"Carter. Lena Carter. I'm here for the 9:30 appointment."
He checked his tablet, then nodded. "Thirty-second floor. He's waiting."
He?
They hadn't said he on the phone. They hadn't said anything, really-just that a very private client was looking for a ghostwriter to work on a confidential memoir and had read one of Lena's freelance pieces online.
The elevator ride was long and silent, the kind that gave her time to question everything about her life choices. She adjusted her scarf, dabbed at her cheeks with a napkin she'd stuffed in her bag, and muttered to herself, "You got this, Lena. It's just an interview. Just a billionaire, probably. No big deal."
The doors opened to a sleek, minimalist office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a skyline view worth more than her entire student loan debt. Which was saying something.
And then she saw him.
Ethan Wolfe.
Yes, that Ethan Wolfe.
Tech mogul. Billionaire recluse. Owner of the Wolfe Foundation and half of Silicon Valley's respect. Also rumored to be cold, unreachable, and completely uninterested in human connection.
He didn't stand to greet her. He didn't even smile. Just sat behind a massive black marble desk, staring at her with the intensity of someone who didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"You're late."
"I'm not," she said, lifting her chin. "You're early."
His brow ticked upward slightly. "Interesting first impression."
"Well," she said, setting her soaked bag down on the chair beside her, "I've always been told I leave a memorable one."
He studied her-no, dissected her-with eyes the color of a storm. His suit was tailored to perfection, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. This was not a man used to being challenged, and Lena could already tell he didn't like surprises.
"This project," he said slowly, "is not just about telling a story. It's about controlling a narrative. My narrative."
"And you want a ghostwriter for that," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Why not just write it yourself?"
"Because," he said, standing now and walking toward the window, "I don't write about the past. I bury it."
Lena's breath caught. For a second, the air between them shifted, crackled with something unsaid.
But he turned before she could speak again, and his tone was clipped.
"You'll sign an NDA before you leave. If I choose you, you'll move into the guest residence for three months. Full access. No personal interviews, no publishing rights, no leaks. You write what I give you. Nothing more."
She blinked. "Three months? Living on-site?"
"Is that a problem?"
It should've been. It should have screamed red flag. But rent was due, her fridge was empty, and something about Ethan Wolfe's eyes made her want to unravel the man behind the name.
"No problem," she said. "I'm in."
For the first time, he smiled. Barely. But it was there.
And Lena Carter knew, in that moment, that her life was about to change.