Okay.
Okay, what the actual hell is happening.
The damn chandelier overhead is swaying like we're mid-earthquake, throwing light all over the marble floor, marble so slick one wrong step in heels would yeet me into a glamorous death.
Some lazy-ass jazz floats in the air, like Chet Baker if he were three whiskeys deep and thinking filthy thoughts.
Even the freaking air here smells expensive. Like cologne you can't afford but would happily sniff until your brain rots.
And the weirdest part? I'm alone. Alone. In a goddamn ballroom that probably costs more than my entire life.
No meetings. No spreadsheets. No Clara the traitor. No Darian.
...Shit. Spoke too soon.
Footsteps. Slow. Sharp. Calm in the way serial killers are calm.
I don't even have to look. My skin's already short-circuiting. Goosebumps up my arms. Heart doing something illegal.
And of course, of course, there he is. Darian Gravelle. Dressed in black, sleeves rolled, hair slightly messy like he just finished plotting someone's slow demise.
He doesn't say anything. Neither do I. He walks toward me. Each step calculated. Predatory.
Close. Too close. Ohmygodhe'ssoclose.
His hand lifts, slow, almost lazy, and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. Like he owns me. Like I was made for this tiny, devastating touch.
Static explodes under my skin. My knees? Definitely considering betrayal.
"You always calculate everything?" His voice: low, dangerous, dipped in sin. I should respond intelligently. I should deflect. Make a joke. Throw a shoe. Something.
But my brain's short-circuited and my mouth is out here doing stand-up without permission.
"Some things are worth the risk."
WHAT.
WHAT.
I SAID THAT OUT LOUD?
Oh, we're going to jail.
And Darian… Oh, he doesn't smile. Doesn't laugh. He just leans in and kisses me like he's signing a damn death warrant.
His mouth is cold, tastes like gin and hell yes. I should push him away. Scream. Fake my death.
Instead, my hands find his collar and yank him closer like some desperate Victorian heroine who's about to scandalize the ton.
He kisses deeper. Slower. More certain.
I can feel the tension in his jaw. The tight control in his hands. Even his goddamn eyebrows are tense.
This is bad. This is so bad. Analyze. Focus. This is a power play. Maybe he's testing me. Maybe he's, holy shit he smells good.
Focus, Eris.
Focus.
But then his hand slides down my spine, confident as sin, and my brain just...dies.
I tip my head, open my mouth, let him in.
I burn the whole goddamn manual.
I don't kiss him back sweetly. I kiss him like a goddamn war. Hard. Fast. Demanding. If this is going to ruin me, then I'm going down with fireworks and a body count.
And when he pulls in a breath, unsteady, almost like I broke his stupid perfect control?
Victory, bitch.
Pure, filthy victory.
…Wait. Hold on. Why is there an alarm?
Why is there…
KRIIINGGG.
I bolt upright, gasping.
Sweaty. Disoriented. Bed sheets a mess. T-shirt sticking to my back.
5:00 AM.
A dream.
It was a dream.
Holy. Shit.
I collapse back onto the bed, cover my face with both hands, and groan into the void. "Get it together, Moreau. You need therapy. And maybe a gallon of iced coffee."
But if Darian Gravelle ever kisses me like that for real… Morality's gonna have to wait in the car with the engine running.
First, I'm taking the world's longest cold shower. And maybe hexing his gorgeous, dangerous ass while I'm at it.
5 A.M.
I can totally chill for a few more minutes, right? Right.
I drag myself to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and face the mirror… And there she is.
Me.
With panda eyes, hair looking like I stuck a fork in a socket, and the exact expression of someone who just dreamt about making out with her boss.
Which... oh God. We are not unpacking that right now. Later. Maybe. Or preferably never.
Hot water rains down. I step in. Let it wash over me. Let that stupid dream swirl down the drain along with every last drop of last night's sins.
I stumble out, towel off, brush my hair into something barely human, glance at the clock…
...
...
7:30.
Wait. Wait. Wait, wait, WAIT…
WHAT?!
I… I MISREAD THE DAMN CLOCK?!
7:30 means… I'm not late by five minutes. Not by ten. I AM HALF AN HOUR LATE.
"NO. NOPE. NO THANK YOU. NOT TODAY, SATAN."
I sprint to the closet.
Grab a white shirt wrinkled? who cares. Blazer. Pencil skirt. High heels I might break my ankle in but whatever. Smear on lip tint. Dust powder like a maniac. Hair? Bun. From a distance: professional. Up close: crime scene.
Ready.
Laptop? Check. ID card? Hanging from my neck like a noose. Emergency coffee coins? Shoved in blazer pocket.
I slam the elevator button. It flickers like my will to live. And because my brain's a certified sadist, it decides right then to replay that dream.
Darian. Mouth. Hands on my waist. Breath curling against my neck. "No. Don't you dare," I whisper sharply to myself.
Because now is NOT the time for a horny hallucination. Now is the time for damage control.
I can fix this. I will fix this. I did not drag myself this far through hell just to be taken out by a traitor alarm clock.
Elevator dings open.
I charge in. Fast steps. Confident look. Inside? I'm this close to throwing up the breakfast I didn't even eat.
Vanguard Corp, get ready. Mama's coming, with a wrinkled blazer and a personal vendetta against time itself.
8:02 A.M.
Eight-oh-two. Which means? I'm officially... screwed.
The commute from my apartment to Vanguard Corp this morning? Hell. In high definition.
First bus? Packed like a sardine can. Second bus? Almost left without me because I was sprinting like some horror movie final girl.
Inside? One old guy breathing stale coffee fumes right into my face, one girl blasting videos without earphones.
I stood. For. Thirty. Freaking. Minutes.
Every second, my phone clock ticked louder, like it was mocking me.
When I finally set foot in Vanguard's lobby, I felt like I'd just won the corporate edition of The Hunger Games. Except…
"Late today, Miss Intern?" The security guy at the front desk greeted me. Sweet smile. Sweet, like a butcher about to slap raw meat onto a roaring fire.
"Public transport's like that, huh? So... many challenges," he added with a little chuckle.
I smiled back. Politely. Thinly. But inside? Sir, could we not narrate my tragic morning out loud?
Whatever. Fine. He knows my face now. Great. Just perfect.
I hit the elevator button.
Floor 47.
The doors slid open. I speed-walked inside, half sprint, half controlled collapse.
And who's there to greet me?
The dynamic duo.
Leon, fingers flying across his keyboard, eyes glued to the screen, mouth, of course, wide open.
"Welcome to the real world, Miss Intern. We thought maybe aliens abducted you or something."
I exhaled slowly, peeling off my blazer. "Unfortunately, the aliens were late, so here I am. Still working. Still underpaid."
Clara, sitting a few desks over, spun around in her chair. Makeup flawless. Mouth even sharper.
"Did you hear the rumors?" she said, eyes gleaming. "They say the fiftieth floor ran a 'crisis simulation' last night. But someone whispered it wasn't a simulation. Super creepy, right?"
She squinted at me, a tiny smirk playing on her lips. "And you... you were up there yesterday evening, weren't you?"
Oh? So this is how we're playing it, huh, Clara? I flashed her my brightest customer-service smile.
"Yup," I said, flipping open my laptop. "Super thrilling. No zombies though. Just a sad little data breach. Yawn."
Leon glanced over, one eyebrow arching.
"Sure. That explains why you look like you just ran out of hell itself."
I grinned. If hell had marble floors and high-speed Wi-Fi, then yeah, that checks out.
"Where's Sir Laurant?" I asked, smoothly changing the subject as I logged into my dashboard.
Clara shrugged.
Leon shook his head.
"Word is he's in a meeting with the big bosses. Could be Darian. Could be God. At this point, who knows?"
I went silent for a beat. Not suspicious at all. Nope. I inhaled slowly, steadying myself. The day's just getting started, but the vibe? Final boss fight energy.
Well. Bring it on, Vanguard. I'm already immune to sarcasm, gossip... and the occasional inappropriate dream.
I had just opened a fresh presentation file, fully intending to actually work, I swear, when my eyes flicked over to Clara.
She was grinning at her screen, scrolling through emails like she just got crowned Queen of the Universe.
She looked... radiant. Lip gloss popping, blush on point, and, oh? New necklace. Expensive. Definitely not from a clearance rack.
Something about it... felt off.
And yeah, I'll admit it, a tiny hiss of pettiness slipped between my clenched teeth.
I spun my chair lazily, elbow propped on the backrest. My gaze sharp. My smile sweet. The combo I wore best: Pretty but loaded.
"Clara," I called out lightly, voice all sugar. "Were you sick yesterday?"
She turned, beaming so bright it almost hurt to look at her. Too bright. "Oh my God, yes. It was awful. Like, my body just completely gave up, you know?"
Uh-huh.
"So sick you couldn't even type out one sad little text to say you weren't coming?" Still polite, still smiling, but a sting sharpened the end of my words. "You were the one assigned to do the presentation, not me."
I pressed my lips into a neat, pretty line.
Clara let out a soft laugh, fiddling with a ring on her finger. "I'm so sorry, babe. I know it must've been... unexpected. But I believe in you, swear! You're amazing."
Believe in me? This girl was selling trust like it was candy at a gas station.
"I'm not you, Cla. I don't work with just glitter and good intentions." My smile stretched wider, still sweet, still unblinking. I was pulling strings together, connecting dots.
Clara wasn't dumb. But she was too shiny to be harmless. And usually, the shinier someone looks... the bigger the shadow they're casting.
She leaned back, casual, like we were talking about weekend plans. "You know... sometimes the worst things end up being blessings. You got to present in front of all the directors, right? In front of Mr. Gravelle himself. Not everyone gets that shot."
Oh, brilliant.
Now it's a gift?
Bold.
"So what, am I supposed to say thank you now?"
I tilted my head, smiling sweetly, the kind of smile you wear when you're mentally sharpening a knife.
Clara laughed again, breezy. "Not at all. But hey, maybe the universe has cooler plans for you than it does for me."
And there it was. A boss-level ambiguous statement. Something about the way she said universe, that light tone that didn't quite match her words...
Clara wasn't just some fun gossip girl. She knew something. Or worse, she did something.
I held my breath. Not for long, just enough to box that rotten feeling and shove it deep into my chest.
I could play patient.
For now.
"If the universe really wants to bless me," I said, half-joking, half-threatening, "it better start by sending food first. I haven't even had breakfast."
Clara smiled. Again. Too bright. Again. And this time? I caught it. The shadow it cast across the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The heavy click of leather shoes echoed down the hallway, slow, deliberate. Like a threat still deciding whether to strike now... or later.
I could almost guess who it was even before the door opened. And, bingo.
Click.
The strategy team's door let out its signature creak. One second of silence. Two seconds later, Laurent stormed in, a delayed hurricane of anger.
That man...
Still the same: charcoal-gray suit, navy tie in a perfect knot, hair styled messy in that "hot but you know it took effort" way. A shadow of stubble along his jaw. Eyes sharp like an annual report you couldn't bullshit if your life depended on it.
His gaze locked onto me. Direct. No circling. No mercy. Cold. Not angry, worse. Disappointed in that passive-aggressive way only true corporate predators could master.
Oh no.
I glanced at my watch, 08:03 AM. Official start time? 07:00. You. Have. GOT. To. Be. Kidding. Me.
"Miss Moreau," His voice dropped the room temperature by about three degrees. "Is the clock in your world different from ours?"
Oh, damn. Here we go.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Heart racing, face calm. Professional smile. Open expression. No fear. "There was a miscalculation, sir. I take full responsibility."
Laurent's eyes narrowed, calculating whether to fry me... or steam me. But he didn't speak. Didn't immediately jump to his usual "incompetent" or "replaceable" declarations.
Which was... very un-Laurent. Instead, he turned toward the desk, shoved his hands into his pockets, and paused…
"An intern can be late once," he said, voice flat and razor-sharp. "Twice means you don't value other people's time."
I nodded, fast, serious. Internally? Ouch. Fair... but ouch. Still… I survived. Somehow, I was still breathing.
But Laurent wasn't done.
His gaze shifted to Clara. And Clara, who usually faked cluelessness like a pro, froze, fingers halting mid-type on the keyboard.
"Clara," Laurent said, voice slicing the room, "you were assigned a presentation yesterday. You were absent. No confirmation. No notice. No explanation. Not even after."
I almost wanted to sit back, pop popcorn, and watch. This. Was. The. Show.
Clara smiled, reflexively. But her eyes, oh, there it was. A tiny panic flicker. "I'm sorry, Mr. Delacroix. I got sick suddenly, I... didn't have time to inform anyone."
Soft voice. If you listened close enough, you could hear the cracks underneath.
Laurent didn't move. Didn't yell. Didn't slam anything. But the air in the room dropped to fridge-temperature cold.
His stare wasn't anger, it was long-term life evaluation. Like he wasn't mad about this one incident, he was filing away notes for future execution.
Finally, he nodded once, slow, deliberate. Not "okay." More like, "I'll remember this."
"Next time," he said, "make sure I don't have to replace you on short notice." Then he walked into his office without another glance.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Clara and I stayed frozen, both tense, but for very different reasons. Me? Relieved to still be alive. Clara? Stunned from the sniper shot to her reputation.
And honestly, me, A tiny bit smug. Just a little. Like a small karmic cupcake, wrapped in corporate jazz.
I thought it was over.
I thought, after my slap-on-the-wrist warning and Clara's lowkey karma payback, I could get back to business. Focus. Be professional. Zen mode: on.
But...
Something felt off.
Through the glass wall of his office, I could still see Laurent sitting behind his desk, his holy corporate altar.
And he was...
Looking. Right. At. Me.
Not just a random glance. Not some daydream about Q4 budgets. Focused. Intentional. One eyebrow slightly raised. Jaw tight. His eyes sharp. Calculating. Cold.
Predatoric.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Deep breath, Eris. Relax. Don't be dramatic.
Maybe he's still annoyed about me being late.
Or maybe...
Maybe he knows you had an inappropriate dream about a different boss last night?!
SHUT UP, brain. Not helping.
One thing was certain though: That stare? Not a crush. Not simple anger. It was interest, but the kind that screamed, "I'm going to dismantle you, piece by piece."
I gave him a polite intern smile. Turned back to my screen. Hands typing, eyes on my report, posture perfect. Outside: Eris Moreau, bright and diligent corporate sunshine.
Inside: I was counting my heartbeats and mentally calculating every possible outcome of whatever the hell was coming.
And just as I was debating whether to panic or fake my own death… Ping! A new email lit up my screen.
From: Violette Rianne
To: Eris Moreau
Subject: Meeting Confirmation, 09:00 AM
Dear Miss Moreau,
Please be advised that Mr. Gravelle would like to see you in his office at 09:00 sharp today.
Kind regards,
Violette Rianne
Executive Assistant to Mr. Darian Gravelle
...
What.
WHAT.
What the actual hell.
I snapped to the clock at the corner of my screen: 08:19 AM.
Okay. Deep breath. Step back.
Why would Darian Gravelle, the literal corporate urban legend, the man who appeared more on the pages of Forbes than in the actual 60th-floor office, want to see me?
Was it because of yesterday's presentation?
Was it... too good and somehow caught his eye?
No. No.
Don't flatter yourself, Moreau. More likely you're about to get fired, but make it elegant.
I swallowed hard. Fingers still typing the report, side-eyeing that glittery, deadly email like it was a bomb with a countdown.
9:00 AM.
Gravelle's office.
Whatever was waiting for me up there...
It wasn't normal.
One thing I knew for sure?
I had to be ready. Not just as an intern. But as Eris Moreau: Sunshine face. Shark mind.
I tapped my fingers against the desk. Soft. Rhythmic. A hidden signal of brewing panic. Violette's email was still sitting pretty in my inbox. The clock was inching toward 8:30.
And me?
Still stuck in my cubicle, still pretending I was mentally ready to face the Gravelle.
Who was I kidding?
But hey, I wasn't the type to sit around like a potted plant either. Yeah, I was new. But clueless? Never.
I shifted slightly to the right.
Target: Clara Renaud.
Flawless makeup. Perfectly imperfect messy bob that screamed effortless, but anyone with half a brain could see the effort. Her outfit? Probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Clara, the division's social butterfly. Too much information, not enough confirmation. "Clara," I called, half-teasing, half-baiting.
She turned, all sunshine and daisies, like the world wasn't drowning in economic anxiety and corporate drama.
"Hm?"
I tilted my head, flashing a thoughtful look.
"Have you ever been... you know... called into the director's office out of the blue?"
She blinked. Her smile didn't even flinch. If anything, it got brighter.
"Oh?" she chirped, voice light as air. "A serious question from Miss Moreau herself? Color me intrigued."
I smiled back. Thin. Calculated. Touché.
"Just curious," I shrugged, casual like it didn't matter. "Because... hypothetically... if someone did get summoned by Mr. Gravelle himself, no warning... what would you think it means?"
Clara sighed, twirling the end of her pen, glancing at her screen, then back at me.
Her eyes sparkled, but not with excitement.
It was the sparkle of someone who knew too much... and chose to say very little.
"Well, it could mean a lot of things," she said finally, her voice a little too breezy for something this heavy. "Sometimes, it's about performance."
She shrugged, casual.
"Other times... it's about something else."
"Something else?" I echoed, painting innocence all over my face, a skill polished to perfection since grade school.
"Well..." Clara leaned back in her chair, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"Vanguard has its own way of... testing 'potential.' Especially when someone has certain... standout qualities."
She grinned. Sweet. Sharp. Like a sugar-coated blade. "You know what I mean."
I met her gaze head-on.
Clara wasn't clueless. Not even close.
She was handing me a shiny, vague answer with deadly precision. Like tossing a coin into a fountain and already knowing it would hit the fish at the bottom.
"And you?" I lifted an eyebrow, playing the curious little intern. "Have you ever been called up like that?"
Her smile stretched even wider. "That's for me to know... and you to find out."
Of course it was.
I returned her smile, matching her brightness.
On the outside.
Every mental alarm in my head was blaring like a death knell. The brighter Clara shined, the darker the shadows she cast.
And me, I was walking straight into the brightest, and probably darkest, floor of this entire goddamn building.
8:42 AM.
Only 18 minutes left.
My breathing wasn't exactly steady anymore.
Gotta pull it together.
Because whatever was waiting behind that fancy-ass office door… It sure as hell wasn't going to be small talk over tea.
The elevator from the 47th to the 60th floor was basically a forced meditation chamber.
Silent. Cold. And packed with bad possibilities creeping in like fog.
I took a slow, deep breath. Careful, if my heart made too much noise, someone might mistake it for a fire alarm.
I stepped inside. Nearly empty. Just one other person.
Blazing red heels. Designer bag. Hair blowout so perfect it screamed expensive salon trip. My eyes darted to her nametag. Clarisse Fontaine. Senior PR Specialist.
Oh. Warning bells.
That name… very familiar.
Clarisse glanced at me, a slow smile creeping up her lips like sticky sunscreen you try to wipe off but just spreads worse. "Ah, you're the one from yesterday's emergency presentation, right?" she said sweetly, too sweetly.
I smiled back, all professional polish. Meanwhile, my brain flipped into full analysis mode.
"Yep. Accidental stage dive, you could say."
Clarisse grinned, her gaze sweeping over me like she was weighing something. "Pretty gutsy. Not every intern's brave enough to dive straight into a shark tank."
"Sometimes," I said softly, flashing a thin smile, "the tank finds you first. We just happen to be standing too close."
She laughed, a small, fake, high-pitched sound. "Touché." Then she flicked her gaze at the elevator screen, and…
Oh. The 60th floor? She's heading there too?
"Going up as well?" she asked, even though the lit button already said everything.
"Mmm-hmm. Special invitation." I kept my tone casual. Neutral. Inside? My mind was already laying out chessboards.
Clarisse Fontaine. The PR specialist who could spin a story better than half the media agencies combined. Drama magnet. Story twister. And now she was being called up to Darian Gravelle's office too?
What the actual…
"You know," Clarisse started again, leaning back lazily against the elevator wall,
"It's pretty rare for Mr. Gravelle to summon someone directly. Usually it's through Violette. But if he's calling two people at once..."
She trailed off. Then tilted her head a little toward me, smile dripping mischief.
"...maybe we're competing for something big? Or something... even more exciting?"
I stared right back at her. Straight. Sharp.
"No offense, but I don't play guessing games before I've seen the cards."
Clarisse narrowed her eyes, still smiling.
"Of course. But if you need survival tips for the top floors, I could help… as long as you know how to say 'please' properly."
"And you're just sitting there waiting for a polite 'thank you,' huh?" I smiled, sweet as honey, sharp as a blade.
Ding!
60th floor.
The doors slid open.
I stepped out first, even though every step felt like walking a runway straight into judgment.
But one thing was crystal clear: If Clarisse Fontaine was part of this, then this wasn't just some regular assignment.
This was a stage. And I had to make damn sure the spotlight fell exactly where I wanted it to.
The executive floor... wasn't just a different league. It was a different planet. The air here smelled expensive. More polished. More sterile. More... laced with invisible sins, maybe?
The click of my red heels echoed way too loud against the marble floors, every step felt like an alarm screaming, "Intern from hell just invaded Mount Olympus!"
Ahead of me, Clarisse Fontaine glided forward like she was born straight from a CEO's womb. Her hair, all effortless waves (that obviously took a team of stylists), her dark wine-colored couture blazer that probably required a black card just to look at, and heels that basically whispered, "I can ruin your reputation and look stunning doing it."
I was still rattled, thanks to that cursed dream this morning. Damn it, Darian. Either my brain was broken, or my hormones were staging a rebellion.
I literally dreamed about him, his mouth, his breath, NOPE. Abort mission. And worse, I couldn't erase the pantry incident either. Him.
Violette. Their lips. Their hands. My poor tea mug turning into my moral shield while I spied from behind the door like a certified creep.
Yes, I peeked. Yes, I hate myself. Yes, I still remember every second. God. Please. Format my brain.
Clarisse stopped in front of a massive matte-black door, checking her lipstick in her phone screen.
"Ready?" she asked, not at me, at herself, obviously. Full diva mode, maximum wattage.
She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't need one.
Knock. Knock.
The door swung open.
And there she was. The gatekeeper of hell herself, Violette Rianne. Hair flowing like silk, white shirt crisp like it had never known wrinkles, and a stare cold enough to turn a server room into a sauna.
When her eyes landed on me… Yeah. Blender setting: ON.
"Come in," she said, only to Clarisse, of course. And just like that, Darian's gaze lifted from his desk… And locked onto Clarisse.
Not me.
Not me.
Cool. Chill. This isn't a romcom. This is reality.
I sat down on the charcoal sofa, trying to look composed while my heart played tap dance on my ribs.
Clarisse strolled up to Darian like she owned the damn building. Their eyes met, too familiar. Too scripted. Too... confidential.
Maybe corporate confidential. Maybe... something worse. I stayed still. But Violette? She stood there, just a breath away.
Her stare sharper than Laurent's. Colder. Clearer. Her gray eyes weren't like Darian's misty grey, they were moonlight. Harsh. Freezing.
Okay. Cool.
Predators everywhere.
And here I was, stuck in the middle, heart pounding, brain glitching with leftover dream sins.
Smile. Breathe. Straighten your back.
I'm Eris Moreau. I can merge two companies in five pages of Excel sheets. I can survive this.
I just had to pray… they couldn't read the dreams still haunting me.