I quietly ate my sack lunch at my desk in fear that, if I left, I might miss his grand arrival.

As the assistant to one of the most powerful men in the city, I’d thought I would be busier. I’d envisioned a lot of running around, yelling at people, asking for favors, staying late and taking notes, or whatever else it was that assistants did. Kind of like The Devil Wears Prada—minus the fashion and Meryl Streep.

But, instead, I was sitting here, in silence, staring at a door.

Would he ever come out?

Did he actually exist?

I let out a small giggle as the scene from The Wizard of Oz with the infamous man behind the curtain came to mind.

Maybe this great and powerful man really wasn’t who everyone thought he was after all?

Maybe he was someone else entirely?

Suddenly, I really wanted to know.

Considering my high level of curiosity when it came to the unknown and my knack for research, it was strange that I hadn’t looked up my new boss before now. But I had been a little off my game with the move and the boxes and whatnot.

Pulling up Google, I typed in the name Roman Cavenaugh and waited to see what would come up. Turned out, it was a lot actually. My boss was quite popular on the Internet.

There goes my man-behind-the-curtain theory.

Clicking on a recent article, the title read, Former Troublemaker of the Cavenaugh Empire Officially at the Helm.

I barely made it two words into the article when I caught sight of the photos. Several had been inserted along with the text, and I immediately became fixated on the man staring back at me. Broad shoulders, dark blond hair, and eyes the color of jade.

He was handsome and frighteningly beautiful at the same time. Power effortlessly clung to him as he posed for the camera. I was so captivated by him that I hardly noticed the creak of the door beside me as it swung open for the first time since I’d arrived. Looking up, I found those same hypnotizing eyes I’d been gawking at on the screen glaring down at me from the now wide open office door.

I gulped audibly and quickly closed the Internet browser, thankful that my computer screen faced the wall, away from prying eyes.

Or an angry, intimidating boss.

“Can I help you, sir?” I managed to squeak out in record time.

“Who the hell are you?” a deep voice answered.

No introduction. No warm smile or polite handshake. Just like his picture, Mr. Cavenaugh was pure business and power.

It frightened me to no end.