Chapter 03

Emery Quinn

"Do you want me to send you up, Emery?"

I hesitated for half a second, long enough to acknowledge the warning, not long enough to heed it. "Yes."

She nodded once, as if confirming something to herself. "Very well. Top floor. Take the executive elevator—it's the one at the end of the hall with the keycard panel. This will get you access." She handed me a different badge, this one silver. "His assistant will meet you there."

As I stood to leave, she added, "For what it's worth, I think you might surprise him."

I wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

By the time I reached the top floor, my palms were damp and my heart felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my ribcage. The elevator ride had been swift and silent, carrying me upward with a smoothness that belied the turmoil in my mind.

What was I doing? Why had I said yes? The rational part of my brain screamed that this was madness—that I should turn around, go back to applying for jobs that wouldn't leave me in tears, that wouldn't consume my soul in exchange for a paycheck.

But the other part—the part that had watched my bank account dwindle to double digits, that had seen the worry in my brother's eyes—that part kept me moving forward.

The executive floor was a different world. Quieter. Sharper. Colder. The carpet was dark gray, thick enough to absorb any sound, and the lights were soft and recessed, casting gentle pools rather than flooding the space. Every wall was lined with frosted glass, sleek shelves, and minimalistic decor in blacks, grays, and occasional touches of deep blue. The kind of space that screamed money and power without ever raising its voice.

A blonde woman with a tight bun and tighter expression stood behind a narrow desk that curved like a crescent moon. She looked like a live mannequin from a luxury ad campaign—perfectly proportioned, impeccably dressed, utterly devoid of warmth.

"Emery Quinn?" she asked without looking up from her screen. Her voice was as crisp as her white blouse.

"Yes," I managed, gripping the strap of my purse so tightly my knuckles ached.

She picked up a phone, spoke softly—too softly for me to hear—then nodded once. "You can go in."

That was it. No encouragement. No smile. No "good luck" or "don't make eye contact" or whatever advice might help me survive the next few minutes. Just a glass door that opened with a quiet hiss as she pressed a button on her desk.

I stepped into his office, crossing a threshold that felt significant in ways I couldn't articulate.

And it felt like walking into a freezer.

Everything inside was... immaculate. A huge window behind the desk framed the skyline like a painting, the city spread out below like a kingdom to be surveyed. Steel shelves held precisely arranged books and artifacts—no photos, I noticed. No personal touches. The desk was enormous, dark wood with a glass top, not a single paper out of place. The chairs were leather, the air was still, and the silence was absolute, as if the room had been vacuum-sealed against the chaos of the world below.

But no man.

The chair behind the massive black desk was empty.

I stood there for a full twenty seconds, unsure if I was supposed to sit or wait or leave. The silence grew louder with each passing moment. My heartbeat sounded deafening in my ears. I forced my breathing to slow, tried to still the trembling that had started in my fingertips and was working its way up my arms.

Then I heard it.

A soft click.

My eyes snapped toward a shadow that emerged from a side door I hadn't noticed, and I swear the temperature in the room dropped again.

He entered like a storm disguised as a man.

Dark suit, impeccably tailored to broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist. Crisp white shirt, open at the collar. No tie. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show veined forearms, a glimpse of humanity in an otherwise flawless facade. His hair was black, cut close at the sides, not a strand out of place. His jawline was razor-sharp, his cheekbones sharper. And his eyes—

His eyes didn't just look at me.

They dissected me.

They were pale gray, cold enough to make my spine stiffen, and utterly unreadable. Not hard like steel, but clear like ice—the kind that appears solid until you step on it and plunge into freezing depths.

"Sit," he said, voice low and smooth, like expensive whiskey poured over those same ice chips.

Not "hello." Not "Miss Quinn."

Just "sit."

I did.

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