The billionaire's shy assistant, drunk, texted, "Come pick me up"—ten minutes later, the millionaire was at her doorstep... Only then did he find out why someone wanted her to leave

My studio apartment looked absurd with Julian Cross standing in the center of it.

He filled the room. His six-foot-two frame made my low ceilings look like a playhouse. He stood near my laminate kitchenette, his tailored coat draped over my thrifted armchair, holding my orange tabby cat, Barnaby, who had immediately betrayed my warnings by purring like a chainsaw against Julian’s chest.

“He likes cashmere,” I muttered, filling a kettle with water. My hands were still shaking.

“He has good taste,” Julian replied, stroking Barnaby behind the ears with long, gentle fingers. His gray eyes roamed over my small space—the rows of organized books, the fairy lights wrapped around the mirror, the framed prints of botanical drawings. “It’s cozy.”

“It’s four hundred square feet,” I corrected, leaning back against the counter. “And you don't have to pretend to like it. You live in a penthouse overlooking Central Park.”

“Where every surface is white marble and empty,” Julian said softly, stepping closer to the kitchen bar. He set Barnaby down on the floor. “This feels like someone actually lives here.”

I offered him a mug of chamomile tea. He took it, his long fingers brushing against mine. The contact sent a sharp voltage straight down my spine.

“About those texts,” I blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer. The alcohol was fading, leaving behind raw, terrifying honesty. “I really didn't mean to send them to you.”

Julian took a sip of the tea, watching me over the rim of the mug. “I gathered that. Though I admit, I was intrigued by your assessment of my wardrobe.”

My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” he said, his face softening. He set the mug down on the counter and leaned across the narrow divide, closing the space between us. “Nora... do you know why I praised your report today in front of the board?”

I shook my head, my throat dry.

“Because for eight months,” he whispered, “you have sat at that desk outside my office, managing my chaos, anticipating my needs, working harder than anyone in that building—and you never once asked for recognition. You never looked at me with ambition. You looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.”

“You are a problem to be solved,” I said before I could stop myself.

Julian laughed—a low, rich sound that made my chest ache with an unfamiliar, terrifying warmth.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, his eyes darkening with a sudden, deep emotion. “But tonight, you called me when you were vulnerable. Even if it was an accident... you called me.”

Before I could answer, his phone chimed on the counter. The screen lit up with a high-priority alert from his security team.

Julian picked it up, his expression instantly hardening back into the formidable CEO.

“They found the car from the Blue Moon,” Julian said, reading the screen. “It belonged to a private security firm hired by Victor Vance.”

My breath caught. Victor Vance was the rival billionaire attempting the hostile takeover of Cross Global.

“He knows you caught the error in the audit,” Julian murmured, his eyes snapping to mine. “He wanted to pull you in for an 'informal conversation' before the board meeting tomorrow morning.”

Julian grabbed his coat from the chair and put it on, stepping toward my front door. He turned, looking at me with absolute, unyielding authority.

“You’re not staying here tonight,” he said.