At three o'clock in the afternoon, the quiet hum of the C.B. Designs office was shattered.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps echoed down the exterior hallway.

The frosted glass door was violently shoved open. It slammed against the wall with a deafening crash. Lena screamed and dropped a stack of files.

Arthur Barron, the ruthless patriarch of Barron Industries, marched into the room. His face was purple with rage.

Right behind him walked Brigette, a smug, venomous smile plastered on her face. Two massive, thick-necked bodyguards flanked them, their hands resting near their waistbands.

Braden stopped typing. He sat at his wobbly desk in the corner. His dark eyes locked onto the intruders. The temperature around his desk plummeted. His gaze turned to absolute, dead ice.

Carlee threw open her office door. The moment she saw her father, the blood drained from her face, leaving behind pure, cold hatred.

Arthur ignored the staff. He marched right up to Carlee.

"Shut this pathetic little playground down immediately," Arthur ordered, his voice booming through the small space.

He slammed a thick legal contract onto the nearest desk. "You are coming back to Barron Industries as Head of Design. Sign it."

Carlee didn't even blink at the contract. She let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"Did you see the auction numbers last night?" Carlee sneered. "Did you finally realize I'm the only one in this family with actual talent?"

Arthur's face twisted in fury. "You ungrateful brat! Without the family's supply chain, you won't last a month in this city!"

Brigette stepped forward, pretending to look concerned. "Carlee, please. Don't ruin the Barron name just because you're throwing a tantrum."

Carlee turned her head slowly. She looked at Brigette like she was a stain on the floor.

"The Barron name is already ruined," Carlee said, her voice dripping with venom. "Thanks to your cheap, plagiarized garbage designs."

Brigette gasped, her face turning a blotchy red. She lost her mind. She pointed a shaking finger at the glass display case holding Carlee's prototype models.

"Smash them!" Brigette shrieked at the bodyguards. "Smash everything!"

The two massive men grunted and lunged toward the display case.

Carlee threw her body in front of the glass, her arms spread wide. "If you touch this, I will have you arrested for trespassing!"

Arthur sneered. "The police don't care about family disputes. Move her."

The lead bodyguard reached out with a thick, meaty hand, aiming to shove Carlee out of the way.

Before his fingers could even graze her shoulder, a large, heavily veined hand shot out from the side.

Long fingers clamped around the bodyguard's thick wrist like a steel vice.

Everyone froze.

They turned to look. It was the quiet, cheap-suit-wearing assistant from the corner desk.

Braden stood at his full height. The sheer, terrifying mass of his body blocked Carlee completely. An aura of suffocating, lethal violence rolled off him in waves. He stared at the bodyguard with eyes that looked like open graves.

"This is private property," Braden said. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. "Get out."

The bodyguard grunted and tried to yank his arm back. He couldn't move an inch.

Braden twisted his wrist. A loud, sickening crack echoed through the room.

The bodyguard screamed in agony, dropping to his knees.

The second bodyguard roared and swung a massive fist aimed right at the back of Braden's head.

Carlee screamed. Her heart leaped into her throat.

Braden didn't even turn around. He simply shifted his weight to the side, letting the fist sail past his ear. In the same fluid motion, he drove his long leg up and kicked the man squarely in the chest.

The two-hundred-pound bodyguard flew backward like a ragdoll. He crashed through the glass door, shattering it into a thousand pieces, and hit the hallway floor. He didn't get back up.

The entire sequence took less than three seconds. The room fell into a horrifying, dead silence.

Braden let go of the screaming man's broken wrist. He reached over to Lena's desk, pulled a tissue from the box, and slowly wiped his hands.

He threw the tissue on the floor. He lifted his head and locked his dead, black eyes onto Arthur Barron.

"Leave," Braden commanded.

Arthur physically recoiled. The sheer, murderous intent radiating from this nobody assistant terrified him. He took a step back, his authority completely broken.

Carlee stood behind Braden. She stared at the massive width of his back. A violent rush of adrenaline and overwhelming safety flooded her veins.

Arthur Barron stared at the shattered glass and the groaning men on the floor. His face was a mask of humiliated rage.

He pointed a shaking finger at Carlee. "Without our suppliers, your little company is dead in the water. You'll be begging me to take you back."

Carlee stepped out from behind Braden. Her chin was held high, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I would rather burn this place to the ground than take another dime from you."

Brigette grabbed Arthur's arm, her eyes darting nervously toward Braden. Together, they dragged the injured bodyguards out of the office, fleeing down the hallway.

The moment they were gone, the suffocating tension in the room snapped. Lena collapsed into her chair, gasping for air.

Carlee turned immediately to Braden. Her eyes frantically scanned his broad chest, his shoulders, and his arms, searching for any sign of blood.

She stepped right into his personal space, tilting her head back to look at his face.

"That was incredible," Carlee breathed, her voice thick with raw admiration. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

Braden instantly buried the terrifying, murderous aura he had just unleashed. He reached up, adjusting his cheap glasses with a sheepish, humble smile.

"I served a few combat tours in the military before I was honorably discharged," Braden lied smoothly, keeping his posture relaxed. "You learn some advanced close-quarters combat to survive." The logic snapped perfectly into place in Carlee's mind. Of course a hardened veteran who had seen real, brutal combat would know how to dismantle a physical threat so efficiently. Her last shred of suspicion vanished, but as she looked down at his massive, heavy-knuckled hands, a profound sense of awe mixed with a chilling sliver of reverence washed over her. She realized, with a sudden spike of adrenaline, that this quiet assistant harbored a dark, incredibly dangerous past beneath his cheap suit.

A surge of protective possessiveness washed over her. She walked to her desk and grabbed her Birkin bag.

"We're closing early," Carlee announced. She pointed a finger at Braden. "Grab the keys. You're coming with me."

Braden raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He followed her out the door.

Thirty minutes later, a yellow cab dropped them off on Fifth Avenue, right in front of the Tom Ford flagship store.

Braden pushed the heavy glass doors open. The scent of rich oud and expensive leather hit them. Two saleswomen looked up, ready to dismiss the man in the cheap suit, until they saw the Birkin on Carlee's arm. They practically sprinted over.

Carlee grabbed Braden by the shoulders and shoved him in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. She pinched the fabric of his lapel with a look of utter disgust.

"This garbage is insulting to my brand," Carlee declared. She turned to the racks, her eyes scanning the fabrics like a hawk. Within seconds, she pulled three dark, aggressively tailored suits and shoved them into his chest. "Try them on."

Braden looked at the suits. To him, they were just off-the-rack basics, but he nodded and stepped into the fitting room.

When the heavy velvet curtain pulled back, the entire store went completely silent.

Braden stepped out wearing a midnight-blue suit with a subtle pinstripe. The tailoring clung to his massive shoulders and tapered perfectly at his waist. Without the cheap fabric dragging him down, his innate, terrifyingly aristocratic aura exploded into the room.

Carlee was holding a glass of champagne. Her hand froze in mid-air. Her mouth parted slightly. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight to her core. He looked like a billionaire.

The two saleswomen were staring openly, their faces flushed red, completely forgetting to do their jobs.

The bell above the door chimed. A blonde socialite in a pink Chanel tweed suit walked in.

She spotted Braden instantly. Her eyes lit up like a predator. She strutted right past Carlee and stopped inches from Braden.

She pulled a card from her purse and held it out, batting her eyelashes. "I don't think we've met. Which family are you with?"

Braden's eyes went flat. He didn't even raise his hand to take the card. He looked at her like she was an insect.

Before he could speak, Carlee set her champagne glass down on the nearest display table with a sharp, deliberate clink. She walked over, her stilettos clicking like weapons against the marble floor, radiating an aura of absolute, untouchable frost. She didn't slap the woman's hand. Instead, she smoothly and gracefully stepped directly between them, her posture impeccably straight, and offered the socialite a condescending, pitying smile. "My assistant is currently on the clock," Carlee said, her voice a chilling, cultured drawl that echoed in the quiet store. "And we are far too busy building an empire to entertain irrelevant distractions. Keep your card." The blonde recognized Carlee immediately. She turned pale, scoffed loudly to save face, and practically ran out of the store.

Braden looked down at Carlee's rigid, protective stance as she shielded him from the socialite. He felt the sheer, dominant energy radiating from her slender frame. A dark, obsessive thrill ripped through his chest. He was completely addicted to the sight of her claiming him as her own, even in a strictly professional capacity. Carlee stepped back, clearing her throat to mask the sudden, inexplicable possessiveness that had just flared in her blood.

She pulled a sleek black Amex from her wallet and handed it to the manager.

"We'll take all three," she ordered.