Chapter 3 - The Cage of Glass and Steel
Three weeks later, Sienna found herself standing on the forty-fifth floor of Moretti Tower, looking out over the glittering expanse of the Chicago skyline through a wall of bulletproof glass.
The transition from the sticky linoleum of the Onyx Lounge to the obsidian-and-chrome monolith of the Moretti corporate empire had been nothing short of whiplash. She now wore bespoke wool pantsuits instead of stained polyester aprons, and her desk was a massive slab of smoked glass equipped with dual-screen terminals and encrypted communication lines.
And then, of course, there was Dawson.
When he walked into her outer office that Tuesday morning, he didn't look like the drunken wreck she had doused with ice water. He looked lethal, polished, and breathtakingly dangerous. A custom charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and his dark hair neatly slicked back. But the moment he saw her sitting behind the desk, his jaw tightened.
"You," Dawson muttered, tossing a leather folder onto her workspace. "My grandfather thinks you're some kind of secret weapon sent to babysit me."
Sienna didn't blink. She looked up from her spreadsheet, her expression as cold and flat as a slab of marble.
"Your grandfather thinks you're a liability, Mr. Moretti," she replied smoothly, picking up the folder. "And looking at the budget discrepancies in your logistics division for the last quarter, he's not entirely wrong. You've got a three-million-dollar leak in the harbor shipping manifests, and your team is too busy trying to cover your bar tabs to notice."
Dawson stopped dead in his tracks. He leaned over her desk, placing both hands flat on the glass, bringing his face inches from hers. His dark eyes flashed with suppressed fury. "Watch your step, Sienna. You might have buffaloed my grandfather into thinking you're irreplaceable, but one word from me and you'll be back scrubbing sticky floors downtown."
Sienna didn't step back. She didn't drop her gaze. She simply reached out, picked up a red pen from her pencil cup, and tapped it lightly against his chest, right over his heart.
"You could have fired me on day one, Dawson," she whispered, her voice dropping into a dangerous, level register. "You didn't. Because for the first time in your life, someone didn't treat you like a crown prince or a monster. You're bored, you're reckless, and you're terrified that everyone around you is an opportunist."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"I'm not an opportunist. I'm an accountant with a survival instinct. Now pick up your expense reports and get out of my office before I bill you for wasting my time."
For three long seconds, the air between them crackled with an electric, volatile tension that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with a wildfire waiting for a match.
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Then, slowly, Dawson’s lips parted in a strange, slow-burning smile. He straightened up, adjusted his cuffs, and turned toward his private office door.
"You're a terrifying woman, Sienna Brooks," he murmured over his shoulder. "I think I'm going to keep you."
