Eris walked out.
Not running—but fast. The kind of fast that pretends everything's fine when your lungs are screaming otherwise. Her fingers were ice. Sweat clung to the back of her neck.
One thought.
Loud.
Clear.
Danger.
The door was almost shut when she passed him—A brush. Barely a touch. The sleeve of his suit grazing the exposed skin just under her rolled-up sleeve.
Half a second.
But it landed.
Not like a spark. Not the poetic kind.
More like static from a live wire—small, sharp, and coded with one thing: you're not safe, but you're not running either.
She didn't look back.
Couldn't.
Wouldn't.
By the time she reached the Strategy office, it was no longer empty.
Clara was draped sideways on a chair like a contortionist, flailing her hands mid-story. Leon—Mr. Permanent Resting Bitch Face—was slouched, pretending not to care, but already halfway into the gossip.
Laurent was missing. Break outside, maybe. Or hiding from humanity in general.
Eris walked in like nothing happened. Normal pace. Normal face—She stopped. Right at Clara's desk.
A stack of glossy print-outs. Thick paper.
One photo sat on top. And it hit like a punch to the eyes.
She knew that image. Too well. Still imprinted in the back of her skull. "…Clara?" her voice barely made it out.
Clara turned. "Oh? You got one too?"
She grinned, like she'd just handed out cursed candy. "Crisis scenario. Internal simulation thing. They edited the photo, don't worry. It's supposed to be dramatic so we can visualize the chaos."
Eris nodded. Or fake-nodded, whatever the difference was. Her knees felt like wet paper. She sat.
Edited, she repeated in her head. Eyes still stuck on the photo. Still tracing the dark shadow pooling on the tile floor.
But the smell—That faint, iron sting still clinging to the inside of her nose—That wasn't edited.
And suddenly, the desk felt too small. The room too full. The air too damn thick.
Clara was still talking. Eris didn't hear a word. The only thing she heard was her own voice, quiet, mean, whispering inside her head:
If that's fake… why the hell did it make me want to throw up?
Eris sat down. Her hands moved on autopilot, opening the lunchbox she brought from home. Yeah. Home. A cheap apartment where the cold crawled into your bones at night, and the neighbors sounded like true crime podcast material. But she brought food. That was a fact.
Only… it felt like opening someone else's lunch. She couldn't even remember when she made it.
The plastic spoon just stirred the rice.
Her mind wasn't here. It was still in the meeting room upstairs. Still in that strange half-dark, half-projector glow. Still stuck on that slide—The corpse. Marble floor. The blood.
Not bright red. But dark. Real. Wet. And—
"—just one month left," Clara's voice sliced into Eris' brain like shattered glass.
Leon chimed in, lazy but sharp. "And he just vanished? Just like that?"
Eris hadn't caught the beginning.
Clara leaned on Leon's desk, her voice dipping to that perfect mix of whisper and gossip thrill. "No joke. Violette was engaged. Some guy from one of those old-money families. Like... almost Gravelle-tier."
Leon raised an eyebrow. "And the bastard disappeared right before the wedding?"
"Literally," Clara nodded. "One month before. Boom. Gone. No calls, no body, no trace."
Eris stopped chewing—Though honestly, her tongue hadn't registered any flavor at all.
Clara kept going. "Some people say... the guy met with Darian before it happened."
And that line—That name—It changed the air. Invisible. But unmistakable. Eris realized her left hand was gripping the spoon too tight.
Her eyes didn't meet Clara's, but her brain was already sprinting through the connections: Darian. Violette. Missing fiancé. The body in the photo.
And... that smile. The one that barely curved at the corner of his mouth. When he typed, "not our business," earlier.
Not your business, huh? Then whose business was it? Eris kept eating. Just so her stomach wouldn't riot. But she wasn't full.
Because the hunger she felt that day… Wasn't for food. It was a different kind of hunger. Hunger for truth. Or danger. And she wasn't sure which one she wanted to taste first.
"How about you, Eris?" Clara's voice cut through her thoughts like a butter knife—Except way too sharp to be harmless. "If someone left you a month before the wedding, what would you do?"
The spoon in Eris' hand stopped midair. A bit of rice still clung to the corner of her lips, half-chewed.
What would she do? The honest answer? I'd chase the bastard down to hell—with a brick in hand.
But she just gave a small smile. The kind she usually reserved for rookie negotiators trying to play smart. "Depends on the guy," she said softly, voice layered with a thousand possible meanings. Then she chewed. Finally.
Clara snorted, amused but confused. "You're funny, y'know. Never give a straight answer."
Leon smirked without turning, still fiddling with his mouse, typing like he was busy—But his ears were clearly doing all the work. "If a guy dumps a girl right before the wedding, he's a coward," he said. "But if he disappears without a trace? That's not a coward. That's a warning sign."
Clara scoffed. "More like a psycho alert."
Eris said nothing. Not because she had no opinion—But because her mind was flipping through another set of files:
—The corpse.
—The blood.
—The projector.
—That cold sentence at the doorway: You shouldn't be in here.
And—That brief touch on her arm. Her skin still remembered it. Like it hadn't worn off.
She picked up a piece of chicken. Not really hungry—But she needed her mouth to be busy with something.
Clara kept talking, voice trickling like water from a busted faucet in a cheap hotel bathroom.
They were loud. But inside Eris' head, it was silent. And the loudest voice wasn't anyone in the room. It was her own heart, whispering: Why do you want to know more?
The automatic door hissed open—that signature scrape of metal on metal, the too-eager whine of sensors trained to notice every damn breath.
Laurent stepped in like he owned the silence. Slow. Deliberate. Like time was a pet he kept on a leash.
Eris looked up. Instinct. And— Oh, hell.
No glasses.
Not a big deal, maybe. Unless you were Eris. Unless you were used to that thin, smug barrier of glass between his stare and the rest of the world. Now? Raw eye contact. No warning. No filter. It was like seeing a statue blink.
His eyes—sharp, shadowed, almost too damn focused—but there was something else. A flicker. Not cold, not calculating. Brighter. Like someone who'd just pulled off a heist. Or kissed a devil. Or maybe both.
Clara saw it too. Of course she did.
"Oooh, sir Delacroix," she sing-songed, way too bubbly for the corpse of a Monday afternoon. "Why do you look all—what, radiant? Did you just—"
"Eat someone's soul?" Leon, deadpan, didn't even look up. Click. Click. Click. His mouse was fighting for its life.
Laurent stopped. Midroom. Exhaled slow. Straightened his shoulders like he was adjusting an invisible crown.
Then he turned. Just enough. One eyebrow—up. Barely.
"Clara," he said. Flat tone. Dead calm. "If you could let your brain catch up before your mouth opens, I think the entire room would appreciate the mercy."
Clara rolled her eyes so hard they nearly hit the back of her skull. But she shut up. Leon snorted like a teenage boy who'd just discovered boobs existed.
Eris just watched. Then blinked. Then forced her gaze back to the screen—except her brain wasn't following orders. It was stuck.
Right there. On him. On those eyes, stripped of glass, unfiltered and too fucking clear. Like he could read the margins of your soul
while you pretended to care about a rice box that smelled like fridge and regret.
She hated it. Really, truly hated it. Not because he looked dangerous. He always did.
But because today? He looked like he'd enjoyed it. And for some goddamn reason—she wanted to know why.
6:00 p.m. sharp.
The end-of-day notification pinged like a choir of tiny angels. Too bad heaven wasn't for everyone. Half the office had ghosted ten minutes ago—Clara and Leon leading the exodus like it was some post-apocalyptic escape. Eris? Still chained to her desk like a loyal little corporate martyr.
She could've left with them. Could've laughed, waved, faked freedom. But no.
Real employees—the kind who got offered contracts, not "thank you for your time"—stayed five minutes longer. Cleaned up other people's mess. Pretended to give a shit.
It was all part of the show: Look at me. I'm dependable. Promote me, please. I bleed for this place.
Eris exhaled. Stood up, slow. Clara tossed a lazy wave from the hallway. Leon smirked over his shoulder.
"Don't work too hard, intern!"
She flashed a half-smile, hand in the air. Her brain? Don't worry, asshole. I work just hard enough not to die broke.
One stop before the elevator: the pantry. Her favorite herbal tea was still there. Miracle of the century.
Steam curled into her face, soft and warm. The scent hit her like something almost tender—a memory that didn't exist. Like what comfort should smell like, if the universe hadn't handed her a shit deal.
She cradled the cup. Let herself breathe. But halfway down the hallway on 47, her steps slowed.
The pantry door. Not closed all the way.
A sliver of warm light spilled into the corridor. Two shadows moved inside. One tall. One curved.
She didn't mean to get closer. Didn't plan to hold her breath. But curiosity was a drug, and Eris, She'd been an addict since birth.
One step. Then another. She peeked. And saw him.
Darian Gravelle.
Back to her—tall, clean lines, blazer discarded, tie loosened just enough to be criminal. One hand pressed to the counter.
The other… He wasn't alone.
Violette Rianne. Too close. Too poised. Her head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. Their mouths—Too near. Too fucking near.
No, no, no—Too late.
The kiss wasn't sweet. Wasn't gentle. It landed like a crash. Silent. Brutal. Desperate. Not about love. About power. About something they couldn't say out loud because it would ruin them both.
Violette's voice broke the moment. "You can't do this…" Soft. Cracked. Almost afraid. And Darian—Calm. Final. Cold. "I can."
Like he was signing a death warrant. Eris didn't flinch. Didn't cry. Didn't crumble into some melodramatic heartbreak montage.
No. She wasn't sixteen and this wasn't some Netflix romance. But still—That image? It seared. Stayed behind her eyelids like a burn. Quiet, ugly, and personal.
She stepped back.
Once.
Twice.
Her breath caught in her throat. Tea in her hand, now lukewarm and forgotten. What the actual fuck was that? She needed to leave.
Now.
Eris stepped back. Too fast.
Her heel clipped the ceramic planter like it had a personal grudge— Crash. Terracotta shattered, soil exploding in a sad, messy death. Leaves splayed like limbs. Goddamn murder scene.
Her breath caught mid-throat. From inside the pantry, muffled voices tangled—low, rushed. Male. Female. Darian. Violette. Shitshitshit.
They were moving. They'd be out any second. She turned, bolting on instinct—BAM.
Forehead slammed into something firm. Solid. Warm. And expensive. Aftershave. Satin. Broad chest. Oh, great. Her face was in a man's pecs. Because the universe hated her today.
She stumbled. Off-balance. Ready to hit the floor and add public humiliation to the list.
But two arms caught her. One steady at her back. The other—oh, hell no—right at her waist. Not suggestive. Not gentle. Just... there. Like he'd done this before. Like catching runaway interns was his Tuesday night hobby.
A deep voice murmured, low and unbothered. "You alright?"
Laurent.
Laurent fucking Delacroix. Here. Now. Holding her like some noir-film cliché. Why couldn't the earth just open up and eat her?
Eris froze, her brain buffering like a cursed loading screen. And he was still touching her.
His grip wasn't inappropriate—wasn't even warm, really. It was confident. Controlled.
Like he could've let go, but chose not to.
Awesome. Now she was starring in a discount romance drama. The Intern Who Fell Into Daddy's Chest. Kill her.
Laurent looked down at her, brows slightly knit, ice-blue eyes scanning her face. Like she was a puzzle. Like she was about to fall apart.
I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine—
She wasn't. She was shaking like a goddamn leaf, gripping her now-lukewarm tea cup like it could save her life.
And then—Footsteps. Two pairs. Sharp. Expensive.
They emerged from the pantry like nothing had happened. Darian. Violette trailing behind him.
Perfect. Polished. Composed. Not a hair out of place. Not a smirk to betray the mess behind that half-open door. Like Eris imagined the whole damn thing.
Her pulse jackhammered. Her legs screamed: RUN. Her pride hissed: No.
Violette's gaze flicked toward them—Correction: toward Laurent's hand still at Eris's waist.
And god. That look.
Silk-wrapped venom. No words, just that narrowed-eyed, surgically-precise judgment. Eris didn't flinch. She knew a territorial glare when she saw one. Knew how to return it too.
Laurent, sensing the temperature nosedive, eased his hand back like it never happened. Half-step retreat. Gentlemanly. Almost bored.
"Evening, Director. Miss Rianne." His voice polite. Flat. No warmth. Just enough weight on Miss to make it sting.
Darian smiled. Thin. Polished. Lethal. "Evening, Delacroix. Still working this late?"
Laurent's shrug was practiced indifference. "Just passing through." Violette said nothing. She didn't have to.
She and Eris locked eyes.
Just a second. But enough. Sharp. Measured. A wordless, female standoff.
Not jealousy. Not rivalry. Just two women who understood one thing: This wasn't coincidence.
Eris inhaled slow. Controlled. Didn't step back. Didn't blink.
And then—She smiled. Subtle. Sweet. Fake as hell. Bring it on, Barbie.
"…And that," Violette's voice sliced through the hallway like it had been sharpened in heaven and dipped in venom, "makes the third fallen pot this week. Due to someone's carelessness."
Eris didn't answer. Hell, she didn't even think yet. She was still frozen mid-crime, a smear of dirt clinging to the toe of her heel, a crumpled palm leaf flirting shamelessly with the back of her foot.
Even Laurent's breathing was louder than her dignity right now. And Violette—of course—wasn't finished.
"Were you... talking to the plant, Miss Moreau?" That smile—small, razor-edged, all gloss and lashes worth a paycheck—twitched at the corners of her mouth. "Or just auditioning for a detective role?"
Yeah, that wasn't a smile. That was a weapon disguised as lip gloss. Eris forced air into her lungs. Shaky, shallow. Not enough to steady anything.
Smile, dummy. Just a little. Not too much. Don't look guilty. Don't— Goddamn leaf, where the hell did it even come from?
"Oh, I was just looking for a quiet place to make some tea, Miss," she said lightly. Airy. Like nothing about this screamed caught red-handed. "Maybe the plant… didn't appreciate the intrusion."
Laurent blinked. Just once. Fast. Probably surprised she still had the balls to toss that line out.
Violette's eyes narrowed. Her gaze slid to Darian—still silent, still unreadable. A porcelain statue in a three-piece suit. But his eyes?
Shit.
His eyes were searching.
Like he already knew. Like he'd seen her. Heard her. Like she'd left a scent and he was tracking it.
Eris felt skinned. Not literally. But mentally? It was like being peeled open, layer by layer, under a microscope.
One pair of eyes dissecting her calm. The other? Setting her on fire. I need to get the hell out of here before my brain blue-screens in self-defense.
"Well then," Violette stepped forward, heels clicking like judgment day in slow motion, "next time, perhaps choose a quiet spot that doesn't destroy company décor. Vanguard Corp isn't a playground."
Okay, wow. Who pissed in your cereal this morning?
Eris gave a polite nod, fingers clenched tight around her now-lukewarm tea cup. "Noted."
Laurent finally stepped in, his voice smooth and firm—an exit cue wrapped in salvation. "I'll have maintenance clean this up. Miss Moreau, I assume you were just leaving?"
Bless you, you gorgeous bastard. "Yes, sir." She didn't wait for anyone to change their mind.
But then—of course—Darian spoke. Low. Calm. Too calm. "Miss Moreau." Her spine locked up.
No. No, no, no. Don't. Don't do this now.
He stepped beside Violette, slow and deliberate. "Next time you're curious… make sure you're ready for the answer."
And that? That was not a suggestion. Eris turned. Met those steel-gray eyes like a stupid moth to a nuclear flame.
Silence. Heat. Suffocation in a suit. She smiled. Thin. Hollow. "Noted, sir." Then walked.
One foot in front of the other, like she had control, like her heart wasn't throwing hands inside her chest.
She didn't notice her hand shaking until the elevator swallowed her up and the doors shut.
A splash of tea hit her wrist. She didn't flinch.
Didn't care.
She just stood there, breathing shallow, mind screaming in full caps: Great. Perfect. Add public humiliation to my unpaid internship perks. Kill me now. Or at least give me a damn do-over.
The elevator crawled downward like it hated her. Some lazy-ass jazz tune spilled from the ceiling speakers, mocking her with every damn note. All that was missing was a narrator whispering, "Eris Moreau has officially entered hell."
Clara stood beside her, giggling into her phone, thumbs moving fast, probably flirting with that imaginary boyfriend she swore didn't exist. Leon leaned slightly forward, casually fixing his hair in the elevator's mirrored panel like he was auditioning for a commercial.
And Eris? Eris felt like a software glitch—frozen mid-function, stuck with a lukewarm cup of tea in one hand and the cold, unfiltered truth clutched in the other.
Today was... something else.
It started normal enough. Violette showed up looking like she was about to fire someone just for breathing wrong. Standard villain-in-heels behavior. Annoying, but manageable.
Then a corpse dropped.
Yes, a goddamn corpse.
Who the hell programs a dead body into a corporate simulation?
And Clara—sweet, chirpy, dead-inside Clara—had the audacity to call it a drill.
A drill, Clara? Your head needs a drill.
Eris glanced at her, still texting, still smiling. Definitely not someone who just watched a body collapse like a rag doll on marble. Either that girl was unshakable, or completely unhinged. Fifty-fifty.
Then came Laurent. Laurent, with that post-lunch glow and that smug little smile that wasn't work-appropriate. That man looked like he just got laid. Or fed. Or both.
And the kicker?
Violette. And Darian. And that damn kiss in the pantry that was now seared into the inside of Eris's eyelids like some cursed afterimage.
She couldn't unsee it. Couldn't unhear it either.
"You can't do this."
"I can."
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
Darian Gravelle. Mister Tall-Dark-Silent. The CEO. The power-walking enigma wrapped in a three-piece suit. Kissing Violette Rianne—the woman who could verbally murder someone without raising her voice. The same woman whose fiancé went poof two years ago. The same woman who had hated Eris on sight for reasons that now made perfect, horrible sense.
Eris could feel her brain having a small, elegant meltdown.
Too much. Too fast. Too goddamn messy. I didn't sign up for this murder-mystery deluxe edition shit. I'm just a broke intern who wants a stable paycheck and maybe—just maybe—an apartment that doesn't leak every time it rains.
Leon's voice pulled her back. "You good, Moreau?"
Eris flashed a smile so fast it probably gave him whiplash. "Yep. Peachy." Clara chimed in without looking up. "You look like you saw a ghost."
Girl... if only you knew.
"Just a little overwhelmed," Eris said, her tone deceptively even. Flat as glass before a storm.
Leon chuckled. "Welcome to Vanguard."
The elevator gave a soft ding, doors sliding open to a lobby lit like it was designed to blind people with money. They stepped out one by one, shoes tapping the polished floor. Eris moved, but her mind didn't follow.
Still stuck in the pantry. Still hearing that voice. Still tasting the iron bite of panic. She took a deep breath. Real deep.
Okay, Eris. Pull your shit together. You worked your ass off to get here. You want money. You want control. You want out of the chaos.
But… Maybe, just maybe, a little piece of her wanted something else too. Wanted to know what the hell was really going on beneath all this glass and gold.
And maybe—God help her—wanted to know exactly what Darian Gravelle was hiding behind those unreadable grey eyes.