I'd drummed it into myself that I wasn't going to get riled up about him. I'd reassured Ethan the previous night that I'd have my head down, keep it businesslike, and do my darnedest to make this preposterous arrangement work. But the second I stepped into Alex Moretti's office the next morning, all those promises were about to be put to the test.

The room itself screamed power–it consisted of dark oak shelves stacked with books, glass walls letting in the full morning light, and a giant abstract painting that probably cost more than my apartment. And then, there was Alex. He was sitting behind his sleek black desk like a king on his throne.

His sharp eyes lifted the moment I walked in, and the smirk on his face told me everything. He was waiting, and waiting for me to mess up things again.

"You're late," he added, when I wasn't. It was exactly eight-thirty.

I drew a deep breath. "Good morning, Mr. Moretti. Right on schedule."

"Right on schedule isn't quite adequate," he said, sliding a folder across the desk. "From this point forward, I expect you to arrive about ten minutes early. That's our method of operation around here."

I gritted my teeth but pretended to nod. "Okay, sir."

He settled back into his chair and examined me like a specimen. "So then, Bella, now that you are my. What did father refer to it as? Personal art consultant?"

"No," I replied decisively.

He tilted his head. "Tell me-what makes you think you deserve it? Besides the charity case factor, of course."

Heat rose to my face, but I kept my tone firm. "I majored in fine art, and I've worked with galleries and artists, and collectors. I'm not doing this out of pity. I'm doing this because I'm qualified for what I do."

He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "We'll see about that."

I did not permit him to notice just how annoyed his pride made me. Instead, I moved nearer the document that he had pushed across. It was full of photographs of works, paintings, and sculptures.

"I'd like a complete review by the end of the day," he said nonchalantly. "Which are worth investing in, which are junk, and which are likely approved by my father?"

I looked up at him. "That is a lot in one day."

"That's where you come in." His face broke into a cold and provocative smile. "Unless you find you can't handle it."

I restrained my comment and just grasped the file toward me. "I'll take care of it."

He saw me go, and I'm sure I could feel his eyes searing my back.

The hours became blurs of pages stacked with research and note-taking and rough sketches of the artworks. My head was abuzz, but I pushed harder, unwilling to give him the pleasure of demonstrating me unfit.

Even up to midday, when my stomach was growling, I never compromised. All that was important was that the review was flawless.

Around one o'clock, the office door opened. I didn't even look up until his shadow fell over the papers.

"All right?" Alex said, taking a sip of coffee.

I didn't pay attention to him and focused on the notes.

"You know," he added quietly as if laughing at my silence, "most would jump at the opportunity of working under me."

"I'm not like other individuals," I said before noticing.

He chuckled. "Obviously."

When did I bother lifting my head? His eyes were flashing menacingly. "Bella, be careful. That waspish tongue of yours might get you into trouble."

I stood up, holding the file. "Maybe it is what you need."

The tension between me and me was dense enough to suffocate on. For one moment, I was sure that he was gonna fire me right then and there, yet he simply cracked a smile and pondered slightly before proceeding to walk out of the room, treating me like a small diversion.

I was worn out by the end of the afternoon. My head throbbed from viewing seemingly countless numbers of pictures, and my hand stung from writing out the observations. But it was done. Every page was filled, every hypothesis supported with proper reasoning.

I returned to his office nonchalantly without revealing a sign of weariness.

He was at the window when the street lights were flickering on and off outside. When I put the file in front of him, his eyebrows went up.

"Already?" He exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes," said I, standing up.

He unfolded the dossier and glanced at the first few pages. His face was indistinguishable, but the silence became heavy and suffocating.

Then he closed it. "Not bad."

That was it? All that effort? All that effort and all he could manage was "not bad".

"Not bad?" I repeated, my patience snapping. "I put a full day into that, Mr. Moretti."

He spun, a smile sparkling in his eyes. "And what, you were expecting cheers? A standing ovation?"

I expected acknowledgment," I retorted.

The room was quiet for a moment. His eyes locked on mine and, once again, I saw beneath his swaggering something harder and more menacing.

"Careful, Bella," he said quietly, stepping closer. "You're in my world now, and in my world, approval is earned, not given. I hope that sticks in the back of your ear."

I swallowed and did not back down. "Then, I'll work for it."

His mouth corner was uplifted, but it was not kindness; it was a challenge.

I was packing up when I passed by the corridor next to the executive lounge. Sounds were floating out, muffled but piercing.

I broke stride at the sound of Miranda's voice. One of the assistants, flashy and ever loitering about Alex like a shadow.

"She doesn't belong here," Miranda whispered to one other woman. "Everybody has known she only received the place because Mr. Moretti pitied her. Isn't that pathetic?"

My chest constricted, but I remained concealed, listening.

"She thinks she is special now that she has a flashy title. But Alex will not tolerate it and will spit out for very long. All of the others will only get chewed up and spat out. Give her a month." A chill went up my back. They were talking about me, gossiping about me. I tightened my purse and did not know whether to get out and confront her or just pass by. Heart was pounding against my ribs, and I knew–this was only the beginning.