Page 10 of When Hearts Ignite

Traders and analysts flutter around in their seats, the men puff out their chests as they flick away from the sports websites on their monitors to their work programs, the women sneak out a mirror to adjust their hair and reapply their lipstick.

I don’t know who’s coming, but I’m having a hard time not rolling my eyes at this superficial production.

This is probably why I never had hordes of men chasing after me like Mom. What you see is what you get with me and I’m never good at this artificial preening and fake smiling. But it’s better this way. I don’t need the useless distractions the opposite sex provides. I don’t need the attention of men who only want a beautiful woman in their arms and someone they can spend the night with every so often.

I certainly don’t need the leering glances of the Brad Brunswicks of the world, who spent more time undressing me with his eyes than dancing with me when we went to Homecoming as seniors in high school. He was my one and only boyfriend and the experience was extremely underwhelming.

She pauses by my seat and taps her perfectly manicured hands on the glass partition. She clears her throat. “Intern.”

Her voice is sharp and no-nonsense.

I blow out a deep breath, my pulse spiking from the tone in her voice. I knew I didn’t endear myself to her when I spoke up in the conference room. But I learned long ago watching Mom let men walk all over her to never let that happen to me.

“Yes, Hayley?” I hold her gaze steadily, willing my nervousness not to show through.

Hayley, in her dark green couture dress which probably cost more than one month’s rent and her brilliant red hair swept in a flawless updo, looks every inch the girl boss I hope to be someday, but of course, I’d be much nicer.

“I’ll be watching you today. I want no outbursts from you. If you have anything you want to share, you run it by me beforehand, understand?” She pins me with a hard glare, her blue eyes a sharp blade.

I swallow and nod.

I may not be good at office politics since this is my first white-collar job, but I’m not stupid. After we left the conference room the other day, several seasoned financial analysts took pity on me and gathered around my cubicle, giving me the lay of the land and a rundown on who’s who in the office, and how Hayley is the woman we all aspire to be.

She’s fearless, gorgeous, rakes in more deals than half the men on the floor combined, and her annual bonus alone could purchase a spacious apartment in Tribeca, but unfortunately, she has the tongue of a viper. As the intern pool is shared by all the managers on the floor, it’ll be in my best interest to avoid pissing her off in the future. Wall Street is cutthroat enough as is, so I don’t need to make any enemies.

After holding my gaze for a few seconds, she nods before striding away, patting her perfectly arranged hair no doubt to ensure everything is still in place, before disappearing into her office, which is in the prime real estate next to the corner office Steven Kingsley occupies.

Steven Kingsley.

I’ve read articles about him in my advanced business management class last quarter at NYUC as I was preparing for my summer internship. Forbes and Wall Street Journal have featured him as the most powerful person in finance under the age of thirty.

He hails from an old-money family in Los Angeles. But the Kingsley family, while influential, was going into debt after generations of mismanagement of funds until his father married his mother, an heiress from Asia. Using his wife’s money, his father rebuilt the Kingsley empire and along the way, Steven and his sisters were born.

Instead of philandering about or sowing his wild oats as most rich guys do, Steven is a workaholic, climbing the ranks at Pietra Capital at a record-breaking speed so unheard of it’s as if he’s smashing the proverbial sound barrier in the stuffy circles of the industry elite.

My skin heats when I remember the way he stormed into the conference room, a whirlwind of power and coiled energy, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the room; how his eyes flashed with molten anger, his lips curling into a sneer as he hurled the binder across the table as if it were his worst enemy, even the papers within tried to plan an escape.

There’s something compelling about him. A thread of danger. A dash of darkness lurking behind the surface. An abundance of restrained energy tethered tightly in his grasp.

As if his sanity is held on by the thinnest thread and he’s mere moments away from snapping.

And God help whoever is around him whenever that happens.

But then he listened to my ideas like they were worth something. He took me seriously. And his brief smile after I shared my analysis in the room. The jolt of electricity hit me in my chest and I could barely hold his gaze after the applause because my skin felt heated—no doubt I was flushed.

It was disorienting and I can’t stop thinking about it.

Brisk footfalls on marble floors echo from the direction of the lobby, the pounding sounds mirroring the quickening pace of my pulse. The floor is abuzz with activity, with traders throwing out numbers to their clients, the nonstop ringing of the phones the soundtrack of a busy workday, analysts whispering furtively in their corners, mumbling questions about capital gains and leverage ratios, but I feel the sudden drop in temperature, the collective holding of breath from everyone as the footsteps tread closer to the bullpen.

“Get me London in an hour. They need to liquidate their positions before this fucking shit blows to hell,” Steven barks out, his voice laced with impatience. Jane, his assistant, practically trips over herself as she scurries away to do his bidding.

I hold my breath as I witness him striding down the hallway, a furrow creasing his brows as if he’s deep in thought.

I didn’t get a chance to see him up close before, but he was compelling enough from afar, a powerful hurricane blowing by in the vicinity, leaving nothing unscathed.

But now, up close, it’s impossible not to be awed by his presence, his imposing figure poured into a three-piece deep gray suit, a crimson tie knotted to perfection, and a hint of the same-colored pocket square peeking out from his suit jacket. He’s tall, at least six-foot-three from my estimate, and from the way he fills his clothes, I can tell he has a lean but powerful physique underneath the luxurious fabrics, which yields to his body during each controlled movement. His hair, pitch black, almost glints dark blue under the office lights, is arranged carefully, longer on the top and short on the sides. His jawline is clean-shaven, sharp enough to cut glass and make cover models weep with envy.

But it’s his eyes that tell you everything you need to know about him. Eyes I couldn’t see well from where I sat in the room, but still drew me in like a moth to a flame. They’re burnt gold, rimmed with stark green, the colors shifting under the light like tiger stone, which I learned during one insomniac night of aimless scrolling on my phone, fittingly, symbolizes confidence and protection. There are shadows underneath those mesmerizing eyes, like he hasn’t seen over four hours of sleep a night for a long time.

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