It feels… different.
I grab my bag and step into the hallway. Room 107. His room. Right across from mine. My hand tightens around the strap of my bag. For a moment I stand there, thinking. Should I knock? What would I even say? “Good morning. Thank you for the rejection last night.”
I almost laugh at the thought. My hand never lifts. Instead, I turn and walk toward the elevator. Outside, the morning air is sharp and cool.The city is already awake, cars moving, people walking with purpose, coffee cups clutched like survival tools.
An Uber pulls up. Twenty minutes later I’m standing in front of the polished glass building of Blackthorne & Sterling Capital. The kind of name that sounds expensive even when whispered. Inside, the lobby smells faintly of polished marble and money. I swipe my badge and step into the office.
Andrew is the first person I see. He looks up from his desk and smiles. “Well,” he says, looking me over briefly, “someone looks different today.”
I blink.“Different?”
“Good different.” It takes me a second to realize what he means.
My hair. It’s down. I almost always keep it in a bun, tight, practical, invisible. “Oh,” I say lightly. “Just… trying something new.”
I’ve worked here almost a year now. I’ve been to the headquarters multiple times for meetings like this. I recognize the same faces, people from this office, a few from our branch back home. Familiar nods, familiar routines. Which is why the looks feel strange. People keep glancing at me. Quick looks. Curious ones. Like I suddenly grew a second head overnight.
Or maybe they’re just seeing me for the first time.
My desk sits just outside the executive offices. It’s technically a cubicle, but calling it that feels misleading. The walls are low and polished, the desk wide and immaculate, positioned directly across from the row of offices that belong to people with titles long enough to require two lines on a business card.
The doors are glass. Or at least they look like glass. One click of a button and the panels turn opaque, frosting over instantly so no one outside can see in. Privacy at the push of a switch. People inside the offices can still see out. A one-way mirror for power. I’ve always thought it was a little symbolic. Hours pass as I go through my usual routine, reviewing financial reports, updating spreadsheets, organizing invoices, and preparing documents for Andrew’s meetings.
It’s 4:30pm and I gather the presentation materials and walk toward Andrew’s office on the left. The door is clear for now. He’s inside, leaning over his desk.I knock lightly.
“Come in.” I step inside and place the folder on his desk.
“PowerPoint slides are updated,” I say, sliding the tablet toward him. “And the financial reports you requested.”
Inside the folder are the printed quarterly summaries, the updated revenue projections, and the expense breakdown sheets he’ll need when the investors start asking questions. Andrew flips through them quickly.
“Perfect,” he says. Then he looks up. His gaze lingers just a second longer than necessary. “Well,” he says, leaning back slightly in his chair, “someone’s making the rest of the office look underdressed today..” There’s a small smile on his face.
Andrew flirts with everyone. The interns. The receptionists. The women in accounting. It’s practically part of his personality at this point. Still, it makes something in me tighten. Normally I would brush it off but today my patience feels thinner. Unfortunately, I need this job. Especially now. If I’m seriously considering leaving Dominic, that means leaving the life Dominic pays for.
The house, the bills, the quiet comfort of never worrying about rent. Dominic can afford it. He’s a Doctor and his parents paid for most of his medical school before he even earned the title. That kind of head startchanges everything. I didn’t grow up with that kind of safety net. My childhood was firmly middle class, the kind where the fridge was always full enough, but every grocery trip came with mental math. Just enough money for the essentials.
Unfortunately, Andrew keeps talking. “And the hair,” he adds casually. “That look suits you.” Something inside me snaps. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s Dominic. Or maybe I’m just suddenly tired of men commenting on things that have nothing to do with the work I actually do.
“I’ll make sure the spreadsheets get the same attention,” I say dryly.
Andrew’s smile looks forced. “Relax,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It was meant as a compliment.”
“Was it?” I reply and the irritation in my voice is sharper than I intended. For a moment neither of us speaks. Then Andrew exhales, clearly annoyed.
“Okay, new look, new attitude. Got it. You know,” he mutters, “some people would appreciate compliments coming from—”
He stops. His attention shifts past me. Toward the glass door behind me. His expression changes instantly. Professional. Polished.
“Mr. Blackthorne,” he says quickly, standing. “Welcome.”
Slowly, I turn, my stomach drops.
Lucien.
He looks… different.
The same person, and yet not the same at all. The man I met last night, leaning against a bar with rolled sleeves and a quiet smile, is the same man standing here now in a tailored suit like the world was built for him.He’s wearing a dark suit, the kind that fits like it was designed specifically for him. Crisp white shirt. Dark tie. A gold watch peeking out beneath the cuff of his sleeve.