The Billionaire's Undercover Heiress

Chapter 7: The Terms of Engagement

Sterling’s promise to “collect” coiled in the silent, candlelit space. The arrogance of it, the sheer certainty, stoked the fire in my belly. He thought this was his game now. He had no idea he’d been playing it—and losing—since the day I walked into his lobby.

The waiter returned, his presence a temporary ceasefire. He placed our appetizers on the table—seared scallops for me, a minimalist tuna tartare for him. The food was art, but my appetite had vanished, replaced by a thrumming, high-voltage alertness.

“So,” Sterling began, surgically dissecting a piece of tuna. “This ‘experiment’ of yours. What’s the end goal? To prove I’m capable of being annoyed? I assure you, you’ve succeeded.”

I ignored the bait. He was looking for a corporate rival playing mind games. He wasn't yet looking for the daughter of a man he had destroyed. My identity was still safe.

“The goal is to see what happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “You’re the object, Mr. Prescott. Immovable in your routines, your control, your certainty.”

“And you’re the unstoppable force?” The corner of his mouth twitched.

“My methods are,” I conceded. “A cupcake. A misplaced file. A ‘gut feeling’. Small, chaotic ripples. I’m curious what kind of tidal wave they create in an environment as rigid as yours.”

It was a brilliant lie because it was ninety percent true. I was creating chaos. I just omitted the real reason.

He took a slow, deliberate bite, his eyes never leaving mine. He was trying to find the logic in my supposed illogic.

“You’re from a small town in Oregon, Miss Davis,” he stated, dropping the fact into the conversation like a stone. “Public university. A 3.4 GPA. A series of unremarkable administrative jobs. Nothing in your file suggests you have the capacity, let alone the nerve, for this.”

My heart hammered. His investigation had begun.

I forced a laugh, light and airy. Pure Blair Davis. “And that’s what makes it fun, don’t you think? You see a nobody, you expect quiet gratitude. You don’t expect me to… poke back.” I leaned forward. “Let me give you some free advice, Mr. Prescott. Never underestimate a nobody. We have nothing to lose.”

His amusement faded. “Everyone has something to lose.”

The main course arrived, and we ate in a tense, charged silence. He was reassessing. I was preparing.

“What does Davenport Innovations have to in this?” he asked. His voice was casual, but the question was a sniper’s bullet.

I nearly choked. My fork stilled. Davenport. My name. The name of the company he’d driven into the ground, whose fall had led to my father’s heart attack. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. How?

“I’m sorry?” I managed. “Davenport Innovations? The tech company that went under? What about them?”

“My team is running a background check,” he said, his focus unnerving. “Standard procedure. We searched your name in our archives. An alert popped up. Six months ago, someone using a library computer on the Upper West Side ran a deep dive on me, my board, and the Schmitt merger. In the same session, they spent three hours researching the collapse of Davenport Innovations.” He paused. “The library’s security footage was corrupted. The digital trail remained. Coincidence?”

It was me. A stupid, careless mistake. I thought the public terminal was anonymous. I was caught. Not my identity, but my obsession. He knew where my interest lay.

My mind raced. A lie wouldn’t work. He’d see through it. So I chose the most dangerous path: the truth, wrapped in a lie.

“Not a coincidence,” I said, my voice quiet but firm. “A case study.”

“A case study,” he repeated, his expression unreadable.

“Yes. Before applying here, I wanted to understand you. Not just your successes, but your methods. The Davenport collapse is a masterclass in predatory acquisition. How you leveraged their debt, seeded negative press, and shorted their stock into oblivion. It was ruthless. Brilliant.” I met his gaze, my expression a mix of feigned academic admiration and something darker. "I wasn't just studying my future boss. I was studying the best predator in the jungle."

I had reframed his discovery as a compliment—a chilling one. I was no longer a random agent of chaos; I was a student of his particular brand of cruelty. He stared, the gears turning in his head. He was looking at me now not just as an adversary, but as a twisted reflection of himself.

“You admit, then,” he said, his voice low and intense, “that you came here under pretenses. That your entire persona is an act.”

“My methods are unconventional,” I said carefully. “But my desire to work for the best is genuine.”

“Is it?” He pushed his plate aside, his meal forgotten, his entire focus on me. “I’ll make you a deal, Miss Davis. Or whoever you are. You want to play? Fine. We play by my rules. You will continue to be my assistant. You will do your job perfectly. No more cupcakes. No more ‘mistakes’.”

“And in return?” I asked, my heart pounding.

“In return,” he said, his eyes glinting, “I won’t fire you. I will keep you right where I can see you. I will give you a front-row seat to the very power you claim to admire. And I will wait for you to make one real mistake. One slip that tells me exactly who you are.”

It was a declaration of war disguised as a job offer.

It was everything I wanted.

“And when you find out?” I whispered.

His lips curved into that cold, predatory smile. “I told you,” he said softly. “I will collect.”