THE SPARK BENEATH THE SUIT

(Izzy’s POV)

The thing about men like Julian Sterling is this: they always believe they’re the ones in control—until the moment they’re not.

The city buzzed beneath us, a blur of light and power seen only from the top floors of Sterling Innovations. From this height, everything looks clean. Untouchable. But I know better. I know what lies beneath this empire of polished glass and sleek chrome: betrayal, greed, ruin.

My palms rested against the cool mahogany of his desk, its surface cluttered with documents I’d organized that morning. Now, half of them lay scattered like confetti, displaced by our breathless frenzy. Julian’s mouth grazed my collarbone, slow, reverent, like he was discovering religion in the scent of my skin.

"Isabella," he breathed against my neck, his voice raw with restraint, desire—maybe even confusion. "We shouldn’t be doing this."

I smiled. "We already are."

He let out a low, helpless sound, the kind that told me I had him. I always did. From the second I stepped into his office two weeks ago in that fitted black dress and said, "Good morning, Mr. Sterling. I’m your new executive assistant," I’d watched the war begin behind his eyes. Morality versus want. And I knew I would win.

Men like him don’t stand a chance against women like me. Not when they’re bored. Not when they’re lonely. And definitely not when they’re guilty—even if they don’t know why yet.

His hands slid up my thighs, beneath my skirt, lifting it in slow, aching increments. My back arched instinctively. He gripped my hips like he couldn’t decide whether to worship me or ruin me.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. “And I will.”

I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “Why would I do that?”

His hesitation lasted all of a heartbeat. Then he pressed into me, and the pretense of professionalism shattered. The silk of my blouse fell open beneath his fingers. Buttons pinged against the floor. His tie, still knotted, brushed against my spine as he leaned in to kiss the nape of my neck.

He wasn’t careful. That’s what I liked about Julian.

He was desperate.

We moved in a rhythm dictated by tension and timing. His hands were in my hair, on my hips, gripping too tightly for it to be tender. My breath came in soft, controlled gasps—because I never let myself lose control. Not even when he buried his face against my shoulder and groaned my name like it was a confession.

Good. Let him want me like this. Let him fall.

He didn’t know that ten years ago, his last name was scrawled across a court document that ended my childhood. That his father’s signature had driven my father to drink, then to debt, then to a six-story fall onto cold pavement.

Julian Sterling had no idea what he owed me.

Not yet.

Afterward, we dressed in silence. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, tying his cuffs with the calm precision of a man who liked to feel in control—even if he was far from it. I watched him from the edge of the desk, my blouse now only half-buttoned, feigning vulnerability I didn’t feel.

“You’ve been here what—two weeks?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Fourteen days,” I said. “But who’s counting?”

His mouth twitched. “You’re trouble.”

“You hired me.”

“Don’t remind me.” He turned to face me, voice softening. “You’re smart, Isabella. You know this can’t continue.”

“Of course,” I said, smoothing my skirt. “Boundaries. Policies. Morality.”

He smiled—half amusement, half shame. “Exactly.”

I walked toward him, closing the space between us slowly, deliberately, until I could feel the tension crackling in the air like static. “But here’s the thing, Julian,” I said, lifting my gaze to his, letting just enough truth slip through. “I don’t think you really want it to stop.”

He stared at me like he was searching for something solid to hold onto. “You’re dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

__

By the time I stepped into the hallway, every trace of what had just happened had been erased—except the mark on my neck, which I’d allow to linger just long enough to keep him thinking about it. About me.

Men like Julian need to believe they’re chasing something. I was more than happy to keep running... just fast enough to stay ahead.

As I passed the conference room, I caught my reflection in the glass wall—hair tousled, lips still slightly swollen, eyes sharp with purpose. I didn’t look like a girl ruined by the Sterlings. I looked like a woman who had come back to collect.

I was twelve the day we lost the house. I remember the sound of Mama crying in the kitchen, the smell of stale coffee and unopened mail. I remember my father yelling down the phone, begging for more time.

“Your family is toxic, Rossi. We're cutting you loose,” the voice had said. I’d never forgotten that voice. Cold, clipped. Privileged.

Sterling Innovations.

They’d partnered with my father’s firm. Then they’d buried him with a fabricated lawsuit and a public scapegoat strategy. My father never recovered. He drank until he died. My mother folded in on herself like a paper doll. I learned early that justice was a lie—and power, power was the only truth worth chasing.

__

Back in the present, I returned to my desk just outside Julian’s office. His assistant—the one they fired to make room for me—had left a trove of information behind. Meeting notes. Travel records. Passwords. I’d studied them all.

Vivian Sterling—his icy socialite wife—was due back from Paris in two days. That gave me time.

Time to get deeper under his skin.

Time to keep him distracted while I began making subtle moves behind the scenes—feeding half-truths to old rivals, pulling the threads that would unravel the empire from within.

But even as I tapped at my keyboard and updated his calendar with a steady hand, I felt the echo of Julian’s touch against my skin.

And for a fleeting second, I wondered: what if the danger wasn’t just for him?

What if it was for me too?