Chapter seven
The Uber slowed to a stop in front of Maison de la Croix, its sleek black frame reflecting the golden morning sun. The skyscraper loomed above Kairen like a polished monument to money and control—its glass walls gleaming, its massive crest etched in iron and gold above the main doors. For a moment, he sat still in the backseat, staring up at the building as if it might swallow him whole.
The driver cleared his throat softly, and Kairen shook himself back into motion. He slid out of the car, adjusting his shirt nervously before his phone buzzed against his ear. Amara's voice filled the line.
"Bitch, don't tell me you're already shaking in those tiny-ass shoes," she teased.
Kairen laughed under his breath. "Amara, please, don't start. If I run back into that Uber, it'll be your fault."
"Mm-hm. Run back home then—since you clearly hate money," she fired back, her tone light but reassuring. "Ren, this job is it. Don't screw around. Hang tight, work smart, make the best out of it. Do you hear me?"
He smiled faintly, though his stomach twisted. "I hear you. I just… I don't know, Amara. Something about this place feels wrong. Like I shouldn't be here."
"Oh, stop it." Her voice snapped like a whip, sharp but full of care. "You're not backing out on day one. And since Kevin's gone, you'll get bored alone anyway. You can always crash at mine if it gets too quiet."
That earned a real laugh from him. "I'll think about it."
"Good. Now hang up and go be important. And Ren?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget—no matter how rich these Croix people are, you're still my bitch."
He grinned as they both hung up, the comfort of their banter lingering even after the call ended. Taking a slow breath, he squared his shoulders and looked once more at the massive golden crest gleaming above the doors.
Then, with one final glance behind him—at the street, at the open sky—Kairen stepped forward into the building that would change everything.
---
The office floor buzzed with a restrained kind of energy—busy but hushed, like a hive that knew its queen was always watching. Rows of sleek desks lined the space, black marble tops reflecting the glow of minimalist lamps. Fingers tapped against keyboards, papers rustled, heels clicked across the polished floor.
Kairen walked carefully through it all, his steps soft, shoulders squared though his nerves prickled. A few co-workers looked up long enough to nod politely, some even offered a small "welcome" under their breath. He returned each greeting with a polite smile.
Except one.
Across the aisle, Elodie Chen sat leaned back in her chair, a file of nails scraping in rhythm, eyes barely flicking in his direction. Her indifference was loud enough to sting.
Kairen hesitated, then decided to approach. "Good morning," he said gently.
Silence.
He tried again, firmer this time. "I'm Kairen. Nice to meet you."
Elodie finally glanced up, her smile sweet but sharp. "I don't like you."
Kairen blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You're too fine," she drawled, twirling the file between her fingers. "That makes you competition. And I don't do competition."
Before Kairen could find a response, a familiar steady voice cut in. "Ignore her."
Julian Hart appeared at his side, the kind of man whose presence steadied the air. He clapped Kairen lightly on the shoulder, nodding toward a desk near the window. "Come on. I kept a spot ready for you. Cleaned it up myself you'll be comfortable here."
Relief softened Kairen's shoulders. He followed Julian, about to thank him, when a sharper voice cut through the low murmur of the office.
"Kairen Noel?"
The floor stilled for a moment. A higher officer stood at the entrance of the aisle, clipboard in hand, gaze pinned on him.
Kairen straightened. "Yes, sir."
"Contract?" the man asked.
Kairen nodded quickly, holding it up
"Good. You'll be starting elsewhere. Follow me."
A sharp inhale came from behind. Elodie slapped her nail file onto the desk, gasping theatrically. "Oh my god. He's barely here and already getting baby-boy treatment?"
A few coworkers groaned at her dramatics, others chuckled, telling her to "chill."
But Kairen barely noticed them. His pulse quickened as he trailed the officer out of the room, Julian giving him an encouraging nod.
He had no idea that each step was pulling him closer to the one person he'd spent years trying to forget.
---
The officer led Kairen down a quiet hall, his polished shoes echoing against the marble floor. He stopped at a door, produced a ring of keys, and unlocked it before gesturing for Kairen to step inside.
"This will be your office," he said simply, handing the keys over. The cold brass pressed into Kairen's palm, heavier than he expected, as though it carried more weight than just metal. "You'll be working as a personal assistant to the boss himself. That's why your salary looks the way it does."
He reached into his file and passed Kairen another set of keys—sleeker, darker. "These are for the boss's office. You'll need them to bring and return files. And here—" he slid a folded sheet across the desk, "—a rough outline of how your daily schedule will look. Meetings, calls, travel. You'll be the gatekeeper."
Kairen nodded, absorbing every word, even as nerves pricked under his skin.
The officer clapped him lightly on the shoulder before leaving. "Drop your things, get settled. His office number's on that sheet. And Noel…" He paused at the door, his tone carrying a shadow of something unreadable. "…try not to run away."
Then he was gone.
The room was silent, almost too silent. Kairen set his bag down on the wide desk and looked around. It was sleek and minimal, a space he could hardly believe belonged to him. His chest tightened. First real office. First step into a world that felt unreachable just days ago.
For a moment, he leaned back in the leather chair and stared up at the ceiling. His life was shifting. He could already see it: his mother in a better hospital, her treatment no longer delayed by bills; his little sister in a good school, no longer worrying about uniforms or fees. This job wasn't just a paycheck—it was a chance to rebuild everything.
He exhaled, long and heavy, then reached for the sheet with the office number. Folding it carefully, he rose. His steps were measured, his hand brushing the brass keys like a quiet reminder.
"Here we go," he whispered, half to himself, half to Kevin—wherever he was. Then, squaring his shoulders, he walked out, ready to step into the unknown waiting on the other side of that office door.
The brass plate read 456.
Kairen's hand lingered on the knob for a moment before he pushed, and the heavy door gave a low creak as it opened.
The first thing that hit him was the smell—faint smoke that clung to the air like something unwilling to leave. The office was expensive, yes—sleek glass desk, leather chairs, a wall of windows overlooking the city—but the polish was stained by carelessness. Two ashtrays sat on the desk, one brimming with cigarette butts, the other spilling ashes onto the surface. Papers were scattered without order, a coffee cup with a dark ring at the bottom perched dangerously close to the edge.
Kairen sighed under his breath. What kind of boss smokes in his office? he thought, running a hand over the cold steel handle of the filing cabinet. His fingers brushed through folders until he found the ones he was told to collect.
With the files clutched to his chest, he drifted toward the window. The city stretched endlessly below him—cars like beads of light crawling through veins of asphalt, people no more than shadows moving on the sidewalks. The glass reached from floor to ceiling, a clean pane separating him from the drop.
For a moment, he imagined it: a body tumbling through that distance, the silence before the inevitable crash. His stomach turned, a knot tightening low in his gut. He blinked, shaking the thought from his mind, but the heaviness lingered.
This was the highest floor, the pinnacle of the building, yet it felt strangely suffocating. The higher he stood, the smaller he felt.
Still, he squared his shoulders, clutching the files. His life was changing—whether he wanted it to or not.
Sebastian's stride carried him down the marble corridor, phone raised lazily in his hand. On the glowing screen, his sister lounged in a sunlit apartment in Germany, a glass of wine in her hand, her expression a blend of exasperation and indulgence.
"Honestly, Bas," she drawled, "Father's just a hater. He's always been. You know that." Her tone wasn't cruel, just matter-of-fact, as though she'd long since grown used to Victor's unrelenting expectations. "You don't have to put up with it. I'm glad you're finally coming here. Germany will do you good. You'll be free."
Sebastian smirked, running his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Damn right. I've had enough of him breathing down my neck."
He turned a corner, his shoes clicking against the floor, when he saw it. His office door—number 456—wasn't shut. Just slightly ajar. Enough for a sliver of air to escape.
His steps slowed.
The smirk slipped into a frown, his brows knitting. He tilted the phone away, half his face darkening in the hallway's shadows. "Wait." His voice was low, sharp.
On the other end, his sister straightened. "What is it?"
Sebastian's eyes stayed on the door. The crack of space. The faintest disturbance in what should have been his untouched territory. He dragged in a breath through his nose, irritation already burning at the edge of his composure.
"I'll call you back," he muttered.
"Bas—" she started, but he had already hung up, the screen blackening in his hand.
His jaw flexed as he slid the phone into his pocket. He resumed his walk, slower now, each step deliberate, heavy, the echo carrying down the hall. The silence pressed tighter with every inch he closed toward that half-open door.
Something—or someone—was inside.
And Sebastian Cross did not tolerate trespassers.