Boss Up, Babe

Chapter 1

Serena

Titan Corp, Manhattan

The high-rise stretches into the sky, a fortress of glass and steel that dares the world to challenge it. I pause at the entrance, inhaling deeply—not because I need the air, but because I need to remind myself who I am. Serena Vance. Architect. Fighter. 

A woman who built herself from the ground up and is about to walk into the most important meeting of her career.

The lobby is pristine, sleek, deliberately impersonal. Everything about Titan Corp is designed to intimidate. The air hums with the quiet efficiency of power—executives in tailored suits moving with practiced purpose, voices hushed over deals that could shift the stock market. But I am not a woman who startles easily.

The receptionist barely glances up as I approach. "Name?"

"Serena Vance. I have a ten o’clock with Mr. Sinclair."

Her fingers fly over the keyboard. I watch the slight flicker of surprise in her eyes when she finds my name. People like me—the ones who didn’t grow up with trust funds and pedigrees—aren’t supposed to be in spaces like this. But I force a smile, smooth and unreadable, as she gestures toward the elevators.

"Thirty-fifth floor. Mr. Sinclair’s expecting you."

I step into the elevator, rolling my shoulders back. This isn't just another meeting. This is the meeting. The one that decides whether my designs will be more than just proposals on a table, whether my father’s company gets the contract that could keep it afloat. Failure isn’t an option.

The elevator doors glide open to a stark, minimalist office space. Dark wood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. And at the far end of the room, standing with his back to me, is Rhyson Sinclair.

My stomach tightens. Whenever I see him, I’m reminded of one of the painful time of my life. 

He turns, the movement unhurried, as if time bends for him.

Rhyson has always looked like he was carved from something rare—sharp lines and effortless control. His slate-gray suit is perfectly cut, but the top buttons of his shirt are open, exposing just enough collarbone to make it look deliberate. 

He holds himself with an ease that comes from knowing he doesn’t have to try—people will listen when he speaks, move when he moves.

I should be used to him by now.

I’m not.

"Serena," he says, my name settling between us like an unsaid promise.

I set my briefcase down on the conference table, matching his gaze with unwavering calm. "Rhyson."

His lips twitch at the edges, almost imperceptible. Not a smile. A ghost of amusement, maybe.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing toward the chair across from him.

I lower myself onto the leather, crossing one leg over the other. He takes the seat opposite me, his fingers steepling together as he watches me.

This is the part where lesser men might try to rattle me. They’d let silence stretch, hoping I’d fill it with nervous chatter. Rhyson doesn’t need those games.

So I don’t give him the satisfaction of playing along.

Instead, I slide my portfolio toward him, flipping it open to the first render. "Titan Corp’s new headquarters should be a statement. Something bold. Something that tells the world exactly what this company is."

I expect him to look down. He doesn’t.

"Is that what you think my company needs?"

He says it like it’s something else entirely. A challenge. A dare.

I meet his gaze head-on. "I think a man who built his empire from nothing should have a building that reflects that."

A flicker of something dark passes through his expression. Approval. Interest. A slow, studying curiosity.

He shifts, finally glancing down at my designs. I don’t breathe as his gaze moves over the renderings, taking in the sweeping glass façade, the bold angles, the statement piece of the rooftop terrace overlooking Manhattan. My work. My vision. The thing I’ve spent years perfecting.

Minutes pass, but they stretch too thin, every second a silent weight pressing between us.

He leans back, fingers tapping once against the table. "It’s ambitious."

The words aren’t dismissive. They aren’t an insult. But they aren’t a yes, either.

I arch a brow. "So is Titan Corp."

His lips quirk, slow and knowing. "Touché."

I should leave it at that. I should let my work speak for itself. But the way he watches me makes my pulse spike, makes every interaction with him feel like something more than business. It always has.

It doesn’t help that I know Rhyson Sinclair better than most people do. He’s a man who makes people think they have control, right up until the moment they realize they never did.

He tilts his head slightly, the barest shift of movement, but it’s enough. "You’re confident."

"It’s not confidence," I say smoothly. "It’s certainty."

That rare flicker of amusement deepens, like he enjoys watching me fight for my place at this table. Like he’s been waiting for it.

The air between us is too charged, too thick with the unspoken.

I tell myself it’s nothing. That this moment isn’t anything other than professional negotiations.

And then his next words ruin that illusion completely.

"You’ve been on Damon Cross’s radar lately."

My spine straightens. I should’ve known. Of course Rhyson would bring him up.

I won’t let him derail this meeting, won’t let him shift the conversation into something I don’t have the energy for. "Damon is considering backing my latest project. It’s a business arrangement, nothing more."

Rhyson makes a sound in his throat. Not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. "Damon doesn’t do business arrangements with beautiful women. Not unless there’s something in it for him."

His statement sends a slow burn through my veins. Because it’s not just about Damon. It’s about me. About Rhyson seeing me.

I hold his gaze, refusing to let him make this about anything other than my work.

"If he wants to underestimate me, that’s his mistake."

His eyes darken. "That’s where you’re wrong, Serena. Damon doesn’t underestimate women. He uses them."

There’s something about the way he states it that makes the words feel heavier than they should. As if he knows something I don’t.

I refuse to let him see how much the comment rattles me. Instead, I rise, collecting my portfolio with careful precision. "If that’s your way of telling me I didn’t get the contract, you can just say it outright."

Rhyson watches me, still seated, still composed. "I haven’t made a decision yet."

I lift my chin. "Then let me know when you do."

I turn on my heel and walk toward the elevator.

I expect him to let me go.

Instead, just as I step inside, he speaks.

"Serena."

I don’t turn around.

But I feel him behind me, feel the heat of his presence like an imprint on my skin.

His voice is quieter this time, a shift in something unspoken. "You’re playing a dangerous game."

The doors slide shut.

I realize—so is he.