It Just Might Destroy Them Both

This was a gigantic mistake.

That was Ivy Spellman’s very first thought as she sat down in the freezing cold conference room and waited for orientation to start.

There were approximately thirty temps all watching the front of the room, where Cullen Sharpe, CEO, stood in his perfect dark suit, his eyes scanning the group as if he was evaluating them and finding them lacking already.

This was a man who wouldn’t be denied anything and everything he wanted. He was, to put it plainly, stunningly handsome, but not in the superficial sense.

He was complex, Ivy decided almost immediately.

His eyes were intense and he had an animal magnetism and presence that was like nothing she’d ever come across.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his straight dark hair was styled perfectly, sweeping over his brow in a controlled way, as if it had been set in place by an engineer. His chin was long and square, cheekbones prominent.

The man’s black suit was immaculate, with nary a wrinkle or a speck of lint, even under the unforgiving bright overhead lights that made everyone else look slovenly and blotchy by comparison.

Ivy had mistakenly taken a seat in the front row and was now directly in his line of fire. His cold blue eyes were as gorgeous and frozen as the Alaskan tundra.

“As most of you are aware,” he finally began, “I’m the founder and CEO of Biomatrix Pharma.” He smiled coolly, without feeling. “You might be wondering why I’m here when surely there are others who could be talking in my place. And there’s a very simple reason for my being with you right now instead of attending to more pressing matters.”

Cullen Sharpe stopped, having noticed that his silver cufflink was slightly crooked. He adjusted it with one efficient tug of his perfectly manicured fingers, before looking at the group once more. “I’m here because I’m involved in every single detail of this company. There is nothing—and I mean nothing—too insignificant to escape my attention.”

Upon saying this, the CEO’s eyes fixed on Ivy, locked on her with such intensity that she nearly flinched.

Why is he staring at me?

Ivy wanted to swallow, but was afraid of the loud gulping noise that was sure to result. Her throat was dry and you could hear a pin drop in the room.

Finally, Cullen Sharpe’s piercing gaze moved away from her, as he turned and walked gracefully to the table in the front of the room where some refreshments were located and poured himself a cup of water. He took a small sip while everyone watched his every move and waited to see what the magnetic individual would say next.

Unlike most people who spoke in front of groups, Cullen Sharpe didn’t seem to care if he entertained or engaged them. He wasn’t trying to make them laugh, and he didn’t seem to mind making them wait either.

Around her, she could smell the sweat and desperation of her coworkers beneath their perfume and cologne and brand new office wear. She was sweating in the cold room just like everyone else, making her even colder.

Why didn’t I sit in the back?

Sitting in the front row was an old habit left over from her school days. From kindergarten through her final year of college, Ivy had always been the quiet, mousy student that sat in the first row, put her head down, took good notes and got good grades.

But this was different.

This was a real corporation—one of the largest and most prestigious drug companies in Boston—and sitting in the front row and hoping the “teacher” liked her wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

Cullen finished drinking and placed the cup of water on the refreshment table, striding back to center stage, facing them once more. His gaze landed on her briefly yet again.

He has the eyes of a wolf, Ivy thought. And is it my imagination or is he staring more at me than anyone else?

Definitely your imagination, she told herself. Cullen Sharpe doesn’t know you from a hole in the wall and he’s probably more interested in a random hole in a wall than he is some temp that came to do meaningless office work at his billion dollar company.

“We’ll be moving you to your cubicles at precisely eight thirty-five,” Cullen said, snapping her from her brief reverie. “Then you’ll begin the data entry project that you’ve been brought in to help us complete. The software program will automatically tally your work and log your speed and accuracy as you go. By noon, we’ll know how fast you work and what your error rate is. Those who fall into the bottom ten percent of the group in either category will be let go.” Cullen’s voice was unforgiving. “The business world is a cruel and unforgiving place, and we don’t waste time with employees who can’t keep up. Those at the bottom of the ladder will be cut loose in short order.”

A young man that couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old was sitting next to Ivy on the right. He gave her a sidelong glance and raised his eyebrows, smirking, as if he found the CEO’s theatrics and threats ridiculous.

Ivy started to grin in return, relieved to find that at least one person amongst them who wasn’t intimidated by the head of the company.

But then she looked up and saw that Cullen Sharpe was watching her yet again. His gaze flicked back and forth between her and the young man beside her.

Cullen’s disapproval of their shared grin was evident, despite the fact that his expression had hardly changed at all.

He walked closer to where they sat, and Ivy’s heart started to pound in her chest. He stopped in front of the young man and looked at him. “What’s your name?” Cullen demanded.

“Me?” the younger man asked, his voice cracking, suddenly looking less confident—more like a deer caught in the headlights.

“That’s usually how it works,” Cullen said. “When someone asks your name, they usually mean you.” He arched an eyebrow as the group of temps tittered nervously at his joke.

“I’m Lucas,” the younger man managed. He shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter.

“Lucas, I noticed you grinning at something I said a moment ago,” Cullen told him. “Please share with all of us what was so humorous. It’s always nice to have a person with a good sense of humor around the office.”

Lucas stumbled nervously over his words. “I didn’t—I mean…uh, nothing was funny.”

“Some people have a bad habit of smiling when they’re nervous,” Cullen said, waiting for him to respond to the assertion.

“I think that’s what happened,” Lucas said, seemingly relieved to have the excuse to fall back on. “Just a little nervous is all.”