want a full briefing on the investors by Monday, travel arrangements finalized by Wednesday, and-"

"She refused."

I froze.

Martin cleared his throat. "Ms. Wealth declined the offer."

Silence.

"She said..." He shifted uncomfortably. "She'll only engage in further communication if you personally apologize for what happened. And she's requesting a private, one-on-one meeting with you before she agrees to anything."

I stared at him.

He stared back, waiting.

Then I laughed humorless. "She wants me to apologize."

"Yes, sir."

"To her."

"Yes, sir."

My hands curled into fists on the desk. "She threw coffee on me. Disrespected me in front of the entire executive team. And she wants an apology?"

Martin said nothing.

I stood, pacing to the window. The city below, lights coming on and off in the dusk.The glass carried the day's fading warmth, but it did nothing for the chill crawling beneath my collar.

 Somewhere out there, Cinnamon Wealth was sitting in her apartment, smug and satisfied, thinking she had leverage.

She did.

And she knew it.

"Set up the meeting," I said quietly.

Martin nodded. "When?"

"Tomorrow. My office. 6 PM."

"I'll arrange it."

He left.

I stood at the window long after he was gone, staring at my reflection in the glass.

Cinnamon Wealth had just made this personal.

And I never lost when things got personal.

THE MEETING.

CINNAMON:

I didn't even have time to properly wallow.

One day. I'd been fired for exactly one day before Mr. Martin called.

I was still in my pajamas, surrounded by crumpled tissues and half-eaten takeout, researching employment lawyers who specialized in wrongful termination cases. Three years of my life couldn't just be erased because some spoiled CEO had a tantrum over spilled coffee. I'd earned that promotion. Earned my place in that company. If Dante Moretti thought he could toss me aside without consequences, he had another thing coming.

Then my phone buzzed.

Mr. Martin's name flashed across the screen.

I almost didn't answer. But curiosity and a sliver of desperate hope made me pick up.

"Ms. Wealth, I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"That depends on why you're calling."

He cleared his throat. "Mr. Moretti would like to discuss reinstating your position."

I sat up straighter. "Reinstating?"

"Yes. Temporarily. For the Meadowbrook project specifically."

And just like that, the hope died.

"Let me get this straight," I said slowly. "He fires me, humiliates me in front of the entire executive team, has security drag me out of the building and now he wants me back because he needs my help?"

"The company needs your expertise-"

"He needs my expertise," I corrected. "And he's too proud to ask for it himself, so he's making it sound like he's doing me a favor. Like I'm some desperate nobody who should be grateful he's tossing me scraps."

Silence on the other end.

"Is that about right, Mr. Martin?"

He sighed. "Ms. Wealth-"

"No. He can find someone else."

"We've already started this project with you. Starting off with someone new would be a hassle. Moreover, this would be beneficial to you."

Oh, he was trying to play politics in my face because I knew that no one was capable to handle this deal but me.

The field test months ago had been my idea. Go to Meadowbrook, blend in, learn what made the community tick, figure out how to win their trust. It was supposed to be straightforward. Except Meadowbrook wasn't just any town.

It was my hometown.

The place where Marcus left me standing at the altar in front of two hundred people. The place I'd avoided for two years because every street corner held a memory I'd rather forget.

But I went anyway. Because the job mattered. Because proving myself mattered.

I spent weeks there, reconnecting with neighbors, attending town meetings, volunteering at events. Slowly, painfully, I rebuilt bridges I thought had burned. And it worked. The elders trusted me. They liked me.

So yeah. I was good at my job.

And Dante Moretti had the audacity to fire me anyway.

"I'm not interested, Mr. Martin."

"Ms. Wealth, please, we can reach a compromise for all parties."

Taking in a deep breath, I had one option left. "Get Mr. Moretti to have a meeting with me where I list more conditions and also have him issue an apology to me and maybe I'll reconsider."

There was rustling of paper at the other end of the line and a brief silence before Mr. Martin spoke up. "Ms. Wealth, you're asking for the impossible. He wouldn't-"

"Then I'm afraid I won't be accepting this offer."

"Ms. Wealth, we-"

I hung up, not interested to listen any further to him.

Then I sat there, staring at my phone, heart pounding.

What had I just done?

The rational part of my brain scolded me. I needed that job. Needed the paycheck. Mom's medical bills were piling up faster than I could pay them, and my savings account was running on fumes.

I should've swallowed my pride. Should've said yes immediately, kept my head down, done whatever Dante Moretti wanted just to stay employed.

But I couldn't.

I wouldn't.

He didn't get to treat me like I was disposable.

My phone buzzed again an hour later.

Mr. Martin.

I almost ignored it. But something made me answer.

"He's agreed to meet with you," Mr. Martin said. "On your terms. Tomorrow. 6 PM."

I blinked. "He... agreed?"

"Yes."

"To apologize?"

"He agreed to a private meeting. I suggest you don't push your luck beyond that."

A laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. Dante Moretti was actually bending. Which meant this deal was more important than his ego.

Good.

Maybe I could get my respect back, even if I didn't get my job.

"Fine," I said. "Tomorrow at six."

***

I spent the next day preparing.

Not just mentally but physically. If I was walking into Dante Moretti's office, I needed to look like someone he couldn't dismiss. Someone who belonged in that room as much as he did.

I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing my hands over the navy sheath dress I'd bought for interviews but never had a reason to wear. It was right for this 

I adjusted my hair for the third time, even though it was already in place. Checked my makeup. Reapplied lipstick.

There was a popular saying, "Dress the way you want to be addressed."

Maybe that was where I went wrong the first time. Maybe he didn't take me seriously because I looked like every other employee instead of someone who commanded attention.

A cough echoed from the living room.

I froze.

Another cough. Wet. Painful.

I rushed out of my bedroom and found Mom bent over on the couch, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. When she pulled it away, red stained the white fabric.

"Mom-"

"I'm fine." Her voice came out raspy, strained.

She wasn't fine.

I guided her back against the cushions, my hands shaking. Two years ago, my mother could carry groceries up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. She worked two jobs, sometimes three, and never complained. She held our family together after Dad died, made sure my sister Maya and I never went to bed hungry, never felt the weight of how hard she was struggling.

Now, ovarian cancer was eating her alive from the inside out.

"Cinnamon." She reached for my hand, squeezing weakly. "Do you really want to go back there?"

I swallowed hard. "It's just a meeting."

"He treated you terribly. You don't deserve that. I don't care how much we need the money. Your well-being matters more."

Another cough rattled her chest. She winced, pressing the handkerchief back to her mouth.

My throat tightened.

She needed chemo. It cost so much per session. More than I made in a month but Insurance covered some of it, but not enough. Never enough.

If I didn't get my job back, if I didn't find something that paid just as well, I didn't know what we'd do.

"I'm just going to hear him out," I said softly. "If anything feels wrong, I'll walk away. I promise."

"Promise me, Cinnamon."

I couldn't say the words. Couldn't lie to her face.

So I smiled instead. Nodded.

She studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Be careful."

I kissed her forehead. "I have to go. I don't want to be late."

***

The office eerie when I walked in. Like the building itself was holding its breath.

Employees glanced at me as I passed, then quickly looked away. No one smiled. No one said hello.

They knew what happened. Of course they did.

I kept my head high, shoulders back, walking like I owned the place. Like I hadn't been dragged out by security less than forty-eight hours ago.

Dante's personal assistant met me at the elevator-a polite, good-looking guy in his late twenties who introduced himself as Tate.

"Mr. Moretti is expecting you," he said, gesturing toward the executive floor.

I followed him down the long hallway lined with glass walls and now minimalist décor. Everything had been redecorated and looked expensive and untouchable. They did all that within less than forty eight hours?

Interesting.

We stopped in front of a set of double doors.

Tate knocked once, then pushed them open.

Dante stood with his back to us, hands in his pockets, staring out the windows overlooking the city. The evening light painted him in gold and shadow, outlining the lines of his suit, the breadth of his shoulders.

He didn't turn immediately. Just stood there, still as if he had all the time in the world.

Then he turned.

And every coherent thought I had evaporated.

I forgot how to breathe.

Had he always looked like this? High cheekbones, hazel eyes that pinned me in place making me seem like I was something he'd been hunting. His suit was charcoal, perfectly tailored, probably worth more than my rent. Better than the last one I ruined.

But it wasn't just the suit. It was the way he looked at me.

Like he'd been waiting.

Like he knew exactly what kind of chaos this meeting would bring.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything but no words came out.

I just stood there.

Staring.

Tate cleared his throat. "Ms. Wealth is here."

I noticed Tate didn't add sir like every assistant would.

Dante's gaze didn't leave mine.

"Close the door," he said quietly.

Tate stepped out. The door clicked shut behind him.

And suddenly, the room felt far too small.

Dante took a step forward. Then another.

He stopped three feet away, close enough that I could smell his dark and expensive cologne that made my pulse stutter.

"Ms. Wealth." His voice was dangerous. "You wanted to talk."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "You fired me."

"I did."

"Unjustly."

"That's debatable."

Heat flared in my chest. He wasn't even offering me a seat or trying to keep his distance. "You humiliated me in front of the entire executive team. Had security throw me out like I was nothing."

"And yet," he said, tilting his head slightly, "here you are."

"Because you need me."

Something changed in his expression. Annoyance. Maybe respect.

"Careful, Ms. Wealth." He stepped closer. "Confidence is attractive. Arrogance gets you fired twice."

My breath caught.

He was so close now I could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, the slight tension in his jaw.

"I don't need your threats," I said, voice steadier than I felt. "I need an apology and the conditions I'll lay out met."

Dante's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Then I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

MY TERMS.

DANTE:

Who the hell was this?

I stared at the woman standing in my doorway, and for a split second, my brain refused to connect her to the coffee-throwing menace from two days ago.

Then her eyes defiantly met mine and reality snapped into place.

She'd transformed from the hasty, disheveled woman who'd stumbled into the boardroom to a cooperate diva.

The fitted dress hitting just above her knees, moved with her like water. Her hair complimented her subtle makeup. Her heels clicked with a confidence that made her presence swallow the entire room. They elongated her legs beautifully, though I couldn’t help remembering the last time I’d seen her in one. She could barely walk in them then, wobbling like a newborn foal, and yet here she was now, wearing them as if she’d been born in them.

I'd redecorated this office specifically to impress. Minimalist furniture, custom lighting, art pieces. Everything designed to establish dominance before a single word was spoken.

But standing here, watching her take in the space with those judgemental eyes, I found myself wondering if she was impressed.

Why the hell did I care?

Focus.

Except I couldn't stop staring.

She had understood something fundamental about negotiation. "Dress like you've already won." And she had. That dress had no business looking that good on anyone, but on her? Devastating.

My gaze dropped to her hands. Manicured, delicate fingers wrapped around her bag strap. Then her mouth. Full lips painted a shade of red that made my thoughts veer into territory I had no business exploring.

What would she look like on her knees between my legs? Those hands on my thighs, that mouth stretched around me—

"Stop." I scolded myself.

Inappropriate. Completely inappropriate.

If she could read my mind right now, she'd slap me across the face and call me a pervert.

I clenched my jaw, forcing my pulse to slow. Heat coiled through the room, winding tight beneath my skin.

She was beautiful. Annoyingly, distractingly beautiful.

And I needed to get control of this situation before I did something monumentally stupid.

"No," she said, her voice ringing through my thoughts. "I'm afraid you're going to have to find someone else if you're not willing to compromise."

I blinked. "What?"

Her lips curved slightly. She'd caught me. Knew I'd been somewhere else entirely.

Then she moved.

Not away, closer.

She crossed the distance between us, planted one hand on my desk, and leaned in. Her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"Let me be clear about my terms," she said. "One: you apologize for firing me. Publicly, in front of the same people who watched you humiliate me. Two: you reinstate me to my original position immediately. Three: you give me the promotion I earned. And four: you pay me a significant bonus for taking on this extra project, one that's clearly above my pay grade."

Silence.

No one spoke to me like this. Ever.

CEOs stammered. Investors hedged. Even my own executives chose their words carefully, terrified of saying the wrong thing.

But Cinnamon Wealth stood a whole foot and few inches lower from my face, eyes blazing with challenge, and laid out her demands like she was the one signing my paychecks.

I should've been furious. Instead, I felt something else entirely. Something dangerous that tightened low in my stomach and made my hands itch to close the gap between us.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to step back.

If I didn't move, my hands would. They'd reach for her waist, pull her closer, test exactly how much of that defiance was real and how much would shatter under the right pressure.

And then she'd destroy me with a lawsuit I'd absolutely deserve.

"Sit down," I roughly said .

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I didn't know these chairs were meant to be sat on. How generous of you."

I didn't laugh. Just moved to the edge of my desk and sat, angling my body toward the door so she only had my profile. Distance. I needed distance and the illusion of control.

"Ms. Wealth." I let the words come out cold, detached. "You don't call the shots here."

"But you need me."

My jaw clenched. I lifted one finger, a warning. "I don't need you."

I let the word settle between us.

"However," I continued, "your former boss insists you're the most competent person for this job. I think that's bullshit. But since I actually listen to my employees—"

"You never listened to me." Her voice cut through mine like she'd been waiting for the opening. "Instead, you tried to bully me. And when you realized I wasn't a pushover, you punished me. Because apparently, the moon revolves around your world."

Heat flared in my chest. "I just told you not to interrupt me."

She held my gaze, unflinching.

Then, slowly, she leaned back. Mellowed. Not submission but irritation. Testing how far she could push before I snapped.

Good. At least one of us was thinking clearly.

"You're here because of Martin," I said, forcing my voice into professionalism. "Not because I want you. The only thing I'm considering from your list of demands is a bonus payment. You'll work here temporarily. If you prove yourself worthy during this project, I'll reinstate you. And if that happens, you'll get your promotion. So work hard, Ms. Wealth. Make this deal a success. Then your probation ends."

I stood, turning toward my desk. Toward the safety of my chair and the computer screen that would give me an excuse not to look at her.

"Martin will communicate the exact bonus amount," I added. "We're done here."

I began to go through my email, a signal to her that I'd gotten busy.

Suddenly, I heard a disbelieving scoff. She grabbed her bag, the movement abrupt enough that I glanced up despite not wanting to.

She walked toward the door, heels clicking against the hardwood with enough force to punctuate every step.

The door closed behind her. Not slammed. But close enough.

I stared at the screen, pretending to focus on the spreadsheet pulled up now. Numbers danced before me. My hands rested on the desk, perfectly still, projecting calm I didn't feel.

But I watched her through the glass walls as she stalked down the hallway, shoulders squared, chin high, radiating fury.

Even when angry, she was beautiful.

My phone buzzed.

Tate's name flashed across the screen. I answered.

"Your mother called," he said without letting me speak. "Dinner tomorrow evening. She's expecting you."

I closed my eyes. Of course she was.

"I'll be there."

"Your stepfather will be there too."

"I assumed as much."

Tate hesitated. "You want me to come up with an excuse?"

"No. I'll handle it."

I hung up.

Leaned back in my chair. Stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I'd sit across from the man who'd made me miserable. Who'd married my mother for her money and her name, then systematically dismantled every ounce of confidence I'd tried to build. Who looked at me like I was a mistake he tolerated out of obligation.

I hated him.

Hated that I still cared what he thought.

Hated that proving him wrong consumed me more than it should.

But I'd show up. Smile. Play the dutiful stepson.

Because that's what you did when you wanted to destroy someone, you let them have their guards down.

My gaze drifted back toward the hallway where Cinnamon had disappeared.

She was a problem. A distraction.

The way she looked at me, like I was just another obstacle to bulldoze through, should've infuriated me. Should've made this easy.

Yet, it made me want to see how far I could push before that defiance cracked. What she'd sound like if I backed her against the wall and forced her to admit she felt this too, the pull, the tension, the way the air between us was electric.

I loosened my tie.

This was a mistake. She was a mistake.

But I couldn't stop replaying the moment she leaned over my desk, close enough that I could've counted every individual eyelash, and told me exactly what she wanted.

Boldness like that didn't come from desperation.

It came from someone who knew their worth and refused to settle for less.

I respected that.

Hated that I respected it.

My hand curled into a fist on the desk.

Damn! I needed my focus. Now wasn't the time for this. My company was all that mattered.

Not Cinnamon Wealth and the way her perfume still lingered in my office, floral and subtle that made me want to follow her down the hallway just to figure out what it was.

Not the memory of her voice, seductive and angelic.

Not the fact that she'd walked out of here with the upper hand, and I'd let her.

My phone buzzed again. An email from Martin with the Meadowbrook files.

I opened it. Forced myself to read.

But my mind kept circling back to one thought:

Cinnamon Wealth was going to be the death of me.

And I wasn't entirely sure I'd mind.