Lena's POVS

The next morning, I woke before my alarm. Not because I was excited—no. Because my brain refused to stop replaying every word from yesterday.

You’ll see a side of this company—and of me—that very few people ever do.

It had sounded like a promise and a warning all at once.

By 7:30, I was in the lobby of Vance Tower, coffee in one hand, tote bag in the other. The marble floor reflected my reflection at me: neat hair, crisp white blouse, pencil skirt. My thrifted heels didn’t exactly scream “high fashion,” but they’d have to. My mother’s voice rang in my head—If you can’t afford it, wear it like it’s custom-made.

The receptionist looked up from her screen. “Ms. Marlowe, Mr. Vance said to send you up the moment you arrived.”

The executive elevator was nothing like the ones I’d been using for months. Quieter. Faster. Almost eerily smooth. My stomach gave a lurch when the doors slid open to reveal Damian’s private floor.

His assistant—a tall, willowy man with perfect posture—greeted me with a clipped nod. “Follow me.”

Damian was already at his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that could sell a thousand-dollar watch. He didn’t look up right away, just finished signing a document before gesturing to the seat opposite.

“You’re early,” he said finally.

“You said to be here first thing.”

One corner of his mouth tilted up. “We’ll start with the Morgan project.”

“I’m not on the Morgan project.”

“You are now.” He slid a file across the desk. “Our most high-profile campaign this quarter. You’ll be working on final concept designs. Consider this… accelerated development.”

Translation: sink or swim.

For the next hour, we went over mood boards, fabric swatches, and sketches from the senior team. His feedback was precise and surgical. When he liked something, he said so. When he didn’t, his eyebrow did this slight, infuriating arch that told me everything.

Somewhere around the second coffee refill, I realized I was enjoying this. Not the constant undercurrent of tension—no, that was exhausting-but—the work itself. This wasn’t stapling lookbooks or fetching samples. This was the real thing.

“Your lines are confident,” he said, studying one of my rough sketches. “But your color palette is safe. Too safe.”

“I’m not in the habit of wasting company resources on experiments,” I replied before I could stop myself.

His eyebrow lifted again. “And yet, the only designers worth remembering are the ones who take risks.”

---

By lunch, my brain felt like it had been through a spin cycle. Damian stood, buttoning his jacket. “We’ll reconvene at three. My assistant will arrange lunch for you in the private lounge.”

The lounge was glass-walled, plush, with a city view that made you forget the street noise below. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. People who normally wouldn’t glance my way in the elevator were now peeking through the glass, whispering.

Marisol passed by with a colleague, eyes lingering on me before she leaned in to say something that made them both laugh.

My appetite vanished.

---

The afternoon session was worse, but not for the reasons I expected. Halfway through a layout review, Damian’s phone buzzed. He answered, face unreadable, then abruptly excused himself, telling me to keep working until he returned.

Five minutes later, the door opened—not Damian, but Victoria Kane.

If Damian’s presence was a thundercloud, Victoria’s was a flashbulb—bright, blinding, and impossible to ignore. She wore a fitted emerald dress that matched the sharp glint in her eyes.

“So you’re the junior designer he’s suddenly taken an interest in,” she said, strolling into the room like she owned it.

“I’m just doing my job,” I said carefully.

She smiled without warmth. “Be careful, Lena. Proximity to Damian Vance is like standing too close to a spotlight. You’ll get noticed, but you might also burn.”

She left as quickly as she’d arrived, the scent of expensive perfume lingering behind her.

---

At five, I expected to be dismissed. Instead, Damian looked up from his desk. “Come to the penthouse tomorrow evening. Seven sharp. Bring your current portfolio.”

I hesitated. “Your… penthouse?”

“Vance Tower. Top floor. We have a presentation to refine before Monday’s board meeting. And I don’t like distractions during office hours.”

It was phrased like an instruction, not an invitation.

---

The next evening

The elevator ride to the top floor felt like stepping into another world. When the doors opened, the penthouse unfolded in a sweep of glass and steel, with the city glittering like spilled jewels beneath us.

Damian was waiting by the floor-to-ceiling windows, jacket off again, tie loosened. The air between us felt… different. Less guarded.

He gestured to the massive table where my portfolio was already laid out. “We’ll start with your latest concepts.”

For the next hour, we moved between designs and strategy notes. His focus was absolute, but there were moments—brief, flickering—when his gaze lingered on me longer than strictly professional.

I told myself I was imagining it.

Until he stepped closer to adjust a sketch, his hand brushing mine. The contact was light, but it sent a pulse straight up my arm.

“You’ve got an eye for detail most people miss,” he said quietly.

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed. The guarded mask dropped, replaced by something sharp, dangerous.

He looked at me, eyes unreadable. “You need to leave. Now.”

“Why? What happened?”

Instead of answering, he walked to the window, phone pressed to his ear. I caught only fragments—leak… no, it’s too soon… find out who.

My stomach twisted.

When he turned back, his voice was calm again, too calm. “Lena, go home. And don’t answer any calls from unknown numbers tonight.”

The elevator doors closed behind me, but the image stayed in my head—Damian Vance, looking out over the city like a man preparing for war.

And I had the sinking feeling I’d just been pulled into the middle of it.