The proposal sat in Neville's encrypted folder like a loaded weapon—polished, perfected, and ready to fire. He had finished it a few days ago, but that hadn't stopped him from reviewing it obsessively every night since, while waiting for the official announcement.
Fifteen minutes, his light brain confirmed for the fifth time in as many minutes. He forced his hand away from the device.
The corridor stretched before him, polished floors reflecting the afternoon light streaming through the panoramic windows. As he rounded the corner toward the atrium, there—surrounded by a familiar cluster of people—was Ethan Goelet.
Neville's steps slowed down. Around Ethan was the same omega trio that had cornered him in the bathroom before, yet Ethan appeared completely at ease, all smiles and smooth charm, as though nothing had ever happened.
A thought struck him, sharp and unwelcome. When was the last time Ethan had shoved those sickeningly sweet electrolyte drinks at me?
Neville's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Ethan anywhere in their department lately. Not in the break room, not in the cafeterias, not even in morning briefings. When was it? Right around the time he'd moved his desk next to Iris?
Strange, he thought. It's like he just—
"—Evaporated," Neville murmured under his breath, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.
Enemies who vanished were often the most dangerous; at least the ones you could see gave you a direction to dodge.
He pushed the thought aside as he stepped into the atrium—and immediately stopped short, lips parting.
"...Are they launching a new starship or announcing a proposal competition?" His tone was dry, skeptical, and edged with disbelief.
The West Wing Atrium had been transformed into something out of a high-budget variety show set. Holograms rippled across the ceiling, creating an underwater illusion. A full stage gleamed at the far end, armed with high-tech lighting rigs and smoke machines that hissed periodically.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished beings of the universe! Welcome to Maxwell Corporation's most spectacular event!" boomed a voice, rolling like thunder through the vast space. "I'm your host, MJ Clarkson!"
As MJ launched into a comedic routine about starship navigation gone wrong, Neville lifted a brow, deadpan.
Is this the norm, or did I stumble into the wrong place?
"Surprised?"
Neville nearly started at Iris's sudden voice beside him, though he covered it with a small, deliberate shrug.
"Kind of," he replied, his tone flat but laced with irony—as if "kind of" was an understatement he could think of as a reply while a troupe of dancers painted light trails across the stage for the 'opening number
The lead singer, all violet hair and impossible physics, was belting out a corporate anthem that turned words like synergy and innovation into declarations of intergalactic war.
Neville's mouth twitched; he honestly couldn't tell whether he should clap or call security.
"This is actually toned down from last year," Iris commented, her expression perfectly deadpan as she watched the show. "They had live animals."
Neville turned to look at her, blue eyes searching for even a flicker of humor. He found none. Her expression was utterly serious.
"You're serious," he said, quiet but laced with disbelief, his voice catching slightly on the last word.
Before he could process the horror of 'live animals,' the lights dimmed dramatically. MJ's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper that still carried to every corner of the hall.
"And now… please welcome our special guest—the incomparable, our goddess, the one and only… Lily G!"
A vision in shimmering silk glided onto the stage, and Neville's breath caught before he could stop himself. His eyes widened behind his lenses as the woman came into focus—delicate features, porcelain skin, a willowy frame that commanded the spotlight without effort.
"…Huh," he breathed, the sound escaping before he realized it.
She moved with the practiced elegance of someone born to be watched. Golden hair spilled over her shoulders; a green dress clung to her tall, statuesque figure. But it was her face that struck hardest—her lips curved in a knowing smile, and her eyes that looked like they had stolen their light from distant galaxies.
"Your type?" Iris asked quietly beside him, one brow arched.
Neville blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. His mind betrayed him with a flash of silver eyes—cold enough to freeze, hot enough to scorch. A mouth that never bothered with words when a flick of long fingers could silence a room. That dangerous face, far too close in memory—
No. Stop. Don't go there. Neville gave his head a sharp, almost violent shake, trying to put the thought out of his head.
"Not exactly," he said, voice low, almost rough. Then, softer, with a reluctant smile: "But she is… stunning."
"Of course she is!" a bright, bubbly voice chimed in from behind them.
Neville turned, and nearly stumbled when he saw Sarah practically glowing with pride, vibrating with excitement.
"That's my sister, Lilianna Gringer!"
"…What?" The word cracked out of him, embarrassingly close to a mortifying squeak.
His jaw dropped as his gaze whipped between the ethereal figure on stage and the grinning, cheerful, five-foot-something senior bouncing behind them.
The resemblance was, to put it mildly, nonexistent.
Sarah burst out laughing, clearly used to his reaction. "Ugh, I know, right? She inherited all of our mother's goddess-tier genes. Totally unfair, right?"
She rolled her eyes with dramatic disgust. "Meanwhile, I got stuck with our father's spare parts. Honestly, to this day, I don't even know how that quiet man managed to snag that old hag to marry him."
"Don't talk about your elders like that," Iris cut in, though the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement.
"Oh, please, you've met my mother," Sarah said, waving a dismissive hand. "That woman never shuts up. If she weren't drop-dead gorgeous, no one would put up with her loud mouth. Thank the stars my father doesn't talk much, silent as a rock. There's still mercy in the universe, and they're perfect for each other."
Neville found himself at a complete loss for words. Sarah's family dynamics were equal parts entertaining and disturbing. He wasn't sure where to even start. Luckily, MJ's booming voice cut through their chatter before he had to.
"Now that we've all been thoroughly dazzled," the host declared, "let's get down to business! Lilianna will now explain the rules and regulations of our upcoming competition!"
Lilianna stepped forward; the cool stream of her voice was in contrast to MJ's theatrics. "Good afternoon, everyone. As you know, Maxwell Corporation prides itself on innovation and excellence. This competition is an opportunity for our brightest minds to showcase their talents."
With a graceful gesture, a holographic display materialized beside her. "You will have one week to prepare your proposals. Due to the sensitive nature of this project, specific details will be sent to your email upon registration. I can, however, give you one hint..."
She paused, letting the silence stretch deliberately, pulling the crowd tighter.
"Starship."
Neville almost stumbled in place, steadying himself using Iris as a pillar.
Of course, it's starships, his mind snapped. What else? Flower arrangements? Galactic cooking contests?
The sarcasm kept him grounded as the Atrium buzzed with excitement.
His light brain chimed—registration email. Around him, colleagues were already pulling up their devices, swiping through the details with bright eyes.
Neville reached for his own, but froze at the notification banner. It was a miniature, impossibly perfect version of the woman on stage with a light teasing smile.
"Why…" he tilted the screen toward Sarah, brows drawing together, "is your sister's face in the company email banner?"
Sarah blinked at him as if he had asked whether oxygen was optional. "Um, because she's Lilianna Gringer?"
"Lilianna is the exclusive model for Maxwell Corporation," she said, slow and deliberate, as if explaining to a toddler. "She's a supermodel. A super supermodel. The face that launched, like, a thousand actual starships?"
Neville stared. Then blinked once. Twice. "…You're joking."
"Uh, no?" Sarah snorted, then snickered, poking him in the arm. "Do you think just anyone gets to sing and waltz into Maxwell Corporation headquarters? There's a vetting process. Triple background checks, security clearances thicker than a legal textbook. My sister had to—"
Her eyes sparkled with sudden mischief. "Want to know the juicy details?"
"I—" Neville started, already regretting opening his mouth.
"Sarah." A calm voice cut through the air. A hand landed gently but firmly on Sarah's shoulder.
Iris's expression was as calm as ever. "We need to go over the quarterly report projections."
"But that's not until—hey!" Sarah yelped as Iris seized her by the collar, dragging her toward the exit with unstoppable force, toward the exit.
"You can't just—I was getting to the good part!" Sarah's protests faded into the crowd, leaving Neville in a bubble of blessed, bewildered silence.
An angel, indeed.