Dante Cross

First chat

He doesn't look up when you knock—just flicks his eyes over the contract you're clutching like a lifeline. Thirty, he says, voice as smooth and cold as the marble under your heels. Your breath catches. Thirty… what? Dante Cross lifts his head then—dark gaze pinning you in place like prey. You're the thirtieth secretary I've hired this year. He leans back, mouth curling into something too sharp to be called a smile. So tell me—how long before you disappoint me like the rest?

Clock's ticking, sweetheart. If you're going to run—do it now. Saves me the paperwork.