Chapter 1

Talia

I arrive five minutes early, just like always. Not out of some people-pleasing need to impress, but because being prepared is how I’ve survived in rooms like this. It’s how you outwork, outmaneuver, and outperform people who’ve never had to prove they belong. The conference room smells like overused cologne and expensive coffee. And every seat at the table is already taken.

Every seat, that is, except the one at the far end—closest to the double doors, farthest from the head of the table where Mr. Wallace is already flipping through the printed agenda. I pause, heartbeat steady, smile immovable. I worked all weekend on the briefing packet for this presentation. Spent three nights building strategy decks to prep for the Wilder merger meeting. So the fact that my name isn’t listed on the agenda isn’t just a mistake. It’s a message.

I walk to the empty chair like I don’t notice. Like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t hear the whispered “Hey, Talia” from Cameron across the table—yes, that Cameron, the human embodiment of soft nepotism and startup slang, who once forgot Beck Wilder’s name mid-call. I nod back without looking.

One page into the meeting, I already know where this is going. And I can’t stand that I was right.

Mr. Wallace’s voice is smooth, practiced, and intentionally vague as he recaps the merger’s “delicate optics.” The room shifts slightly, all subtle nods and sideways glances, as he mentions “carefully selected representation” and “cultural alignment with brand identity.”

When he assigns the lead account to Cameron, my lips don’t even twitch. But I do feel it—low in my chest, a pulse of heat that burns beneath my blazer. I lean forward, just enough to make eye contact. “Excuse me—was there a change in delegation for the Wilder account? I wasn’t notified.”

Mr. Wallace looks at me like I’ve said something naive. “It’s not about your work, Talia. You’re exceptional. But Beck Wilder is a unique personality. He responds better to a... lighter touch.”

I blink once. That’s all. No flinch. No fight. I thank him. Sit back. But internally, I’m already writing this down in the ledger I keep for moments like this—moments where “too serious,” “too intense,” and “too Black” are used as synonyms.

When the meeting ends, I gather my things, calm and composed. The only sign of irritation is the grip I have on my leather portfolio—tight enough to leave fingerprints. I head for my office with the precision of someone who doesn’t crack in public. Not for them.

Not today.

The moment the door closes behind the last suit, I move. Not rushed. Not rattled. Just efficient—my version of angry. I follow Mr. Wallace down the hall, calm expression dialed in like muscle memory.

“Was there a change in delegation I missed?” I ask.

He doesn’t stop walking. “Talia,” he sighs, like I’ve just disappointed him. “You’re a standout. No one’s questioning your capability.”

I nod, sharp and slow. “But?”

“But Beck Wilder is... unconventional. He doesn’t operate well under rigidity.”

“He’s a billionaire CEO. I assume he’s capable of reading a calendar.”

Wallace chuckles, like I’ve said something adorable. “You’re brilliant. But clients like Beck—well, they like people who can make them feel heard.”

The implication lands exactly where he aims it. Too serious. Too direct. Too much. I’ve heard it all before—coded beneath “not a culture fit,” “too focused on results,” or my personal favorite, “a little intimidating for the partners.”

He leaves me with a pat on the shoulder and a smile that never touches his eyes. I want to scream, but instead, I retreat to my office like a soldier returning from battle. War-wounded and dignified.

 If I were a man, they’d call it presence.  If I were white, they’d call it polish.  But since I’m me? It’s always a problem to be solved.

I shut the door to my office with more force than necessary, drop my portfolio on the desk, and take exactly one deep breath.

My inbox pings with emails about the merger I’ve apparently been benched from. I start closing browser tabs, each click louder than the last. The one with the projected growth models. The one with Beck Wilder’s press profile. And the one I’d opened at 1 a.m. last night, researching what kind of family trust controls his voting shares.

Gone. All of it. Deleted like it never mattered.

There’s a soft knock at the door. My assistant, Carina, leans in, all wide eyes and pink gloss. “He’s here,” she whispers.

I frown. “Who?”

“Wilder.”

That’s when I hear it. Laughter echoing from the front entrance. Loud, unbothered, male. A few heads turn outside my window wall. The energy in the hallway lifts like someone cracked open a bottle of champagne.

And then a voice rings out, bold and unapologetic:
“This place is way too quiet. Are y’all always this tense, or is that just a lawyer thing?”

I walk to the door and look out.

There he is. Beck Wilder. Barefoot in the center of the marble lobby. Wearing a hoodie layered over a wrinkled Bowie T-shirt, a coffee cup in one hand and someone’s dry-erase marker in the other.

He’s drawing a flowchart on the glass wall. Smiling like it’s a game. Like this entire world bends around his orbit.

And worst of all—everyone else is laughing.

 Of course. Of course he can walk in like that and get applause.  If I showed up barefoot, they’d escort me out with a restraining order.

And yet… I can’t look away.

He strolls past the receptionist like this is his living room, not the glass-and-steel headquarters of one of Manhattan’s most powerful law firms. The bottoms of his jeans are cuffed and frayed, like he got distracted halfway through dressing. And his coffee? It’s one of those artisan places with a logo that looks like a third-world passport stamp. He probably paid fourteen dollars for it.

And yet, every intern in the hallway is starstruck. Even Wallace chuckles when Beck claps him on the shoulder and says, “Didn’t recognize you without a yacht and a martini.”

I don’t laugh. I fold my arms and take inventory.

Messy hair. Easy smile. That dangerous kind of confidence—the kind only rich, charming men who’ve never been told “no” in their lives can wear like a second skin.

His eyes scan the room, landing on me with deliberate curiosity.

“Hey,” he says, casual and cocky. “You must be Talia Brooks.”

I nod once. “And you must be allergic to shoes.”

He lets out a laugh like it surprises him. “Damn. I like you already.”

 I don’t like him.  I don’t like his lack of respect.  I don’t like that my stomach flips anyway.

The conference room we just cleared out? Beck’s already taken it over. The dry-erase boards are covered in equations and wild brand ideas that make no immediate sense, but everyone’s nodding like he’s a prophet. Wallace invites me to stay—probably hoping I’ll absorb some of Beck’s disruptive magic by osmosis.

I sit in the corner. I take notes. I watch. At one point, Beck tosses a pen across the table toward me. It lands perfectly in front of my laptop. “You look like someone with thoughts,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m just trying to follow the performance.”

He grins, delighted. “See? This is why we’re gonna get along.”

The others laugh, but I don’t. Not because it’s not funny, but because I refuse to be part of the chorus. Beck Wilder may be charming, but charm has an expiration date. And I’m not here to flirt with a client—I’m here to win.

Still, as I gather my notes and stand to leave, Beck calls out again.

“You don’t like me, do you?”

I glance over my shoulder. “That would require me thinking about you at all.”

He laughs, hands raised in mock surrender. “Now I really like you.”

He’s trouble. Loud, barefoot, investor-threatening trouble. And the most interesting thing that’s happened in my professional life in six months.

The elevator doors slide shut between us with a clean whisper, sealing Beck Wilder on the other side with his crooked smile and barefoot bravado.

I don’t exhale until the numbers start ticking down. Slowly. Like the universe knows I need time to recalibrate.

When I reach my floor, I walk the hallway like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just sit across from a man who behaves like gravity bends for him. Like I’m not still hearing his laugh in the back of my mind—unexpected and warm and real in a way I didn’t see coming.

My office is still. Cool. Precise. Just the way I left it. I close the door behind me, lean against it for one long second, and finally allow myself a private reaction.

A single smile. It’s small. Reflexive. Gone in a heartbeat. But it’s real—and that’s the part that unnerves me.

I reach for my phone. There’s a text from Jackie waiting for me, probably filled with curses and cocktails and suggestions that I quit the firm and start our own boutique agency tomorrow. I don’t open it yet.

Instead, I sit down at my desk. I pull up Beck Wilder’s profile again. Not the financials this time. The photo tab. There’s a shot of him at a summit in Lisbon—hair tousled, mid-laugh, barefoot on a rooftop.

I close the window. Nope. Absolutely not.

This is business. Nothing more.  And if Beck Wilder thinks I’m someone he can charm into playing house… He’s got no idea who he’s dealing with.