Page 1 of Tempting My Billionaire Master

Chapter One

Chloe

“Damon, you wouldn’t believe this limo!” I gushed into the phone, my voice a mix of excitement and disbelief. “This limo has massaging seats, a minibar, even a freaking curved TV! It’s like I’m in a spaceship or something!”

“Chloe, focus,” Damon said, his voice stern even through the phone. He was always the practical one—maybe that’s why he made such a good editor. “This interview is your big break. You can’t get distracted.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” It wasn’t just the luxury of the limo that had me all worked up. “It’s just… I can’t help being nervous, you know? I know we’ve been over this, but what are the odds of the most reclusive billionaire in history hand-picking me for his first-ever interview. Nobody even knows what he looks like, and he asked specifically for me.”

“Chloe, you’re a fantastic investigative journalist,” Damon said. “Remember how you exposed those corrupt government contracts? And you did it with no budget and zero connections. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, Damon,” I said, touched by his support. But even with his words of encouragement, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was out of place. What was I doing here? I was barely out of college, saddled with debt, about to meet one of the richest men in the country. Everything about this was surreal, from the luxurious limo to the sprawling mansion looming before me. While my job title sounded glamorous, most of the time I was reading documents and writing emails, not actually meeting people. I felt like an impostor, like I didn’t belong in this world of wealth and privilege.

“Look,” Damon said, sensing my uncertainty. “If this interview goes well, it’ll open doors for you. You’ll have access to all the celebrities and important people in the country. You can do this.”

I took another deep breath, trying to steady myself. “You’re right,” I agreed, even as a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach.

“Good. Now go and break a leg.”

“Thanks, Damon,” I said, just as the limo came to a stop. “I’ve arrived. I’ll call you back!”

We hung up and I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves. I could do this.

The limo door opened, and a middle-aged driver in a crisp uniform silently extended his hand. I hesitated, and it was only after I awkwardly climbed out on my own that I realized he had been trying to help me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, fumbling with my purse and feeling my face flush with embarrassment. The driver didn’t react, simply nodding as if it happened all the time.

A group of stern-faced men in dark suits approached, their eyes scanning the area for threats. The bodyguards were all big, built like tanks with bulging muscles straining against their black suits. The smallest one was at least six feet tall, and they all had faces carved from granite. They didn’t say a word, simply forming a protective cocoon around me.

Their leader, an imposing man with a scar on his forehead, nodded to me. “Miss Collins, Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you.”

My mouth went dry. So this was it—I was about to meet the elusive Ethan Hamilton. “O-of course,” I said, cursing my stammer. “Lead the way.”

The scarred man’s gaze hardened. “Your possessions, please.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Your phone, recording devices, ID, wallet—security protocol requires they be surrendered for the duration of your visit.”

Panic flared in my chest. I needed my phone for notes and my recorder to capture the interview. But from the man’s tone, I could tell arguing would get me nowhere.

Begrudgingly, I handed over my purse containing my phone and driver’s license. I took solace in the fact that I had spent a sleepless night going over every question for the interview until they were etched into my memory.

“This way,” the scarred man said, gesturing toward the mansion. The other guards fell in around me, a human barrier between me and the outside world. It was equal parts intimidating and claustrophobic, their looming presence and watchful eyes making me acutely aware of my own vulnerability.

I walked faster, keeping pace with the scarred man while drinking in my surroundings. The mansion was enormous, all sharp angles and concrete beneath a steel-colored sky. It suited what little I knew of Ethan Hamilton—a man as mysterious as he was wealthy, ruling his empire from the shadows.

As we walked along the path, I glimpsed a collection of luxurious supercars parked nearby. Each one likely cost more than my entire life’s earnings.

I nervously cleared my throat and asked, “Do you have any insights about Mr. Hamilton?” As I waited for a response, their faces gave away nothing—not even a flicker of emotion.

The silence was stifling as we continued our journey towards the mansion, the only sound was our shoes crunching against the gravel path. The intimidating fortress at the end of the road seemed to swallow up any trace of sound, creating an oppressive atmosphere.

The entrance to the mansion looked like the gate of a bunker—a pair of metal doors, as cold and imposing as the rest of the mansion. My pulse drummed in my ears and my stomach flipped as I stood in front of it.

“Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you inside,” the scarred man informed me, pushing the heavy door. “Proceed through the foyer, down the corridor to the library. You are forbidden to go elsewhere.”

I nodded, throat tight. “I understand.”

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