If the devil can't reach you through any means, it will send a 6-foot-5-inch-tall man with probably the most delicious body hidden under a fitted suit, with gorgeous blue eyes and a lethal face card, who is the coldest and most ruthless, with a strategic mind that doesn't care about anything other than his own benefit.
The devil will send you Aaron Erikson, aka my new deputy VP.
Why am I saying that? Because his first speech and direction to his team isn't anything like encouragement or a sweet motivational speech. Rather, it follows a cold, sharp reminder of the reality of Laurent&Cie.
"I will be very clear from the beginning." He stands against the light, behind his pitch-black desk, his hands resting on the surface as he leans forward. His voice drips a warning colder than any winter of Serbia.
"It's not going to be teamwork where everyone helps each other for the team's benefit." He makes eye contact with each one of us. "You will be competing against each other. You are allowed to play dirty."
I feel goosebumps all over my body; a dry lump in my throat makes me hold back my breath. The temperature of the room drops, chilling enough to make you sweat in tension.
"The stack of paper bundles will be your test of the week."
Instinctively, all our eyes fall on the stacks of white papers bound in different colors of files—black, green, blue, red, white, gray, and yellow.
"These are insider reports of the top ten competitors against four upcoming auctions in the next ten weeks. Once you are done with your materials, you will come up with your own proposal within seven days."
"Seven days?" Luke voices the disbelief of everyone in the room. Mark taps his finger on the table, Eric's eyes darken, and Elena clenches her fist under the table, hard enough for her knuckles to turn white.
Of course, it's a matter of disbelief. All of us have been just doing secondary-level tasks—research, drafting proposals that get approved after at least twenty higher-ups sign off. At least five to ten juniors like us work together on those things. And here he is saying that while sitting in this same room, we will each come up with our own proposal.
Suddenly, the earlier confidence inside me flickers like a candle against the wild wind. My heart pounds against my ears. The back of my neck sweats—I wonder if my fever has spiked again from the pressure.
"A week later, we will sit together, and each one of you will show me your proposal and..." He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching. His eyes suddenly hold a strange, cruel glint—a man who seems to wield more power than just a deputy VP, like a shadow king watching his ministers fight and drinking his wine from a gold cup.
"The best one will be the one we will put as the final proposal for the auction. Which means the winner will be competing against ten companies and " He sits back in his chair slowly, deliberately, pausing to make the air even more tense.
"If the winner can't compete against the ten companies betting on the same four companies," Mark speaks up, curiosity and amusement in his eyes, "it's still a defeat."
Aaron nods, satisfied by Mark's observation. "And here is your chance. Five of you will come up with four different proposals for each company, so..." He smirks cruelly. My left thumb starts extracting my left index finger as tension builds in my stomach. "Try to win at least once against your other four counterparts, hmm?"
None of us say anything for two whole minutes. Then Luke asks the most important question. "And what if one loses? Both in this room and in the auction?"
Aaron blinks slowly. He leans forward on the desk, elbows resting, fingers intertwined. His posture is upright, powerful, and full of confidence and authority.
Luke unconsciously licks his lower lip under the pressure of Aaron's gaze. "You are already thinking of losing?"
Luke stiffens, literally stiffening like prey under a predator's gaze. Other than Mark, who doesn't show much emotion, all of us gulp nervously. Our breathing is controlled and careful; it's like even a loud inhale could get us executed.
"If you are scared," Aaron points at the door, tilting his head slightly, no emotion—just pure malice of a man who has sworn to bleed us dry, "you can leave."
I inhale sharply, unable to sit still. Elena grabs her water bottle; her finger trembles ever so slightly as she clutches it tight like an anchor. Okay, I am not the only one scared of this devil with blue eyes and a sharp jawline.
"Anyone willing to leave?" He asks, amused, as if he doesn't know none of us can afford to leave on our own accord. Because if you leave this room, your career in this industry is essentially over.
Quitting without giving your all is considered betrayal—and in Laurent&Cie, betrayal against the company is treated like a state crime.
You can fail. You can fall. You can make mistakes. But you are not allowed to quit.
As much as I hate this situation, looking at the shiny black file in front of me, reflecting my own face back at me, I feel the thrill of possibility. That ugly yet familiar part of me—the extreme desire and thirst to win at any cost—makes my head ring.
It's unhealthy. I am aware of it. Yet when the stakes are high, so is the reward. When my competitors happen to be some of the smartest young brains in the industry, this criminal desire to crush everyone and rise to the top just to feel that satisfaction makes my heart race and my stomach flip.
Aaron claps his hands. My attention snaps to him again. "Then, all the best, team. 7 days, you have all resources and you can contact with other departments for more informations too," he grins coldly. "Let's see what you have under your sleeves."
For the briefest moment, our eyes meet.
And I see it.
He leans toward my side. My breathing catches. I freeze as he whispers in his low, deep voice—like a secret instruction, declaration, or whatever suits this frustrating tone of confidence, only meant for me to hear:
"I don't expect you to win. Just remain as the common target of these four and, he pauses, his voice drops an octave lower and deeper,
"try not to die."
My jaw tightens as I glare at his annoyingly handsome face, which looks at me like I'm his new plaything.
"You seem to be confident that I won't win, Mr. Eriskson," I grit my teeth, my thumbnaildigging inside my palm.
His smirk doesn't flatter under my glare, like I am just another little junior wanting to be seen.
"Yes, I am."
My eyes flutter, my chest feels a dark burn of the desire to wipe off this disgusting smirk of his face, this unwavering confidence in his eyes, and my spine trembles in rage.
I smile, my voice coming out cold, matching his level of wickedness. "Watch me."
Aaron's pupil dilates against the light, which makes his eyes clearer and more sparkling, yet his smirk doesn't flatter.
He moves away from my ear and leans back against his chair; lazily, he gives me a nod.
Biting my lower lip hard, I shift on my seat, my gaze burning on the stack of files.
Everything else starts fading. Burn in my chest, calm down, silence in my head loud and clear, right after a loud and powerful storm I didn't see coming.
Aaron Erikson, you think I cannot win, huh!
Seven days, is it?
Even if I have to use every single advantage I have over my team members, I will abuse it.
And there has rarely been a time where I lost if I put my mind into winning.
Watch me, you fucking devil!
And just like that, our task number 1 begins.
Luke takes off his blazer and throws his decently long hair into a man bun; he drives inside the files.
His advantage—his connection with every single mid-level manager of each department gives him an edge in getting more information.
Eric rolls up his sleeves, exposing his firm forearms, and turns his laptop, colorful sticky notes and pen scattered around his desk.
His advantage—his experience in market research and reading through papers released by companies—and his analytical mind give him the edge of taking the safest route.
Elena pins her hair into a bun, her layers framing her face beautifully. She doesn't dive into the files yet; instead, she just goes through the list of companies and the businesses that will be auctioned.
Her advantage—her experience in working as extra hands at the negotiation table and her extremely excellent record of pattern recognition—gives her the upper hand, along with her habit of taking mental notes over what people want.
Mark is the most methodical one. Leaning against his chair, he simply starts flipping through pages and taking notes on his iPad. No colored pen, no sticky note. He hasn't even opened his laptop or that damned monitor of his.
His advantage: being an MIT graduate, there is no doubt about his math skills, and his calmness lets him see through gaps most people will miss.
Once I finish taking note of what others are doing, I come up with how I am going to mix their style of work along with mine.
If anything, they are more experienced and sharper than me; being in Laurent&Cie, they know the way better than me.
But it's not the smartest who wins.
Creaking my shoulder, I place three files next to each other.
Black, red, and green.
Three pens, three notes, laptop closed, and iPad in hand, spine straight, the fire in my chest calmed into a steady aftermath.
I inhale sharply, closing my eyes, muttering number from 99 to 50 backward, silencing each and every doubt looming like shadow in my head, I dive in.
It's going to be a long week.