Chapter 2
Pov: Camille:?
If someone had told me that two months ago that I’d be sitting in the lobby of one of the biggest tech companies in the world, waiting to meet the man whose name carried more weight than most presidents, I probably would’ve laughed.
Or cried.
Probably cried.
Since just two mere months ago I was still drowning in bar prep and wondering if ramen counted as an adequate food group. Which it didn’t, of course? Did it?
Now here I was.
Camille Martens. 24 years old, 5 foot 5, blonde hair that frizzed if the New York humidity even looked at it sideways, with blue eyes that had been described as “sharp” by professors and “a little too much” by my horribly boring ex-boyfriends.
I had curves that didn’t fit neatly into high fashion, but I made them work.
I was a broke Harvard Law grad, barely hanging on by a thread but determined to make this job count.
I shifted in my chair as I crossed my legs, trying to project calm when my insides were doing the chacha slide in literally reverse.
The lobby was all glass and it was the kind of space that was designed to remind you that everything in this building was more expensive than your student loans.
Art hung on the walls, sleek and abstract art it was like the kind of thing you pretended to “understand” while secretly wondering if the artist was just finger painting or drunk off their ass, kinda like Jackson Pollock paintings.
The receptionist smiled at me in that effortless way people do when their shoes cost more than your rent. “Mr. Vanderbilt will see you now, Ms. Martens.”
Oh, God.
I swallowed before grabbing my bag and stood clumsily, pretending my knees weren’t wobbling.
This was supposed to be a formality, just a quick introduction with the CEO.
But Michael Vanderbilt wasn’t just a CEO.
He was the CEO.
Forbes Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors.
I’d Googled him, obviously.
But Google images didn’t prepare you for walking into his space.
The assistant led me down a hallway that felt more like a museum than an office space. The double doors at the end of the corridor loomed, like they were designed to make anyone walking through them feel about two inches tall.
The assistant opened them and I gawked at the space ahead. “Mr. Vanderbilt, this is Ms. Martens.”
And then I saw him. Yes, him.
A god of a man.
Michael Vanderbilt.
He was standing behind a desk and his jacket was off with his sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He was 6 foot 2 sculpted power in the shape of a man with broad shoulders tapering to a lean and muscular waist.
He had the kind of build that said he worked out religiously but wasn’t about to spend 3 hours flexing in a gym mirror.
His dark brown hair was perfectly styled, but not stiff, like he could run a hand through it at any moment and it would still fall back into place.
His face was clean shaven and his jawline.
Ugh his jawline, sharp, of course, he had to have a jawline that incredible.
And his eyes. Even more perfect.
Storm gray blue, like a thunderstorm or worse a monsoon.
The longer I looked at him, the more I realized, yeah he was definitely a monsoon, ready to destroy everything in his path.
Because his eyes, well they didn’t just look at you, they weighed you. Every. Single. Inch.
He was every inch the billionaire titan I’d read about.
But up close? He wasn’t some untouchable magazine cover.
He was magnetic.
“Ms. Martens,” he said, his voice richly smooth and commanding without trying. “Welcome to Vanderbilt Technologies.”
I’d practiced for this moment. I heaved in a deep breath. I’d told myself I wouldn’t stammer, that I wouldn’t blush, that I wouldn’t look like another starstruck idiot.
So naturally, the first thing out of my mouth was, “wow.”
Shit.
His brows lifted. “Wow?”
I blushed.
Great start, Camille. You really fucking nailed it.
“I mean, thank you, you know for the welcome. It’s, uh—an honor to be here.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
His mouth curved in not quite a smile, but enough to make me wonder what it would take to get the real thing.
“Sit.” He gestured to the chair across from his large desk.
I sank into it as I clutched my portfolio like it might save me from spontaneous combustion.
“Harvard Law,” he said, flipping through a folder that I realized, mortifyingly that it was my file. “Top of your class. Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“You could’ve gone anywhere butt why here?”
I forced myself to sit straighter and fix my posture even though my heart felt like it would nearly explode from my chest at any moment.
“Because Vanderbilt Technologies is one of the most influential companies in the world and because I want to work somewhere that doesn’t just chase profit.”
It wasn’t a rehearsed line, it was the truth.
And judging by the flicker of interest in his eyes, maybe I’d scored a point in his book.
“Ambitious,” he murmured, looking down at the page. “That’s a dangerous quality in a lawyer.”
“I thought ambition was exactly what you wanted in a lawyer or frankly anyone who works at your company.”
That earned me something closer to a smile, though it still didn’t reach his eyes. He was calculated. “Touche.”
He was testing me, I could feel it.
Every glance—every pause–every carefully measured word—it wass like this was less of an introduction and more of an evaluation.
“So tell me, Ms. Martens,” he said finally, folding his hands on the desk and looking up at me with his steel blue gaze and making my knees almost give out right here and then, “what are you willing to do for this job?”
The question should’ve been straightforward but it wasn’t.
There was weight to it and there was an undertone thatt I couldn’t quite place.
“I’m willing to work hard,” I said carefully, almost quietly. “I’m willing to learn, to put in the hours, and to fight for this company’s interests and do whatever it takes.”
His eyes lingered on mine for a moment too long then he nodded. “Good answer.”
Relief washed through me, though I kept my expression neutral.
Rule number one of dealing with powerful men, never let them see you sweat.
“Most people think they want this world—-the money—the power—the prestige. But they don’t realize what it costs. They burn out, they break or worse they get sloppy.”
“I don’t intend to get sloppy.”
“No,” he paused, looking me over. “I don’t think you do.”
The intercom on his desk buzzed and his assistant’s voice crackled through. “Mr. Vanderbilt, your 11:00 o’clock appointment is here.”
He pressed the button and answered. “Tell them to wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned back to me with that almost smile playing at his lips again. “You’ll do well here, Ms. Martens. I can already tell.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying not to sound like I was exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding in the first place.
He stood and instinctively, so did I.
Standing this close to him I realized that he was even more imposing than before.
His height, his frame and the mere presence of him, well it was heavy.
“I’ll be watching your progress closely,” a long pause followed after the words left his mouth. Then, “Welcome to Vanderbilt Technologies.”
I managed a professional smile, though my pulse, my heart rate, and my thoughts were anything but professional. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t.”
With that, he extended his hand to shake mine.
The contact was electric—firm grip and warm skin. It was the kind of handshake that lingered just a second too long.
By the time I left his office, my legs were still shaking and I felt like I was going to pass out.
Michael Vanderbilt was everything the internet said he was.
But there was something else.
Something I couldn’t quite name.
And if I wasn’t careful, I had a feeling it was going to be my undoing.