Defying The Ruthless Billionaire Heir

"Look, I can't go any further. I'm sorry."

The Uber driver's voice cut through the heater's loud blowing. Johana Neal stared at the red glow of the taillights reflecting off the thick, untouched snow on the road ahead. The car was stuck, the tires spinning uselessly on the ice.

"You're kidding me," she said, her voice tight. "It's only half a mile."

"Half a mile up a hill, in a blizzard." He turned around, his face apologetic but firm. "I can't risk it, miss. I'll slide right into a ditch."

Johana looked at her phone. 3:45 PM. The interview was at four. She had spent three days prepping for this, researching the Black family, honing her pitch. Two hundred dollars an hour. That was rent. That was groceries. That was breathing room.

"Fine," she said, pulling out her wallet. She leaned forward and handed him a twenty. "Keep the change."

She stepped out into the storm. The wind hit her like a solid wall, shoving her back a step. Snow poured down the collar of her thin wool coat, melting instantly against her skin. She gasped, the cold stealing the air from her lungs.

She started walking. Her heels punched through the icy crust, sinking into the deep powder beneath. Every step was a battle. Her toes went numb in minutes, the cold climbing up her calves like a slow paralysis. She clutched her portfolio to her chest, shielding it from the wet flakes, and bent her head against the wind.

She slipped twice, her ankles twisting painfully on the hidden ice beneath the snow. By the time she saw the gates, her teeth were chattering so hard she thought they might crack.

The gates were massive. Black wrought iron, towering twice her height, spiked at the top like spears. They looked like they belonged to a prison, or a kingdom. Beyond them, set far back against the gray sky, was a house that made the word "mansion" seem inadequate. It was a fortress of gray stone and dark windows.

Johana walked up to the intercom box, her fingers trembling so badly she had to use both hands to press the button.

"Hello?" Her voice came out a croak. She cleared her throat. "This is Johana Neal. I have a four o'clock interview with Mrs. Black."

A buzz sounded, and the massive gates swung inward silently. She walked through, her eyes widening. The driveway was perfectly clear, swept clean by some invisible force, while the world outside was drowning in white.

She reached the front doors-ten feet tall, solid oak with iron studs. Before she could knock, the door pulled open.

A man stood there. He was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair slicked back perfectly. He wore a tailcoat. An actual tailcoat.

"Miss Neal," he said. His voice was crisp, British, and his eyes swept over her soaked coat and snow-caked hair without a change in expression. "Please, come in."

The warmth hit her like a drug. It wrapped