His Virgin Accountant

Chapter 1: The Tower of Temptation

I stood at the base of the glass skyscraper, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs. The building loomed over downtown New York, its mirrored surface reflecting the chaos of the city—and my own nervous face. At twenty-two, fresh out of college with a degree in accounting and a mountain of student debt, I needed this job like I needed air. The ad had been cryptic: Personal Accountant for High-Profile Executive. Discretion required. Generous compensation. The salary listed had nearly made me choke on my instant ramen—enough to clear my loans in a year. So here I was, Lily Thompson, smoothing my thrift-store pencil skirt and clutching my resume like a shield, ready to storm the castle.

The lobby was a cathedral of marble and chrome, all sharp edges and cold opulence. My flats clicked too loudly on the polished floor as a stern-faced man in a black suit met me at the elevator. He didn’t introduce himself, just scanned me with eyes like security cameras and pressed the button for the penthouse. The ride up felt like an eternity, the numbers climbing past fifty, sixty, seventy. My stomach twisted. What kind of executive needed an accountant in a penthouse?

The doors slid open, revealing a hallway lined with abstract art and a faint scent of leather and cedar. The man led me to a massive oak door, pushed it open, and gestured me inside. “Mr. Moretti is waiting,” he said, his voice flat, before vanishing.

I stepped into an office that screamed power. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering Manhattan skyline, and a desk the size of a small car dominated the room. Behind it sat Dante Moretti, the billionaire CEO of Moretti Enterprises. I’d googled him last night—thirty-four, Italian, ruthlessly successful, with whispers of shady dealings I’d dismissed as tabloid trash. But seeing him in person? My breath caught. He was devastatingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones, dark hair swept back, and green eyes that pinned me like a butterfly to a board. His black suit fit him like a second skin, and a faint scar on his left cheek only made him more magnetic.

“Miss Thompson,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. He didn’t stand, just leaned back in his leather chair, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Sit. Tell me why I should hire you.”

I swallowed, my throat dry as I perched on the edge of the chair, my resume crinkling in my sweaty hands. “Mr. Moretti, I graduated top of my class at NYU with a degree in accounting. I interned at a small firm in Brooklyn, where I managed client portfolios and caught a $50,000 discrepancy in—”

“Why accounting?” he interrupted, his gaze never leaving mine. It was unnerving, like he could see every secret I’d ever buried. “You’re young. You could’ve picked anything. Why numbers?”

I blinked, thrown off. “I... I like puzzles,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Numbers don’t lie. They’re honest, even when people aren’t. I’m good at finding the truth in them.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, and I felt heat creep up my neck. Why did that smile feel like a test I was failing? “Honest,” he repeated, rolling the word like he was tasting it. “That’s rare. And dangerous, in my world.”

I frowned, unsure what he meant. “I’m also meticulous,” I pressed on, desperate to regain control. “I triple-check everything. During my internship, I streamlined their tax filing process, saving clients an average of—”

“You’re hired,” he cut in, leaning forward. His eyes glinted, sharp and predatory. “Start tomorrow. 8 a.m. sharp.”