"In the game of power and revenge, where love is the most dangerous weapon, those who feel the most unworthy often deserve it the most."
1
Ruby
I stood at the edge of the crowded sidewalk, my heart hammering against my ribs as I raised my arm for a cab. Morning rush hour in Midtown Manhattan was a beast—chaotic, relentless, and utterly unforgiving. The streets teemed with hurried pedestrians, honking taxis, and the distant wail of sirens weaving through the towering skyline.
I shifted on my feet, adjusting the strap of my bag, my nerves frayed as the minutes ticked by.
Today was important—monumental even.
Landing an internship interview at Royal Crest Holdings, popularly known as RCH, was no small feat. The competition was ruthless, the stakes high, and the chances of being selected? Almost nonexistent. Yet, somehow, I had beaten the odds. Maybe it was my impeccable 4.0 GPA. Maybe it was the endless prayers whispered by my mother and best friends. Or maybe—just maybe—it was sheer luck.
I checked my phone. 8:55 AM.
Five minutes until my interview.
Panic clawed at my chest.
"Come on, come on," I muttered, scanning the road for an empty cab.
A sharp gust of wind sent loose papers skittering across the pavement, whipping my blonde waves into a tangled mess around my face. My breathing quickened as I tugged at the hem of my blazer, suddenly feeling underdressed in my navy pencil skirt and cream blouse.
Then, finally—an empty taxi.
I waved it down, practically jumping inside as I gave the driver the address. My foot tapped anxiously against the floor as we sped through the congested streets toward Royal Enterprises' headquarters.
The moment we arrived, I barely had time to register the grandeur of the skyscraper before bolting through the sleek, glass entrance. I had no time to admire the surroundings, but Royal Enterprises was impossible to ignore—a towering testament to power and wealth. Its steel-and-glass exterior gleamed under the morning sun, momentarily blinding me as I rushed inside.
The lobby was breathtaking—marble floors gleamed under crystal chandeliers, the scent of polished wood and expensive cologne lingering in the air.
I made my way to the front desk, where a woman in her mid-thirties sat typing away at a keyboard. The receptionist barely spared me a glance, her sharp eyes flicking up only to assess my appearance. I swallowed. After running through the wind, I probably looked like a mess—my hair tousled, my blazer slightly askew.
"Good morning," I said with a tight smile. "I'm here for the internship interview."
The woman arched a brow, taking in my flushed face and windblown state before sighing.
"Name?"
"Ruby Kensington."
Her nails clacked against the keyboard before she gestured toward the elevators. "Twentieth floor. Conference Room B. You're late."
I opened my mouth to explain but decided against it. Instead, I nodded, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the elevators. I wouldn't let anything ruin this.
Checking the time again, my pulse spiked. 8:58 AM.
Without thinking, I rushed forward just as the elevator doors opened—and collided with something solid.
A body.
The impact sent me stumbling back, my bag slipping from my shoulder and crashing onto the pristine floor. Its contents spilled out—my notebook, a pen, a small compact mirror, and a neatly folded résumé.
"Shit."
Heat flooded my cheeks as I dropped to my knees, scrambling to gather my things.
"I'm so sorry—" I started, my voice flustered, but the man I had run into didn't even respond.
He merely stepped past me, his polished shoes barely missing my fingers as I reached for my papers.
Not even a glance. Not even a hint of acknowledgment.
My fingers curled around my résumé, crumpling the edges. What an ass.
"Excuse me!" I called after him, but the man had already stepped into the elevator, his broad shoulders stiff as he faced forward.
Muttering under my breath, I snatched up my belongings and darted in after him. The moment the doors slid shut, I straightened my spine, smoothing my skirt and pushing my windswept hair behind my ears.
The last thing I needed was to look like a complete mess in front of whoever was conducting the interview.
But as the elevator hummed upward, I felt a pair of eyes on me.
My pulse quickened.
I flicked a glance to the side, catching the man's reflection in the steel doors. He was watching me—no, assessing me. His gaze was unreadable, dark and intense, as if he were peeling apart my very existence.
Anger? Disgust? Pity? I couldn't tell.
I turned to face him fully, refusing to shrink under his scrutiny. I wasn't intimidated—at least, that's what I told myself.
And then I really saw him.
The man was tall—intimidatingly so. His frame was lean but powerful, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that looked sinfully expensive. His dark hair was swept back, not a strand out of place, and his sharp, chiseled jawline made him look almost unreal.
But it was his eyes that unsettled me the most—cold, piercing, and utterly unreadable.
There was a quiet danger about him, something I couldn't quite place.
He was the kind of man who could silence a room just by walking into it.
And right now, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher.
The elevator dinged, breaking the silence.
I brushed past him, muttering, "Asshole," under my breath as I stepped out.
My heart was still hammering in my chest—half from nerves about the interview, half from irritation at the encounter.
Shaking it off, I focused on finding my way. Room 203.
When I reached the conference room, relief washed over me. Other interns were inside, some nervously fidgeting, others tapping on their phones. At least I wasn't too late.
One by one, they were called in. When my turn finally came, I straightened my posture, clutched my résumé, and moved toward the door—only for the secretary outside to stop me.
"Miss Kensington? Your interview has been rescheduled to another location. Follow me."
I blinked. "Rescheduled? Why?"
The secretary didn't even glance up. "Please follow me."
Dread slithered through me as I followed her. Something about this felt... off.
We stepped into another elevator—this one requiring a keycard scan before the doors even opened.
My stomach sank.
The top floor.
When the doors slid open, I was momentarily breathless.
This level was entirely different—cooler, darker, eerily silent. Polished dark wood floors absorbed sound, and sleek black walls with silver accents exuded a quiet authority. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched out to reveal the breathtaking New York skyline.
And then I saw the office.
Minimalistic yet impossibly luxurious. Black leather furniture. Sleek steel fixtures. A vast bookshelf lined with precision. And at the very center, behind a massive desk, stood him.
The man from the elevator.
My body went rigid.
I had called this man an asshole.
Shit.
He leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with that same unreadable expression.
"Miss Kensington," he finally said, his voice deep and smooth, yet laced with something I couldn't quite decipher. "Have a seat."
My stomach twisted.
As I slowly lowered myself into the chair across from him, my fingers clenched around my résumé.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, in a voice that sent chills down my spine, he spoke again.
"Tell me, Miss Kensington… do you often make a habit of insulting your future employer?"