BREAKING RULES FOR MR BILLIONAIRE

Isla's POV

The elevator doors whispered open, and for a second, I just stood there.

Forty-seventh floor.

The air changed here. It wasn't just colder - it was cleaner, as if only filtered ambitions were allowed to circulate. Everything gleamed.

Marble floors. Glass walls. The steel logo that sliced across the lobby wall like a signature with a knife: BLACKWELL.

I stepped out, adjusting the blazer I'd ironed three times this morning, even though it didn't wrinkle. My heels clicked a little louder than I liked, drawing eyes and uninterested glances from men in tailored suits and women with surgically perfected cheekbones.

No one smiled. No one hesitated.

Good. Neither would I.

The receptionist didn't look up as I approached. Blonde bob, expression bored.

Her nails clicked against the keyboard like a countdown. "Can I help you?" She asked, without breaking rhythm.

"Isla Morgan. I'm starting today. Intern for department 7A."

Her fingers paused mid-click. A moment's scan of her screen, then a curt nod.

"ID?"

I slid my badge across the counter with fingers that only barely shook. She glanced at the card, then at me. Something flickered behind her eyes - judgement or indifference, I couldn't tell.

"You're early."

"I figured being early wouldn't hurt."

Another beat passed.

"Take the elevator on the left. Two doors down from the executive wing. Don't touch anything. Don't get lost. Don't be late when they call you."

Noted.

I walked through the corridor like I knew where I was going. Every inch of the hallway had been engineered to intimidate. Lighting like spotlights. Art that probably cost more than my student loans.

I passed two men in suits, mid-conversation. "....hedge risk before Asia opens....."

"........Blackwell's not going to like that....."

Every word carried consequences. Every step felt like a trap disguised as opportunity. Frost glass. Stark white interior.

A secretary looked up from her screen, narrowed her eyes. "Name?"

"Isla Morgan."

Another check. Another nod.

"Sit."

There were five other interns in the lounge area. All of them were male. They were trying too hard to look like they weren't trying at all. One wore a designer watch so big it practically screamed nepotism.

Another was reading a copy of the Economist like it was a casual Sunday morning material. I sat in the empty seat farthest from the door.

No one looked up. No one greeted me.

One guy sneezed and didn't even excuse himself.

Good. I didn't need friends. I needed opportunity. Fifteen minutes passed. Then it happened.

The door across the hall clicked open, and I didn't have to look to sense that something had shifted. The energy changed and thickened, like the air was suddenly aware it was being watched.

Two men stepped into the corridor. The first was older, in his fifties, muttering something into a phone and gesturing toward a leather - bound portfolio. The second....... My breath caught. Even before I registered the face, the posture, I knew.

Ethan Blackwell.

He didn't move like other men. He didn't walk, he commanded space. Tall, dressed in a navy suit tailored like a second skin. His expression was unreadable. I'd seen his photo on the cover of Forbes, in shareholders decks, on financial gossip blogs. But none of those pictures came close to this.

He looked up just as I glanced away - but not fast enough. Our eyes met. Not long. Two seconds, maybe three.

But I felt it.

The weight of his attention. The sharp, analytical precision of his gaze. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He assessed.

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall without a word. His phone buzzed. He ignored it.

I exhaled slowly. My hands were still on my lap, but my fingers had curled into fists .