The conference room is all glass.

Two walls of glass, the city spread below like a circuit board. Towers and traffic and the glitter of afternoon light off a thousand windows. The other walls are frosted partitions. Beyond them, people are working, talking, living their ordinary Wednesday. I can hear the muted hum of a company that doesn't know it's under siege.

And across the table sits Julian Sterling.

He's taller than the photos suggested. His shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbows, tie loosened like he's already been through a long day and has no intention of pretending otherwise. The watch on his wrist is expensive but understated. The kind of quiet wealth that doesn't announce itself because it doesn't need to.

He fills the room. Not just physically, though there's that too. Broad shoulders, the posture of someone who built something from nothing and refuses to apologize for how much space it takes up. It's the way he occupies attention. Like gravity has a preference.

"Miss Smith." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Please."

I sit. Cross my ankles. Fold my hands on the table in the posture of someone comfortable but not too comfortable.

My name is not Jane Smith.

My father died nine days ago. I found out from a stranger at 6:47 on a Tuesday morning. A clipped, professional voice informing me that Charles Abbott had passed in his sleep, and would I be attending the will reading? I said no. Hung up. Sat in my small apartment in my small life and waited for grief to arrive.

It didn't. Not exactly. What arrived instead was an old reflex. The Abbott instinct to investigate. I logged into my family's corporate network that night, running on paranoia and muscle memory, and found something that made grief irrelevant.

My brother Carter is planning a hostile takeover of this company. Planted board members. Manipulated stock. A scheme designed to strip Sterling Industries for parts and leave twenty thousand people without jobs.

I built a fake identity in three days. Dyed my hair a shade duller. Put on glasses I don't need and a suit I bought at a thrift store. Applied for the executive assistant position under a name I invented on a Tuesday.

And now I'm sitting across from the man my brother intends to destroy, lying to his face while his gaze takes me apart one layer at a time.

"Your resume is interesting." He slides a printed copy across the table — my resume, annotated in his handwriting. The pen strokes are precise, deliberate. "Five years at small firms. Solid recommendations. Nothing extraordinary."

"I prefer to do good work quietly."

"Do you?" He leans back. The chair creaks. His forearms rest on the armrests, and I notice the way his fingers are loosely curled — relaxed and controlled at the same time, like a man who learned early that power is most effective at low volume. "Most people in your position would be listing accomplishments right now. Demonstrating value."

"Would that impress you?"

His expression recalibrates. Not a smile. A reassessment. Like I've done something he didn't expect.

"No," he says.

"Then I won't waste your time."

He studies me. I hold still under the weight of it. I've been studied by powerful men my entire life — boardrooms, galas, my father's office where deals were made and people were weighed. Julian Sterling's attention is different. Less predatory. More precise. He's not trying to find a weakness. He's trying to find the truth.

That's significantly more dangerous.

"Tell me about your experience at Horizon Marketing."

"Small firm. Six employees. Administrative duties, client coordination, some project management."

"And you left because?"

"The company closed."

"Convenient." No accusation, but I feel the edge. "The firm before that. Belmont Associates. Seven months."

"Bad fit."

"Define bad fit."

I let a beat pass. This question is designed to rattle — make you say too much or too little. "The owner had expectations of female employees that went beyond professional duties. I declined. He made my position untenable."

The silence stretches. He's reading my delivery, my composure, whether I'm performing.

I'm always performing. The trick is making the performance indistinguishable from sincerity. Abbotts learn that skill before long division.

"Did you report him?"

"Filed a complaint. Nothing came of it. These things rarely do."

He nods. Something in his expression settles — not sympathy. Recognition.

"Why Sterling Industries?"

Here's where I have to be careful. Too enthusiastic reads as fake. Too pragmatic reads as mercenary. I need the middle — competent enough to hire, forgettable enough to ignore.

"Your turnover rate is half the industry average. Your Glassdoor reviews mention management that listens. Either you've found a very good PR firm, or there's something real here."

"You researched us."

"Of course."

"Most candidates don't bother."

"Most candidates aren't serious."

The words hang there. I've pushed farther than Jane Smith should. Jane Smith would be humble, eager. But something about the way he's watching me makes humble feel like a mistake — like he'd see through it before the sentence ended.

His attention drops to my hands. Folded, steady. Then back to my face.

"Tell me something that's not on your resume."

"I'm sorry?"

"Anyone can list qualifications. I want to know who you are."

Who am I.

Sloane Abbott. Heiress to a fortune built on fraud. Daughter of a dead man who chose money over everything. Sister to a person who's about to dismantle this company and everyone in it.

"I read too much," I say instead. "History, mostly. Corporate scandals, failed mergers. I find it useful to understand what goes wrong."

"Morbid."

"Practical. Understanding failure helps you avoid it."

He leans forward. The space between us contracts. I'm aware of his cologne, cedar and leather, and the fact that when he moves, he does it with the deliberate economy of someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up and has decided to take up more.

"You're overqualified for this position."

"I'm aware."

"Your resume reads like someone who should be managing teams, not schedules. Why do you want to be an assistant?"

Because I need access to your documents. Because my brother is buying your board. Because if I don't find the proof, twenty thousand people pay for my family's greed.

"Sometimes," I say, "the most useful position is the one with the best view."

He goes very still. The pause stretches until I can hear someone's phone ringing through the frosted glass.

"That's an interesting way to put it."

I can't read whether I've intrigued him or condemned myself. His face is a closed system — the kind of composure that comes from years of being underestimated and deciding never to let it happen again.

"I like understanding how things work," I continue. "Big picture and small. Executive assistant positions let you see both."

"You speak French," he says. Abrupt. Testing.

"High school classes. I'm not fluent."

I'm fluent. Four languages, because Abbotts don't do anything halfway, including the things we later pretend not to know.

"We have French investors coming next week. I could use someone who understands nuance."

"My French is really just—"

"I'll need you to start Monday."

I stare. "I got the job?"

"You got the job." He stands. Extends his hand. The movement is unhurried, confident — a man who makes decisions quickly because he trusts his judgment and doesn't waste time second-guessing.

I stand and take his hand.

His grip is firm, warm, brief. Professional. But when his fingers close around mine, I feel the calluses on his palm, not a boardroom hand, a builder's hand, and my stomach flips in a way I refuse to catalogue.

"Welcome to Sterling Industries, Miss Smith."

"Thank you, Mr. Sterling."

"Julian. We'll be working closely together." He holds my hand a beat longer than professional. Or I hold his. It's impossible to tell who's not letting go. "Eight AM Monday. Don't be late."

"I won't be."

I turn. Walk. Don't rush. Don't look back.

The elevator doors close and I press my back against the wall, exhaling a breath that feels like it's been trapped since I sat down.

I got the job.

I'm inside.

Julian Sterling just watched me lie to him with every word I spoke, and he hired me anyway — because I'm smart, or because he's suspicious, or because something in his expression when he looked at me was not entirely about employment.

I can't think about that. I'm here for evidence, not for the way his voice dropped when he said my fake name, not for the calluses on his hands, not for the fact that sitting across from him felt less like an interview and more like the opening move in a game neither of us agreed to play.

The elevator descends. The city rises through the glass.

Somewhere out there, my brother is planning his takeover, oblivious to the sister he forgot about inserting herself into the heart of his target.

I have access now. Evidence to find. A family legacy to dismantle.

But first, I have to survive working alongside Julian Sterling without letting him see through me.

And without letting myself think about the way his gaze dropped to my mouth when I said his name.

Game on.