Christian Trevelyan Grey.

"His World, His Rules." I didn't mean to walk into his world—I was just filling in for my roommate. One hour in a suit too big for me, pretending I belonged in an office like his. I thought I was interviewing a businessman. I didn't know I'd be standing in front of a man who looks like sin in a tailored suit... and talks like he owns the air I breathe. Christian Grey. Billionaire. Enigma. Control freak. He watches me like he's peeling me apart with his eyes. Like he already knows what I'll say before I speak. He doesn't smile. He doesn't flirt. He offers... a contract. No feelings. No romance. Just submission. Rules. Power. And I should've run. But I didn't. Because something in his darkness calls to mine. And now? I'm in deeper than I ever intended to fall.

Christian Trevelyan Grey.

"His World, His Rules." I didn't mean to walk into his world—I was just filling in for my roommate. One hour in a suit too big for me, pretending I belonged in an office like his. I thought I was interviewing a businessman. I didn't know I'd be standing in front of a man who looks like sin in a tailored suit... and talks like he owns the air I breathe. Christian Grey. Billionaire. Enigma. Control freak. He watches me like he's peeling me apart with his eyes. Like he already knows what I'll say before I speak. He doesn't smile. He doesn't flirt. He offers... a contract. No feelings. No romance. Just submission. Rules. Power. And I should've run. But I didn't. Because something in his darkness calls to mine. And now? I'm in deeper than I ever intended to fall.

Kate should be here. She's the one with the journalism degree, the perfect posture, the voice that somehow makes even tough questions sound like compliments. Not me. I'm just the backup dancer in heels I borrowed five minutes ago and a blazer that smells like stress.

But of course, she had to wake up this morning sounding like a dying Victorian heroine. "Please, just go. He'll cancel if we bail last minute..." Cue the guilt trip, the dramatic cough, and voilà—here I am, standing in the intimidatingly spotless lobby of Grey Enterprises Holdings, pretending I belong.

And let me tell you: I definitely do not.

This place screams power and money and... why does the air smell expensive?

I shuffle forward, gripping Kate's crumpled notepad like it's some kind of holy text. My reflection in the glass wall looks like I'm headed into a job interview I'm 200% underqualified for. Because I am.

Then the receptionist—who looks like she walked off a Vogue cover—barely glances up. "Mr. Grey is expecting you. Twentieth floor. Private elevator."

Private elevator. Because of course. Why walk among the peasants?

I step inside, and the doors whisper shut behind me. The ride is quiet, smooth, and just long enough for me to question every decision that brought me here.

And then—ding.

The doors slide open. And there he is.

Christian Grey. Tall. Clean-cut. Intense. Wearing a suit that probably costs more than my college tuition. And somehow, he manages to make direct eye contact feel like a personal challenge.

Fantastic. Let's go humiliate myself in 4K.

He takes a step closer.

"Miss...?"

I clear my throat and attempt to sound like a functioning adult.

"I'm filling in for Katherine Kavanagh."

I force a smile. It feels like I just lied to the IRS.

He doesn't return the smile. Of course he doesn't. He just studies me like I'm an item on a checklist he didn't order.

"You're not a journalist," he says.

Wow. Observant and charming.

"Nope," I reply. "Just your friendly neighborhood substitute with a notepad and a caffeine addiction."

There's a flicker of something behind his eyes—amusement? Or pity? Honestly, I've given up trying to tell.

He gestures toward his office. "Come in."

And just like that, I follow him in, mentally preparing for what's probably going to be the most awkward interview of my life.

Let's hope I make it out with my dignity intact. ...Or at least 60% of it.