Faking It With My Demon Boss (Grimm, Malphas & Associates #1)

Chapter 1

The revolving door deposited Ava into a lobby that looked like it was built on old money and held even older secrets.

She paused just inside, letting the Monday morning crowd flow around her.

Suits and briefcases and the particular kind of confidence that came from knowing your checking account had more than four figures.

Her own checking account currently showed negative four hundred dollars.

Her student loans had just ticked past two hundred thousand.

Her MetroCard had exactly one ride left after this morning.

Get it together, Feng. You got the job. That’s what matters.

She smoothed her blazer, the good one, the one she’d bought secondhand from a consignment shop in SoHo and had tailored to fit. Professional. Polished. Nothing like the panic clawing at her chest.

The lobby was marble and brass and hushed voices. A security desk staffed by a man who looked through her rather than at her. Elevators with doors that gleamed like they’d never been touched by human hands.

She’d done her research. Grimm, Malphas & Associates: established 1847, according to the New York Bar Association. Specializing in international corporate law, mergers and acquisitions, estate planning. Client list confidential. Glassdoor reviews nonexistent.

The salary they’d offered was three times market rate.

She should have asked more questions.

The elevator for the firm was at the end of the hall, separate from the others. Smaller. Older. The brass plate beside it read: Grimm, Malphas & Associates. By appointment only.

Ava pressed the call button. The doors opened immediately, as if the elevator had been waiting.

Inside, the walls were paneled in dark wood that smelled faintly of cedar. No music. No mirrors. Just the soft hum of machinery and the sensation of rising.

And rising.

And rising.

She glanced at the brass plate beside the elevator buttons: Grimm, Malphas & Associates, Floors 61-66.

Which was interesting, considering she’d counted the building’s floors twice from the sidewalk. Sixty. Not sixty-six. Sixty.

The elevator continued to climb.

Her grandmother’s jade pendant was warm against her chest. It had been warm since she’d walked into the building, warmer than her body heat could explain.

She’d worn it every day since she was twelve, since her grandmother had pressed it into her hands and made her promise.

Never take it off, Ava. It will protect you from hungry things.

And then, stranger: They’ve been watching our family for a long time. Before you. Before me.

Ava had thought it was the dementia talking. Her grandmother had been in and out of lucidity those last months, mixing up names, confusing decades.

She’d thought the “hungry things” meant men. Predators. The ordinary dangers of the world.

Now, watching the floor numbers climb past sixty, she wasn’t sure.

The elevator dinged.

The doors slid open to reveal a reception area that had no business being inside a Manhattan office building.

Black granite floors veined with something that glittered like gold.

A crystal chandelier that belonged in a European palace, its lights casting rainbows across the walls.

Medieval tapestries depicting scenes she didn’t want to examine too closely: hunts and feasts and figures with too many shadows.

The air was different here. Heavier. Older. Like stepping into a cathedral, or a crypt.

Behind a desk carved from a single piece of dark wood sat the most beautiful woman Ava had ever seen.

Copper skin that seemed to glow from within.

Silver hair swept into an elegant twist. Eyes the color of ancient amber, with pupils that might have been slightly too large.

She wore something that was technically a dress but functioned more like a statement of superiority: deep burgundy, cut to emphasize curves that seemed designed by someone who understood human desire a little too well.

“You must be Ava Feng.” The woman’s voice carried traces of an accent Ava couldn’t place. Something old. Something that predated the languages she knew. “I’m Cassandra Vale. Welcome to Grimm, Malphas & Associates.”

“Thank you. I’m excited to be here.”

The words came out steadier than she felt. Cassandra’s smile didn’t waver, but her gaze sharpened, cataloguing Ava the way a jeweler examines a stone.

“Derek will show you to your office. He handles orientation for new associates.” A pause. “We’re so pleased you accepted our offer. Candidates with your particular… talents… are rare.”

Before Ava could ask what that meant, a door marked Archives burst open.

A man stumbled through, arms full of files that immediately cascaded across the polished floor. He was around Ava’s age, East Asian, wearing a suit that had seen better days and a tie that had given up entirely.

“Sorry, sorry…” He dropped to his knees, scrambling for papers.

“These are the Pemberton files. Mr. Morningstar needs them in the next five minutes, and if I don’t…

” He looked up. Noticed Ava. His expression cycled through surprise, recognition, and something that might have been sympathy.

“Oh. You’re the new associate. Ava Feng? ”

“That’s me.” She knelt to help gather the papers. Up close, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. Whatever this job was, it was eating him alive.

“Derek Liu. Paralegal, document wrangler, occasional coffee runner, and your unofficial guide to surviving your first week.” He accepted the stack she handed him with visible relief.

“Thank you. Mr. Morningstar has strong opinions about tardiness. And organization. And breathing too loudly in his presence.”

“Mr. Morningstar?”

“Victor Morningstar. Senior Partner. Your direct supervisor.” Derek’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “He’s… particular. Just—agree with everything he says, don’t make direct eye contact for too long, and whatever you do, don’t ask about the sixty-sixth floor.”

“Why not?”

Derek’s laugh was slightly hysterical. “Because I asked, and now I work here.”

Cassandra laughed softly from behind the reception desk. Something about the sound made Ava’s skin prickle, too musical, too knowing, like she could hear conversations happening three rooms away.

Derek stood, papers somewhat organized. “Come on. I’ll show you to your office after I deliver these. Fair warning: the partners are having their Monday meeting, so things might be a little intense.”

“Define intense.”

“You’ll see.”

Ava followed him down a hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men in period clothing.

Jacobean collars. Puritan severity. Victorian formality.

The styles spanned centuries, but something about the faces was consistent: a sharpness to the features, a depth to the eyes that made her want to look away.

Their eyes seemed to follow her.

Not metaphorically. Actually follow her. She could feel the weight of their attention on her back as she walked, could swear she saw one’s gaze track her movement in her peripheral vision.

“So what kind of law did you practice before?” Derek asked, walking fast. His voice was too loud, like he was trying to fill the silence before it could fill itself.

“I didn’t. Just graduated from Columbia in May.”

Derek stopped so abruptly she nearly collided with him. “They hired you as an associate? Not a junior associate? Not an intern?”

“Is that unusual?”

“That’s…” He shook his head, his shoulders drawing tight.

“What did you do, save Victor Morningstar’s life in a past existence?

” He caught himself. “Never mind. Just be careful, okay? This place has been around since Manhattan was New Amsterdam. They have their own way of doing things. Their own rules. Their own…”

He trailed off. Didn’t finish.

“Their own what?”

“Just be careful.”

Before Ava could press further, Derek knocked on a door with a brass nameplate: V. Morningstar.

“Enter.”

Derek opened the door.

The office belonged in a different century.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Financial District spread out below like a kingdom awaiting orders, but everything else was antique: a massive mahogany desk that looked like it had been carved from a single tree, leather chairs worn soft by centuries of use, oil paintings of more stern men.

Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes in languages she couldn’t identify.

And behind the desk: Victor Morningstar.

He couldn’t be older than thirty-five, but he held himself like someone who had never been young.

Black hair swept back from a face with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could have been carved from marble.

His eyes were so dark they looked black in the morning light, with no visible iris, no distinction between pupil and color. Just darkness, deep and endless.

His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored. His hands, resting on the desk, had fingers that were slightly too long.

He didn’t look up from the document he was reading.

The pendant flared hot against Ava’s skin.

“The Pemberton files, sir.” Derek set the papers on the desk, his hand trembling slightly.

“You’re three minutes late.”

“The filing system in Archives was being difficult.”

“The filing system is never difficult. It responds to confidence.” Now Victor looked up. His gaze moved past Derek like he wasn’t there and landed on Ava.

His attention pressed against her chest, her throat, the space behind her eyes.

“Ms. Feng. You’re early.”

“I believe in making good first impressions.”

“Hmm.” He stood, and Ava realized he was taller than she’d expected, six-three at least, with the kind of presence that made the large office feel small. “Derek, the Henderson merger documents are on my secretary’s desk. Take them to Conference Room Seven.”

Derek’s voice cracked. “The Henderson merger? But that’s…”