His voice, a low echo in the silent, luxurious office, reverberated like a cold curse, striking Elara's deepest fears. "Miss Elara, have you… overlooked something?" Elara's spine stiffened instantly, her fingertips turning cold. She forced a semblance of composure, scanning the polished mahogany desk, which appeared utterly bare. Her gaze swept next to the plush leather sofa, then to the expansive city skyline outside the window. Everything was perfectly, suffocatingly flawless. But in the next second, a cold blade sharply pierced her fragile pretense of calm. She saw it. A small scrap of dark lace, like an abandoned secret, lay half-concealed beneath the polished tabletop, only a suggestive edge peeking out. Elara's breath hitched. She bent, her fingertips trembling as they brushed the fabric, as if it were not soft silk, but a searing branding iron. She almost reflexively crushed it into her palm, trying to conceal the overwhelming shame. She straightened, attempting to hold her head high, clinging to her last shred of dignity, but her voice still betrayed her, a raw, undeniable rasp: "Does… does this mean I'm hired?" Mr. Thorne offered no reply. He merely leaned back deliberately, the fabric of his black suit whispering a faint rustle against the leather chair. A cold, unreadable curve played on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer—more menacing than any outright denial. "No." Elara's heart plummeted, as if an invisible hand had seized it, dragging her into a bottomless abyss. "But… I did as you asked." Her voice held a hint of shattered confusion. Mr. Thorne's eyes, like abyssal depths, captured every flicker of panic in hers. "What I said," he corrected, each word as sharp as ice shards, laced with undisguised contempt, "was 'what I *required*.' And you were three hours late. I've already hired someone else." Despair, like an instant tide, washed over her, consuming all reason. Her face went ashen, leaving only primal pleading, her voice a raw, desperate croak: "Please, Mr. Thorne! I truly need this job! I… I'll do anything!" His dark eyes, unfathomably deep in the filtered light, regarded her like a predator assessing trapped prey. He parted his thin lips, his voice low and seductive, yet laced with a chilling command: "Prove it to me." Elara's body froze, her hesitation a thin line between life and death, but only for a single second. Her pale hands slowly moved to her waist, the expensive silk skirt giving a faint rustle. Her fingertips unfastened a hidden clasp, and with an almost numb movement, the perfectly tailored black leather skirt, as if losing its support, silently slid down, pooling at her feet to reveal the equally exquisite, yet far more vulnerable, silk slip beneath. She didn't pause, her foot lightly nudging the leather skirt aside. Then, she lifted her head, meeting his cold, amused gaze. In that moment, the air solidified: a silent standoff, a desperate offering. Floris Blossom is in desperate need of money to pay for her mother's life-saving surgery. With no other options, she attends a high-profile interview for a position with Mr. Brighton, a notorious playboy and cold-hearted billionaire with a reputation for getting what he wants — no matter the cost. Floris steps into his office prepared to offer hard work and dedication in exchange for the financial help she needs. But Mr. Brighton has something else in mind he offers her a deal...