Chapter Four
Nikolai
I lean back in my chair, eyes locked on the security feed as the front doors of Blackthorn Tower slide open.
There she is.
Dawn Carter.
She steps inside, moving cautiously, her head tilting slightly as she takes in the vast, sleek expanse of the lobby.
Dark marble, towering glass walls, the silent efficiency of an empire built on control.
The kind of place that swallows people whole before they even realize they stepped willingly into its mouth.
I watch her expression shift—a flicker of awe, the smallest trace of bewilderment. She hadn’t expected this.
That makes two of us.
I still don’t know what my father’s angle is.
I let my gaze drag over the camera feed, taking in the way she carries herself.
The pencil skirt clings to her curves, the fitted blouse teasing just enough skin to hold attention without inviting it. The nude stilettos lengthen her legs, clicking over the polished floor with every step.
Sexy, but not desperate. Confident, but not practiced.
A woman who understands her own appeal without wielding it as a weapon. That alone makes her different.
I tap my fingers against my desk, my mind circling the same unanswered question.
What does my father want with her?
She’s not a spy—she doesn’t have the composure for it. Not some corporate plant, either—her background is too unremarkable. If she were bait, I’d know about it by now.
Which only leaves one option.
She’s a pawn.
Something to be used. Controlled. Moved into position for a purpose I haven’t figured out yet.
And the only way to find out?
The intercom on my desk buzzes.
“A Dawn Carter is here to see you, Mr. Blackthorn.”
I smirk slightly, fingers tapping the button to respond. “Send her up.”
I push back from my desk as the elevator numbers blink upward, my gaze still on the security feed shown on my computer screen.
She’s on her way up.
I straighten my cuffs, rolling my shoulders before I move toward the window, hands resting in my pockets. Better to let her enter the room before I acknowledge her. Let her feel the space, take in the weight of where she is.
The elevator dings.
She steps into the hallway, hesitating for only a second before making her way toward my office. Confident, but cautious.
The glass door opens, and I hear the click of her heels before she speaks.
“Mr. Blackthorn?” Her voice is slow, careful. Not timid, but aware.
I turn. And for the first time, I see her up close.
Dawn Carter.
She’s poised—deliberately so. Curved in all the right places.
The silk blouse and tight pencil skirt do exactly what they were meant to—demand attention without begging for it.
Those nude heels add just enough height to make her presence known, but she’s still small enough that I could fold her against my chest with barely any effort.
And then, her face. Blue eyes, wide but sharp. A full, pink, mouth that shouldn’t be legal. Her long, dark hair slicked back into a ponytail that exposes the soft curve of her neck, the delicate dip of her collarbone.
She looks polished. Restrained. Like she wants to be taken seriously but has no idea the effect she already has.
For a moment, I say nothing. I just take her in.
Then, I gesture to the chair across from me. “Miss Carter,” I say smoothly, my voice even. “Sit.”
Dawn hesitates for a fraction of a second before lowering herself into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. Collected. Professional. But I catch the way her fingers brush over her skirt, the way her breathing is just a little too uneven.
She’s keeping herself composed.
I lean back in my chair, studying her, fingers laced in front of me. “You took the meeting,” I say, tilting my head slightly. “Tell me, Miss Carter, what do you know about Blackthorn?”
She exhales slowly, like she expected the question. “I know it’s a security company.”
I let the corner of my mouth lift. That’s all?
“Blackthorn’s roots trace back to my great-grandfather,” I begin, my voice confident.
“In the early 1900’s, he founded the company to provide protection for railroads and burgeoning industries.
Back then, security meant hiring men to physically guard assets, escort valuable shipments, and ensure the safety of industrial operations.
It was a time when private agencies like Pinkerton were prominent, offering services ranging from guarding factories to tracking down outlaws. ”
I pause, watching her absorb this.
“My grandfather expanded on that foundation,” I continue.
“He diversified our services, adapting to the changing landscape of security needs. Then, my father propelled Blackthorn into the modern era, integrating cutting-edge surveillance, AI, and defense systems developed at our research facility in Silicon Valley.” I let that settle for a moment before continuing.
“We don’t just protect. We predict. We control outcomes before threats become problems.”
She swallows, her blue eyes flicking over my face like she’s trying to read between the lines. “And what do you do?” she asks.
I almost smile. “I run the company.”
It’s not entirely a lie. “My father is still the current CEO,” I clarify, watching the way her lips part slightly. “But I handle everything else. Negotiations, investments, high-profile clients. Every decision that affects the future of this company runs through me before it ever reaches him.”
I let the words hang, watching her reaction.
She nods slowly, shifting slightly in her seat, her skirt tightening around her thighs.
Something shifts. A pull I don’t want to feel—but do anyway.
She’s close, sitting right in front of me, unaware of what’s running through my mind. There’s something about the way she carries herself—guarded but determined. Uncertain, but refusing to show it.
I inhale through my nose, steadying myself.
She knows so little about this company.
Which makes one thing very clear—she isn’t here because of her knowledge, her qualifications, or any connections to Blackthorn Inc.
She’s here because my father wanted her here.
And I still don’t know exactly why.
I let my gaze linger on her for another second before reaching into my desk drawer, pulling out her file.
Her resume is as unremarkable as it was when I last glanced.
She applied for an administrative assistant role—basic clerical work, nothing remotely close to what she’s being offered.
I flip through the pages, scanning her work history, her education, the glaring gaps where she dropped out of college.
I glance up. “You applied for a secretarial position.”
She nods, “Yes.”
I lean back in my chair, tapping a finger against the desk. “Do you know how much that role pays?”
Her lips part slightly, like she’s not sure if it’s a trick question. She swallows, “I assume it’s hourly.”
I smirk. “Fifty-five thousand a year, salary. Maybe sixty, if you make it through the first two years and prove yourself.”
She sits a little straighter, her brow furrowing slightly.
She knows that’s not bad money. Certainly, better than any job she’s had. But she also knows it’s nothing close to what I’m about to offer.
I flip another page. “You didn’t complete your degree.”
She stiffens slightly but keeps her expression neutral. “No, I didn’t.”
I let my gaze settle on her. “Why not?”
Her fingers press against her lap, a flicker of something I can’t pinpoint crossing her face before she answers. “My father got sick. I had to leave school to take care of him.” Her voice is even, but there’s weight behind it—something unresolved, something raw that she’s trying to keep buried.
I glance back at her file. Photography major.
Not what I expected.
“Photography,” I murmur, letting the word roll off my tongue. “You don’t strike me as the artistic type.”
Her lips press together. “Why? Because I don’t have blue hair and a septum piercing?” she quips.
I smirk, “Something like that.”
Her back straightens, her shoulders squaring slightly. Defensive. Fiercely independent. The kind of woman who has spent too long proving she can handle things on her own.
Interesting.
I tilt my head. “How old are you, Miss Carter?”
She exhales through her nose. “Twenty-four.”
I nod, setting the file down. Four years younger than me. Not that it matters.
I tilt my head slightly. “You realize you’re wildly under-qualified for this position.”
She straightens in her chair, clasping her hands neatly in her lap, and when she answers, it’s clear, firm, obedient in a way I don’t even think she realizes.
“Yes, sir.”
I nod, schooling my expression. She’s trying to stay composed, trying to act like this isn’t bothering her, but I see it.
The slight shift in her breathing. The way her fingers twitch slightly against her lap.
The faintest blush creeping up her neck.
It’s a struggle for her to keep eye contact, to sit here and act like she’s not drowning in embarrassment, uncertainty, the sharp awareness of just how much she doesn’t belong here.
And for some reason, that makes me pause.
Not just her discomfort. It’s her attempt at composure. The way she squares her shoulders despite knowing she’s in over her head.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my desk. “Do you understand what the role of being my personal assistant would entail?”
She wets her lips, shaking her head slightly. “Not exactly.”
I smirk. “It means you’re on-call. Twenty-four seven. If I need lunch, you get it. If I need help choosing a suit, you’re there. If I want an opinion on whether I should buy mint or cinnamon toothpaste, you give it.”
She blinks. “Toothpaste?”
I arch a brow. “Would that be a problem?”
She exhales sharply through her nose, a small, incredulous almost-laugh. “No, sir.”
I force my grip to relax against the desk. It’s too easy to be drawn in by her. Too effortless.
I let the moment stretch before leaning back, tapping the file with my fingers.
“Before we go any further, you’ll need to sign a contract.
” I slide the folder toward her, flipping it open to the last page.
“This document includes an NDA—a non-disclosure agreement.” My voice stays even, controlled.
“That means you cannot speak about anything regarding this company, our clients, or your role outside of this office. No exceptions.”
She barely reacts, but I see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Her gaze drops to the contract, scanning it with careful consideration. But when she reaches the financial section, her lips part slightly, the smallest hitch in her breath.
No salary.
Just a single line outlining her unlimited access to a Black Card—one with my name on it.
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her fingers tightening on the pen.
I let the silence stretch, watching the realization settle over her.
“You won’t receive a traditional paycheck,” I say smoothly, leaning back in my chair, watching her reaction.
“Instead, you’ll have access to one of my accounts—whatever you need, whenever you need it.
Rent, bills, wardrobe, travel—consider it handled.
She shifts slightly, processing. “So, you’re covering my expenses?”
I nod. “I don’t want my assistant distracted by trivial costs.”
Her fingers twitch slightly around the pen, her blue eyes flicking back to mine. “This isn’t normal.” She murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I tilt my head. “Neither is this job.”
She exhales, lips pressing together. She wants to argue, I can see it. But she also knows she can’t.
She hesitates. Just for a second.
Then, she exhales, and signs.