Just finished my nightly ritual: wiped off my makeup, washed my face, slapped on that two-step skincare routine—because three steps? Too damn expensive—and made myself a cup of my favorite teabag that's already been reused three times. The water's not even hot anymore. Whatever. I'm still parked on my creaky-ass sofa that whines every time I shift my butt even an inch.
One of the ceiling lights is flickering again. Loose fitting. Still haven't bought a new one. The air smells like old wood, dust, and over-steeped tea. Cozy? Not even close. But it's home. And home is... cheap. So yeah. I'll take it.
I hug a small cushion to my chest, staring out my window. Fifth floor. The breathtaking view of—drumroll, please—a cement wall.
Romantic as hell. Crisis simulation, they said. Clara: "Just a drill." My gut? Bull. Shit.
I didn't get a full view of the "corpse," sure. But people's faces? Too real. Too tight. Like they weren't faking a damn thing. And then—guess who got the VIP pass to handle that cute little murder scenario with the strategy team?
Ding ding ding. Clara.
Now don't get me wrong. Okay, maybe I'm... 15% jealous. But this isn't just jealousy. It's pattern recognition.
Because somehow, out of everyone on our team, only she gets access to that simulation? Clara. The girl with a conspiracy-theory TikTok account and a portfolio clean enough to make senior execs nod like bobbleheads?
Okay. Sure. She's smart.
I'll give her that.
But something doesn't add up.
I'm strategy team too. I was in that room. I'm qualified. I'm not some intern you forget about two seconds after the coffee run. I'm sweet when I need to be, sharp when it matters, and a total pain in the ass when I feel like it.
But that day? No invite. No whisper. Not even a "hey, standby just in case."
And Clara? Giggling in the corner, looking like she just solved world peace and found a new lipstick shade.
"Oh, I think I was just randomly picked, Eris. Luck, maybe?"
Random pick, my ass.
Nothing in big companies is ever random. If there's no access? It means they don't want you to see something.
I tilt my head back against the couch. Eyes unfocused. My tea's ice-cold now, but I sip it anyway. It's bitter. Comforting. Honest.
Tomorrow, I dig. Not just about the simulation. About everything. Darian. Violette. Clara. Laurent.
Something's off. Something's rotten. And if I don't move fast, I'll be a pawn in this game. Not a player.
And Eris Moreau? Was not born to be anyone's pawn. I worked way too fucking hard for that.
My phone buzzed with a new email notification—loud and awkward, like stale popcorn popping in an empty pan.
I reached for it without looking, still shoveling the last spoonful of last night's cereal into my mouth. Yep. Dinner of champions.
[From: CorporateStrategy@vanguardcorp.com]
Subject: Internal Presentation – Attendance Required
Oof. Formal as hell. White background. Black font. Bold. The kind of email that feels like getting a traffic ticket at 2 a.m.
"All members of the Corporate Strategy Team are required to attend an internal presentation by one of the Directors. Please adhere to professional dress code.
Time: 09:00 AM.
Location: Main Briefing Room, 50th Floor."
Wait—50th floor? I glanced at my calendar. Tuesday. Not Friday. Not some end-of-week ritual. No label like "weekly update" or "routine check-in."
And "one of the Directors"? No name? Why the secrecy?
I checked the internal group chat. No one's panicking yet. Clara just sent a sticker with a little waving hand and typed, "Noted, sir." Leon dropped a fire emoji. Classic. The rest? Ghost town.
Fine. I guess I'll sit through it like the unpaid intern I am. Find a seat near the edge, wear my best "I totally get this complex chart" face, and nod like a well-trained golden retriever while someone explains a graph that looks like a neutron star explosion.
Great.
I dumped the leftover cereal milk down the sink and stared at my closet like it owed me money. I needed something that screamed professional, but not try-hard. You know. That sweet, elusive middle ground between "I'm competent" and "I'm not a threat."
Because if there's one thing I've learned in this office, it's: don't shine too bright.
The moment you do, people start asking how someone like you got here. And I'm not ready to answer that. Not yet. Not to anyone.
I glanced back at my phone. Director. 50th floor. I could just sit there tomorrow, play nice, blend in. But I know this isn't just some ordinary meeting.
And if I want answers—about why Clara was the only one allowed into that "crisis simulation"—this might be where the truth starts to unravel.
Tomorrow.
And I'll be there. Even if I'm sitting in the back row, nodding like some background character going eheheh.
Don't be fooled.
I'll be watching everything. Every tone shift, every side glance, every suspicious pause between slides.
If there's a crack in the story? I'll see it. And if there's a lie? I'll know.
⇾ 𝖓𝖔 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖑𝖘. 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞. ⇽
The air on the 50th floor didn't just hum with tension—it reeked of it. Cold, over-filtered AC scented with overpriced artificial florals, like a luxury hotel trying too hard to impress. The wooden panels gleamed too perfectly, polished within an inch of their overpriced lives. Every embedded light cast reflections off designer heels and aggressively shined loafers pacing the room like sharks in suits.
This wasn't a meeting. It was a production. And someone was about to be fed to the lions.
Eris sat in the back row, the sacred land of interns and other expendables. Safe. Strategic. Her smile was polite—just sharp enough to be charming, just dull enough to not be memorable. Eyes flicked across the room, scanning. Counting. Measuring. Comparing.
Clara's seat?
Empty.
Not just empty—untouched. No bag, no coffee, not even that hideous pink pen she always brought like a lucky charm. Just blank chair and questions.
And last night? Clara's only message to the team group chat: "Noted, sir." That was it. Noted, like she was RSVP-ing to her own damn disappearance.
"Team, we'll begin in two minutes," one of the senior staff announced smoothly. "Director Emsworth will arrive on time."
Eris had planned to sit through the whole thing like human wallpaper—nod, smile, exist quietly. A very professional ghost.
But no. The universe had jokes today. "Eris Moreau, could you come to the front?" The voice came from manager. Calm. Direct. Absolutely not a question.
Heads turned. All of them.
Oh.
Hell.
No.
Her body stood up before her brain could argue. Reflex. Intern survival instincts. But her mind? Full-blown riot.
Clara? Where the f—where did you even go? This is your gig, not mine. I'm the intern. I don't even know if I'm technically allowed to breathe on the 50th floor without a supervisor.
Her heels clicked against the marble like they had something to prove. A walk of shame, minus the bad decisions but with all the anxiety.
Slide one: market impact chart.
Slide two: strategic forecast.
Slide three: competitor analysis.
Eris stood center stage, remote clenched in her hand like a weapon. Smile: on. Heart rate: illegal.
"Good morning," she said, her voice miraculously steady—thank you, trauma-response mode.
On the outside? Composed. On the inside?
Clara, you stupid coward. You owe me bubble tea, a new concealer, and possibly a new identity. This isn't a basic team update. This is high-stakes strategy. Crisis simulation. There's a real director here, not one of those fake execs who spend more time taking selfies in the lift than making decisions.
Director Emsworth sat forward, hands folded, face unreadable. The kind of man who could nod while planning your termination. Sharp gaze. No smile. No blink.
Eris adjusted her breath, riding the edge of panic and performance. She spoke through the slides—barely enough notes, barely enough prep, and somehow… she didn't completely drown.
Improvised. Adapted. Survived. Not perfect. Not even close. But enough to make them think: "She knows what she's doing."
They didn't need to know her brain was on fire and Clara was being mentally strangled with a spare HDMI cable.
Q&A started. No Clara. Eris kept glancing at the door, half-expecting her to waltz in with an apologetic grin and a peace offering of overpriced donuts.
Nope.
Nada.
Clara had ghosted her own presentation. And then—of course—Director Emsworth stood, gave her one last look, and said: "Interesting. Continue."
No smile. No nod. No damn clue what that meant. His shoes echoed across the marble floor as he walked out, leaving silence in his wake like it was policy.
Eris stayed frozen at the front, the remote still clutched in her hand, the screen dimming behind her.
Cold sweat on her spine. Smile cracking at the edges. Clara, if you're not dead… I swear to God, I will kill you myself.
If there was an award for Best Performance While Internally Screaming and Betrayed by a Cowardly Bitch, Eris would be holding the trophy right now—then chucking it at Clara's forehead with industrial-grade glue.
Her brain was still a blender of panic, rage, and bullet-point trauma. But her face?
Impeccable.
Calm, composed, not even a crack. The polite smile she just gave her manager? Straight out of a PR textbook. She looked like the kind of rising young professional who absolutely did not fantasize about setting the building on fire and watching it burn from the rooftop bar with a glass of overpriced wine.
She sank back into her seat, slow and controlled. Her breaths stayed shallow. Knees still trembled just slightly under the table—but hell if she was gonna let anyone see that.
Then—Something shifted. Something cold. Something watching. Her stomach dropped like it had been kicked off a ledge.
From across the room, a gaze sliced through the air—clean, quiet, precise.
He sat reclined in that sleek black chair like he owned not just the furniture, but gravity itself. One leg crossed over the other, hands resting, unmoving. Not a single twitch. Not a word. Just… him.
Darian Gravelle.
Oh fuck.
Eris flicked her head around like she just noticed him, all innocent and intern-cute, but her insides were short-circuiting. He never came to intern briefings. Never.
What the hell was he doing here now? Why the hell was he sitting like a damn exhibit in the corner, watching her like she was some lab rat that might explode at any second?
Her heart picked up speed—too fast, too loud—but she sat tall, adjusted her spine like a goddamn soldier. Tilted her head just a little. Tossed him a small smile.
Professional mode: activated. Internal monologue: screaming. Okay. Chill. Don't freak out. Maybe he's just bored. Maybe he wandered in. Maybe—
Their eyes locked. And just like that, oxygen turned into smoke. His gaze wasn't looking. It was stripping. Dissecting.
Like he'd just watched her entire presentation and mentally filed every half-truth and patch-job under "Intern Tries Not to Drown."
Her skin prickled.
No way this isn't a setup. Clara ghosted, slides unfinished, and now daddy Gravelle makes a surprise cameo? This smells like a goddamn trap.
She wanted to glance around the room. Search for a blinking red light. Hidden camera? Boom mic? Was this some underground reality show where interns got emotionally waterboarded for views?
But everyone else looked normal. Chill. Typing on tablets, scribbling notes, sipping overpriced coffee like the building wasn't laced with quiet doom.
Except him.
Too relaxed. Too still. Like a lion sunbathing—full belly, but still ready to bite just because he can.
And then… he smiled.
Not friendly.
Not smug.
Something worse.
A "You missed something, sweetheart" smile.
And that? That was lethal.
Eris whipped her head back to the desk, suddenly fascinated by the alignment of her pen and notepad. Rearranged it twice. Maybe three times.
Okay, breathe. It's just a briefing. Not an ambush. Not an interrogation. Not the damn end of the world. Unless it is. In which case—She'd like a heads-up next time so she could at least wear lipstick.
Still, the worst part? Some messed-up part of her… liked it. Hated it. But liked it. Whatever game this was turning into? She was already playing. And losing with style.
The meeting room emptied like a slow drain—heels clicking, murmurs fading, chairs creaking one last time before silence settled in. One by one, the staff trickled out. Some with relieved sighs, others with fake laughs and a pep in their step, like they hadn't just sat through a corporate Hunger Games at 9 a.m.
Eris packed up her things.
Slowly. Neatly. Too neatly.
Slide files tucked away, laser pointer off, laptop clicked shut with more care than necessary. Her hands stayed busy—busy looked calm. Busy looked like she had her shit together.
Her mind? Still a damn mess. But hey—She didn't trip. Didn't stutter. Didn't cry. And most importantly, she didn't give them anything to laugh about later over overpriced lattes.
That counted as a win, right?
Across the room, Darian still lingered.
Of course he did.
He stood in quiet conversation with one of the senior directors—a silver-haired man in a light gray suit that practically reeked of "old money and older opinions." His cologne could stun a horse. Big title. Bigger ego.
Beside him, Violette held a clipboard like it was a weapon. The kind of assistant who didn't blink and remembered everything. Like, what kind of coffee you ordered last week everything.
The director's secretary stood nearby too, all gloss and red lipstick—way too bold for before noon. Power move? Probably.
Eris adjusted her blazer, dipped her head with just the right amount of respect, and aimed to walk past.
Goal: Escape. Return to her desk. Survive the rest of the day. Eat instant noodles. Swear about Clara. Sleep like the dead.
Simple. But fate? Always had a flair for the dramatic. "Excuse me, Miss?"
She froze mid-step. That voice—low, smooth, but sharp around the edges. Like silk with teeth.
She turned. Quick, polite.
"Yes, sir?"
The director took a half step closer. Smiling. Friendly enough, but she didn't buy it. "And your name is...?"
Her chin lifted a fraction. Just enough to reclaim ground. "Eris Moreau, sir." He nodded slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue. "Intern, yes?"
"Yes, sir. Under Corporate Strategy."
His smile widened, and something in his eyes shifted—interest? Amusement? Calculation?
"I have a feeling," he said, "you're not just an intern."
Oh, hell.
Behind him, Darian said nothing. But she could feel his gaze—cool, still, dragging down her spine like a scalpel dipped in frost. Watching. Judging. Undressing her story, one clean lie at a time.
The director kept talking.
"Do you have prior experience in this field?"
Experience? Oh, let's see. Does dodging debt collectors and calculating how many instant noodles one can live off per week count?
She bit back the sarcasm. Smiled just right.
"Not formally, sir. But I've learned a lot through my environment and personal study."
Each word walked a tightrope. Not too honest. Not too fake. Sharp enough to say: I know more than you expect.
"Interesting." He glanced at Darian. Just a flicker. A split-second.
But Eris felt it.
Like a door opening behind her. Like something was being discussed and she wasn't even in the room anymore, just… a candidate.
"For now," the director said, "keep it up, Miss Moreau." She gave a nod. Small. Controlled. "Thank you, sir."
And then she walked.
Her steps quiet. Shoulders straight. The kind of exit you rehearse in your head but never actually expect to pull off.
But inside?
Holy shit. Whoever said today was going to be a disaster? Wrong. Or—Not yet. Just give it time.
The coffee better be worth it. That was Eris's only justification for going one floor higher than necessary. Executive level. Close to floor fifty—the so-called "god tier" according to interns with too much time and too little caffeine.
Their pantry? Bigger. Sleeker. Smelled like money and secrets. Also? Intimidating as hell. But she was already at the door. One step from crossing into Olympus when—
"Eris?"
She froze. Soft voice. Clear, but laced with hesitation. Like he didn't mean to say her name out loud but—oops—too late.
She turned, slow but smooth.
A guy stood a few feet away. Tall-ish. Brown hair neat enough to look expensive, like chocolate mousse that came with gold flakes on top. Light gray tie. Name tag: Nathaniel Whitmore. Strategy division. Analytics team.
Pretty sure he sat two rows ahead of her during this morning's presentation.
"Oh." She smiled—polished, default setting. "Hello, sir Whitmore."
Safe. Formal. Noncommittal.
But he instantly waved both hands like he'd set off an alarm. "Oh—no 'sir'! Hah—just Nathaniel is fine." He laughed—nervous, awkward, adorably doomed. One hand went into his pocket, then out again, like it couldn't decide where to hide.
Eris nearly smirked. Held it in. Barely.
"Alright. Nathaniel," she repeated, voice smooth as poured syrup, casual enough to pass for friendly.
He flushed. Like... actually flushed. Oh wow. His cheeks went red like he'd never been called by his name before by a girl in heels.
"Um, the presentation earlier was... really cool," he said, gaze flicking from her face to the floor like there was a trapdoor waiting to open. "I thought you'd be nervous, but—turns out you were super composed. Like, seriously. Impressive."
She blinked. Okay? Sweet. Unexpectedly so. Still weirdly flattering.
Eris tilted her head a little, like she was tuning into a frequency only she could hear. "Wow. Thanks. Honestly, my brain felt like a microwave... about to explode."
She laughed softly, the kind that sounded chill but came with a mental eye roll. Why does this man look like a kitten that just got rained on?
Nathaniel chuckled too. Then immediately straightened his tie. Which didn't need fixing. Of course. "Yeah—ha... no, for real, you were great."
A beat. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes not quite meeting hers.
"And if you ever need access to data or wanna talk scoring systems, like... I'm around. Usually late, too."
Oh? So this was... an offer? A work thing? Or the beginning of a thing thing?
Eris smiled again. Sweet, yes—but the kind that came with mental tabs and subtext analysis.
"I'll remember that," she said gently. "Thanks, Nathaniel."
He beamed. Practically sparkled. Then nodded like he'd just nailed a job interview and backed away with the caution of someone who didn't trust his own feet.
"Y-yeah! Alright—I'll, uh, let you enjoy the coffee!" She stepped into the pantry.
Door closed behind her with a soft hiss. And the second it did, her lips curled into a grin.
Nathaniel. Golden retriever energy in a lion's den. Adorable. Doomed. Way too clean for this world.
She poured herself a cup from the fancy machine that probably cost more than her apartment deposit. Sat by the window, one leg crossed over the other, bar stool slightly too tall for comfort. First sip: hazelnut, bitter on the edges. Warm on her tongue.
She exhaled. But her thoughts didn't chill. Clara. Darian. That director with the too-white teeth. And now... Nathaniel.
Yeah. The day wasn't done messing with her. Not even close.
Executive lounge.
Cool air. Polished silence. Expensive surfaces that didn't need to brag.
Eris let the moment settle into her bones. One heel hooked lazily on the stool's footrest, coffee warm in her grip. Her breath, finally—finally—had rhythm. Not calm, exactly, but manageable.
Then the door opened. Soft. Controlled. Not staff. Not the type who'd apologize for interrupting. She barely turned. Just enough to catch the movement.
And it hit her like a switch flipped in her spine—shoulders straightening before her brain could weigh in.
Darian.
The man didn't walk in. He shifted the atmosphere. Like the AC dialed two degrees colder without warning.
No Violette.
No entourage.
No sound of expensive heels.
Just him. Alone.
He moved like a whisper. No wasted steps. Blazer slung over his forearm, sleeves of his black shirt rolled sharp to the elbows. The muscles, the vein…
Casual, if you didn't know better.
Calculated, if you'd paid any attention at all.
He reached the machine. Fingers—elegant, deliberate—picked a cup. Scrolled through the beans like he had a stock portfolio in there. Poured. Watched it.
Quiet. Focused. Too focused. Weird. Violette usually handled this crap. Then, without looking—"You memorized the figures. Impressive. But unnecessary."
Flat tone. Smooth as glass, cold as it too. Not praise. Not critique. Clinical, like a surgeon reading vitals before cutting deep.
Eris didn't rush. She took another sip, slow. Let the bitter ride her tongue a second too long.
Unnecessary, huh?
She shifted her cup. Tilted her head. Let her lips pull into that half-smile—the kind that people called charming until it cut.
"Unnecessary is how I stay alive," she murmured. Light words. Easy tone. But her eyes didn't joke.
And that got him. He turned. Their gazes locked. Gray met amber. Ice and fire. And for one insane second, neither looked away.
No explosion. No thunderclap. Just friction. Like two flints striking—Not quite fire, but damn close. Then, silence. Heavy. Charged. Every breath too loud.
He moved. Toward her. Slow steps. Precise. Predatory in that quiet, elegant way.
And then—
He took her cup. Just—grabbed it. Like it was always his. No warning. No question.
"Too bitter."
He poured it out. Picked another blend. Floral this time. Subtle. A hint of warmth curled into the air.
Still black. Still strong. But not a punch to the throat. He held it out to her.
"Try this one."
It wasn't a suggestion. Wasn't a command, either. It was a leash. Silk-wrapped, almost polite. But a leash.
And she...
didn't fight it.
Her fingers brushed his as she took the cup.
Accidentally. Probably.
She drank. Watched him over the rim. Studied the line of his jaw, the way his gaze never dropped, never apologized.
The taste lingered. Softer. Dangerous in a different way. "Better," she said under her breath.
He gave a small nod. Blink-and-you-miss-it approval. Then turned. Left.
No comment. No backward glance. Just gone. Eris stared at the door a beat too long. Swore under her breath.
What the hell was that? Flirting? Threat? A twisted hybrid of both?
She sipped again. The new coffee kissed her tongue like it knew secrets.
Yup.
It had a name.
And that name was Darian fucking Gravelle.