Chapter 1 – I Became My CEO’s Darkest Secret (Iris & Jared) Novel Free Online

Prologue

Iris’s POV

If there was a world record for the worst first impression, I was about to break it.

I burst through the revolving doors of Branson Tower with the elegance of a windblown trash bag, breathless, sweating through my blouse, and praying the universe would grant me a miracle—or at least deodorant stronger than my anxiety. The lobby stretched in a glossy, glass-and-gold haze, all marble floors and velvet accents, like a museum curated exclusively for people far richer than me.

And every single one of them was staring.

Not at me, of course.

At the twelve beautiful women lined up by the reception desk, all waiting for the same job interview I was now catastrophically late for. They were polished. Perfect. Some of them probably woke up that morning to soft jazz and fresh fruit baskets, not a broken alarm clock and a subway that stalled between stations for nine agonizing minutes.

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and approached the group, trying to look like someone who belonged here.

Big mistake.

A blonde in a white blazer—who looked like she had been sculpted by a luxury brand—lifted her perfectly drawn brows. “Sweetheart… are you lost?”

“No,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m here for the creative assistant interview.”

A few of them exchanged looks. Slow, synchronized. Predatory.

Another woman, dressed head-to-toe in Prada, smirked at my cheap heels as if they were personally offensive. “Interviews started twenty minutes ago.”

“I know,” I murmured.

Her smile sharpened. “They told us latecomers are automatically disqualified.”

“They didn’t say that.”

“They didn’t have to,” she purred. “This is Branson. Standards matter.”

She gestured at my blouse, wrinkled from the sprint. My hair, half-escaped from its clip. My shoes, probably the wrong century.

I swallowed. Hard.

The receptionist—who was supposed to be neutral ground—leaned forward. “Name?”

“Iris.”

Her lips pinched, her manicured finger tapping her tablet. “Last name?”

“Little.”

Pause.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Your interview will proceed,” she said.

The blondes’ faces fell.

Mine lit up.

Until the elevator chimed.

A pair of doors slid open across the lobby, and the temperature dropped ten degrees.

Jared Branson stepped out.

I’d seen pictures. Everyone had. He was the face of the industry, the cold prodigy who had turned a failing advertising company into an empire. But photos didn’t do justice to the living, breathing man striding toward us.

Tall. Immaculate. Tailored within an inch of his life. His presence was a blade—sharp, clean, lethal.

And he did not look like he tolerated lateness. Or mess. Or me.

The women around me straightened instantly, arching their backs, parting their glossy lips. One even fluffed her hair.

Jared didn’t glance at a single one of them.

His eyes—icy, assessing—landed on me.

A beat hit my chest like a punch.

His gaze dragged over me from head to toe. Not with the sleazy interest I’d learned to dodge my entire life, but with something colder. Calculating. As if he were evaluating a product on a shelf, picking apart every flaw.

My face burned.

He stopped in front of me.

“You’re late,” he said, voice deep and velvet-smooth but devoid of warmth.

“I—yes. The trains—”

“Excuses,” he clipped.

The blondes practically swooned at the sound of his disdain.

I forced myself to hold his stare, even though my spine felt like it was liquefying.

“I’m ready now,” I whispered.

His jaw flexed. He stepped closer. Too close. Close enough for me to smell his cologne—dark amber and smoke, the kind of scent that felt like hands on your body.

“Look up,” he ordered.

My chin rose before I even thought about whether it should.

His eyes traced the smudge of mascara beneath mine, the crooked clip in my hair, the faint sheen of sweat on my skin. His mouth curved, almost invisibly. Disapproval disguised as amusement.

“You look… undone,” he murmured.

Humiliation prickled through me.

“I can fix myself in the restroom.”

“No.” His gaze slid lower, to the scuff on my shoe. “This is how you showed up. This is how I’ll evaluate you.”

My stomach dropped like a stone.

But then something impossible happened.

His eyes softened. Just for a second—one fleeting, dangerous second. As if behind all that polished cruelty, there was a man who had already known I’d be late… and had waited anyway.

“Follow me,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

He ignored the glamorous candidates completely and walked toward the elevator without a word.

The room erupted with whispers.

Did he just…?

Is she seriously…?

Why her?

I hurried after him, pulse pounding in my ears.

Inside the elevator, I kept to the corner, trying to make myself smaller.

Jared pressed a button, then leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed. His reflection stared at me—sharp cheekbones, steel eyes, a mouth that looked sinful when it wasn’t set in a line of irritation.

“Why did you apply for this job?” he asked.

“I needed one.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m good at what I do,” I said, voice trembling.

“You don’t know what this job requires.”

“I can learn.”

His brow lifted. “Can you?”

The elevator thrummed with tension.

Then he pushed off the wall, stepping into my space again. His fingers brushed my jaw—just enough to make me gasp.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He tilted my chin with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.

“I like watching people try,” he said softly, almost dangerously. “I like seeing how far they’ll go to please me.” His thumb grazed the corner of my lip. “And you look like someone who bends… beautifully.”

My breath stuttered.

Before I could react, the elevator pinged open. Jared dropped his hand as if he hadn’t just touched me like he owned me.

“Come,” he said, walking out.

I followed him into a hallway lined with glass offices and photos of famous campaigns. Everything screamed wealth, power, obsession with perfection.

Jared opened a door, motioning me inside.

“Congratulations, Ms. Little,” he said, leaning on the frame. “You’re hired.”

My mouth fell open.

“What? But—we didn’t interview. You barely asked me anything.”

“I don’t need to,” he said simply. “I’ve already seen what I wanted.”

A shiver slid down my spine.

He smirked.

Dangerous. Knowing. Hungry.

“You start tomorrow,” he said.

“Why me?” I whispered.

His gaze dropped to my shoes, my wrinkled blouse… the mess I was.

“Because,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I prefer my toys before they’re polished.”

Heat rushed through me—shame, anger, and something far more dangerous.

“Goodnight, Iris,” he said, using my name like an intimate secret.

I watched him walk away, each step a promise I didn’t yet understand.

I should have turned around.

I should have run.

But I followed him instead.

Into a world where desire felt like danger…

and danger felt like destiny.

***

Iris’s POV

On the seventh day of my employment at the Branson Advertising Agency, I found myself locked in a room with a giant dildo. That was unfair; it wasn’t really a dildo-at least, not in the sense that I was familiar with them-but it was distinctly phallic. And huge.

As the minutes bled into one hour, and then two, I stared at the giant bottle of perfume that was to be the star of an advertising campaign for an emerging luxury fashion house, and I saw dick.

“I think it’s the slight curvature,” I told my friend Penny, who was busy wrangling her toddler. “And there’s a texture to the bottle that if you squint, looks almost…vascular. And the shape of the bottle itself doesn’t help. Like an elongated bullet with a bit of a flared tip to accommodate the spray nozzle. They’ve put it on a little trolley with some fake clouds clumped around the base that are very testicular.”

The phone ruffled and a child squealed in the background. Penny huffed into the microphone and said, “Why the clouds?”

“The theme of the shoot is celestial sensuality. Models wearing gauzy dresses and shimmer all over their bodies reclining in the clouds while they hug this thing.”

“So it’s intentional.”

“You’d think so, but no one has mentioned it.”

That seemed to get Penny’s attention. “You mean you’ve been working on this shoot for a couple of days, and no one has mentioned that the bottle is a giant cock?”

“They keep talking about the freshness of the scent and the aspirational nature of the campaign. Taking people to heaven.”

“Let me guess. A man came up with this concept?”

I barked out a laugh, leaning against one of the wire shelves behind me. “Yep. They say Mr. Branson himself was the brain behind this one.”

“The guy who owns the company?”

“Yeah. Apparently the client loved the idea, and they’ve run with it ever since. Yesterday they shot with smoke and glitter, hence me having to wash and polish this thing.”

Penny giggled. “So you’ve been stuck in a room for two hours rubbing down a giant?-“

“Yep.”

“And no one’s mentioned it.”

“Nope.”

“How long did it take for you to figure out you were locked in?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“What’s taking so long? Why aren’t they getting you out of there?”

“Took forever to find the keys, then they figured out the lock was broken, then their usual locksmith was on vacation, so they had to call around to get someone over here quickly. Now the longer I look at this thing, the more it looks like a huge dildo.”

“Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe you need to get laid,” she suggested.

I considered Penny’s words. After all, it had been a while since I’d been with a man. I let my gaze trace the six-foot perfume bottle and said, “No. It’s definitely a huge cock.”

Penny giggled, then gasped and told me, “Iris, I need to go. Timmy just spilled juice all over our kitchen floor.” Her four-year-old was cute as a button and also happened to be an absolute terror with more energy in his little toe than I had in my entire body. That she’d been able to chat as long as she had was a surprise.

“All right. Thanks for entertaining me for a while.”

“I wish I could talk longer. Any word on when you’re getting out of there?”

“The locksmith should be here any minute.”

“Text me when you’re out.”

“Will do,” I replied, staring at the giant penis. It had to be intentional. There was just no way dozens of people could design and approve this bottle without knowing they were mass-producing perfume-filled phalluses. Just no way.

“Iris?” a voice called out through the metal door. “How are you doing?”

It was Eleanor, the prop stylist for the shoot. She was a few years younger than me, in her mid-twenties, and she’d been the only person to befriend me on set so far. Over the whole of the studio was a thick sense of urgency, a palpable fear of messing up. Thankfully for them, I was here to take the fall for everyone as the daily screwup.

“I’m okay,” I answered.

My prison wasn’t the worst place to be. The storage room had light and air, and I’d been able to sit on one of the tables on the back wall. One side of the room was covered in shelving that held various props and cleaning supplies. I’d been tasked with polishing the penis before its big moment on stage. It wasn’t until I was done rubbing it down with a microfiber cloth that I realized the door behind me wouldn’t open. I had to call Eleanor before anyone even noticed something was wrong. That had been nearly two hours ago.

“The locksmith was stuck in traffic but he’s down with security as we speak, so it won’t be long.”

“Thank you. Is everyone freaking out about the shoot being delayed?”

There was a pause. “It’s not too bad.”

I snorted. “Be honest.”

Through the door, I heard Eleanor’s soft huff. “Ophelia’s losing her mind. She’s rushing around trying to get everyone to get back to work, but there’s nothing to do until we can get the perfume bottle out. The last shot we need is with the big one.”

I eyed the proverbial big one through slanted eyes. “Right. Why is she so worried all of a sudden?” And where was this urgency two hours ago, when the lock on that stupid door first jammed? It took them nearly forty minutes of messing around with keys before they even contacted a locksmith.

“Well…” Eleanor dropped her voice so I had to press my ear to the door. “I heard someone say Jared Branson is on the way down.”

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