It had been a week since Eris Moreau stepped into Vanguard's orbit—and the place still felt like a glass palace. Too polished. Too pristine. Too damn far from anything that ever belonged to her.
This morning, she needed only one thing. Tea. Green. Half a spoon of honey. No lemon. No fuss.
The pantry on the 47th floor was almost empty. Cold air clawed at her spine, the kind of chill that sank straight to the bone. Overhead, the chandelier glittered like cruel raindrops. Somewhere in the corner, coffee brewed, smoky and bitter, clinging to the air like a warning.
But not empty enough.
Violette Rianne.
Shoulder-length black hair, hacked into a sharp wolf cut that looked like it could draw blood if you touched it the wrong way. Navy slim-fit blazer, tailored like sin. Pants, not skirts—always pants. Violette didn't bow, not even symbolically.
She was pouring black coffee into a Vanguard-branded mug. Precise. Efficient. Mechanical. Eris couldn't tell if it was for herself or—God help her—for their CEO. The one rumored to be colder than outer space.
"Mmh. Honey, huh?" Violette's voice sliced the air without looking. "Of course. Special little girls always like their drinks sweet."
Eris didn't bite. Not right away. She'd learned that lesson fast. But one corner of her mouth lifted. A ghost of a smirk, sharp as broken glass.
"Morning to you too, Miss Violette." Her voice came out soft, velvet-draped steel. "You had breakfast yet? Word is, sarcasm tastes better on a full stomach."
That earned her a glance. Slow. Surgical.
One dark grey brow arched, and Violette's eyes—cooler than Darian's, less silver, more storm—swept over her like she was being audited by a predator in a pencil skirt.
"You learn fast," Violette said, low. "Most interns take three weeks before they grow a backbone."
Eris shrugged, poured hot water into her mug. Steam curled up like a sigh from hell. "Didn't get the luxury of three weeks. The world doesn't exactly wait."
Silence stretched, thin and razor-edged. Only the soft stir of spoons and the hiss of the coffee machine dared interrupt. Not peaceful silence—tense. Sharp. Like holding your breath during a coin toss.
"Strange," Violette said, leaning back against the counter, sipping her coffee. "Most fast-tracked interns here are spoiled and clueless. You… pretend to know your place."
Pretend.
Eris didn't flinch. Didn't deny it either. Denial reeked of desperation.
"Yeah, well," she said, voice light, "I'm just an intern. Haven't had time to be arrogant yet."
Something twitched at the corner of Violette's mouth. Not a smile. No. More like a warning dressed in sympathy. "Stay in your lane, Moreau. Vanguard isn't a place to get comfortable."
Eris took a sip of her tea. Her gaze never left Violette's. "Thanks, Career Coach of the Year."
And for a split second—just one, barely-there beat—Violette almost smiled.
Then she turned, heels clicking like distant thunder, and disappeared down the hall. Left behind was the scent of strong coffee and something colder than the AC.
Eris let out a breath. Heart still racing—not from fear. Not from rage.
Wary.
That was the word.
Violette wasn't an enemy. Not yet.
But Eris had seen that look before. The kind of woman who lit bridges on fire before they were even finished.
And that one? She carried matches in every pocket. She hadn't even made it halfway through her tea when it hit her.
Not Violette's coffee. Something darker. Sharper.
Expensive cologne—no way in hell from a discount rack. Warm spices, cedar, a trace of something bitter, like a secret half-whispered and left to rot in the silence.
Footsteps. Unhurried. Deliberate.
Shit.
She didn't need to turn. Her spine already knew.
Darian Gravelle.
Of course he didn't knock. Why would he? CEOs didn't ask permission, especially not for ghost corners like this—places interns like her pretended didn't exist unless they wanted to be caught out of place.
He walked in like he owned gravity. Like even the air bent around him.
Black. Everything black. Button-down open at the collar, jacket hanging lazy over one shoulder, silver watch gleaming not from polish but intention. His eyes—gray. Not cold. Worse. The kind of gray that read you, quietly, like a manual on how to destroy yourself.
He didn't look at her. Not right away.
But that one pause, that passing glance?
It made her grip on the teacup feel idiotic.
"Miss Rianne." His voice was low—not performance-deep, not theatrical. Just... sharp. A blade wrapped in silk.
Violette turned, all smooth edges and professional veneer. Her smile? Corporate perfect. Plastic with a pulse. "Black, as always."
She handed him the mug. Their fingers almost brushed.
Almost.
Eris caught it. The inhale Violette didn't mean to take.
Darian accepted the mug with a nod. No thank you. Just that subtle acknowledgment—like a god too polite to ignore you, but too distant to care.
Then—and only then—his eyes cut to Eris. She nearly dropped the damn cup. That stare didn't ask who she was.
It asked how much she knew… and what she'd do once she figured it out.
She raised her tea in mock salute, smile soft, sugarcoated with irony. "Morning, sir."
"Miss Moreau." His voice curled around her name like smoke. Precise. Too precise. Like he went out of his way not to say it with any kind of warmth—just to remind her how far below him she was standing.
But he didn't walk away.
Didn't glance at his phone, didn't pretend he had somewhere better to be.
He just stood there. In her space. Not touching, not crowding—but still too close. Like heat from a flame you're not supposed to want.
And she felt it. That pull.
Goddamn it.
Violette went quiet. Still. Watching. Measuring. Darian silent. Eris screaming internally, thanks.
Her heartbeat pounded like a siren she couldn't reach. She smiled through it. Said nothing.
—"I hear you've adjusted quickly," he said. Calm. Neutral. But there was a hook at the end of it, like a lure dipped just close enough to tempt a bite.
She didn't flinch. "Just going with the flow, sir," she replied sweetly. "Fighting the current sounds exhausting."
His eyes narrowed. Slight. Subtle. Like he was dissecting her, mentally. Peeling layers. "Only those who can't swim drown."
And then he turned and walked out. Just like that. Left the scent of dark roast and ruin in his wake.
Violette lingered a beat too long. Her gaze sharp enough to draw blood, though her mouth said nothing.
And then she followed him.
Gone.
Eris stayed where she was, fingers curled tight around a mug of now-lukewarm tea.
Hell.
She hadn't even realized she'd stopped breathing. What the fuck was that? Because that? That wasn't the way a boss looked at an intern.
That was the look of a predator... curious.
And her? She was a damn idiot for wanting to be curious right back.
The strategy room was still half-asleep when Eris pushed the door open.
Morning light hadn't fully claimed the space yet—only thin, pale slivers slipping between the blinds, dancing faintly across the cool gray marble. That quiet hum, the kind that usually meant "you're the first," buzzed in her ears.
But someone was already there.
A silhouette. Motionless. Almost a shadow carved into the room itself.
Laurent Delacroix.
Dark gray suit. Black tie. A pale blue shirt so crisp it probably came out of the womb ironed. His hair—blond and slicked back like a silent threat—was just this side of too neat, like he knew exactly how far to push perfection without making it try-hard.
And the glasses?
Thin, metallic. Deadly in their simplicity. The kind of frames that made breathing optional when he looked at you from under them.
He was looking now.
Well, shit.
Eris almost forgot how to close a damn door without making it sound like a declaration.
"Miss Moreau."
Quiet. Flat. No real inflection, but somehow it still sliced clean—like he'd heard her heels before she even touched the threshold. Like he always knew. Like he didn't bother turning his head because he didn't have to.
She cleared her throat, tucked her hair behind her ear—pointless reflex. Like that would make a dent in the tension coating the room.
"Morning, sir Delacroix."
No reply. Just a slow lift of the matte-black mug in his hand. Steam curled up lazily, fragrant and fresh.
Wait—hold on.
She glanced at the clock. She'd just been in the pantry. No Laurent in sight.
So... either he got coffee from another floor and still made it up here with that mug steaming like sin—or worse—
He'd been here. In the damn dark. Just sitting there like some kind of corporate phantom.
Eris exhaled, tried for casual. "Kinda early for caffeine levels like that."
Not flirting. Just... survival. Nervous system doing its own thing.
Laurent rotated his cup with a thoughtful twist, eyes locked on the dark liquid like it whispered things only he understood.
"Caffeine doesn't betray you."
Oh.
Well. That was... dramatic.
And depressingly fair.
"If the tea's sweet enough, it might," she shot back with a half-smile, teeth showing, a flicker of challenge tucked behind the edge.
He looked up then.
Ice-blue, behind glass.
There was something loaded in that gaze—not warm, not cruel, just... calculating. Like he was deciding whether she was worth burning time on.
"You came from the pantry?"
She nodded, slow.
"You're a minute and thirty-eight seconds later than yesterday."
...Excuse me? Did he just—was he tracking her timing?
"What, you logging my bathroom breaks too?"
No answer. Of course not.
She dropped her bag, pulled out her chair, deliberately choosing the one farthest from his, because what the hell else do you do when a man starts citing your arrival times like he's memorizing your behavioral patterns?
"There were two legal managers in the elevator with me," she muttered, booting up her laptop. "Arguing about a clause like they were fighting over custody. One more 'non-disclosure' and I was about to scale the damn building."
Nothing. Not even a smirk.
But there was a flicker—barely-there movement at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. More like… the exact moment a puzzle piece clicks into place.
"Begin," he said, finally.
Just that.
Eris forced her eyes to the screen. Laurent's fingers had already found the keyboard again, moving with that kind of practiced, restrained grace that made every damn key press sound like a quiet seduction.
No music. No chatter. Just the soft hum of the AC and the sound of him breathing.
And her? She already knew today was going to suck. Not because of work. Because how the hell was she supposed to focus with that man across the table?
The walking definition of off-limits.
The exact flavor of forbidden that made you want a taste just to prove you could survive it.
Click. Click. Click.
The mouse and keyboard were having their own toxic relationship. Sharp. Repetitive. Like a pop song on loop that nobody asked for. Spreadsheet hell glared back at her from the screen—columns all pastel like someone tried to make math cute. It wasn't. It was still hell.
Eris propped her chin on one hand, back straight, eyes skimming over performance charts from Vanguard's hotel branches. The numbers danced like mood swings on the third day of a period—some stable, some suspicious, most just annoying.
She'd give Laurent a damn haiku if that's what he wanted. As long as he stopped breathing down her neck like a tax audit in human form.
Around her, chairs began filling. The kind of fancy office chairs that looked expensive but made fart noises every time someone sat down. Corporate humiliation, now with sound effects.
Then came Clara.
Like a glitter bomb in the middle of a funeral.
"GUESS what I just heard," she announced, slamming her bright pink tumbler onto the desk like it owed her money. Her bob was flipped outward like an angry bird's tail, heart-shaped earrings jangling like they had gossip of their own. The sweater? Too yellow. Too happy. Too much.
Eris didn't bother looking up. "If this is about Laurent chain-smoking in his undershirt on the rooftop, I don't wanna know."
"Please. I wish," Clara hissed, leaning in like she was about to leak state secrets. "It's about Hotel Orléans. The Paris branch. People say the thirteenth floor… never gets rented out."
And there it was.
The morning's jump scare.
Leon—guy across the aisle with a permanent hoodie-blazer combo and typing style like he was trying to physically punish his laptop—arched a brow without glancing their way. "Or maybe," he muttered, voice all sleep and sarcasm, "the thirteenth floor's rented to people who don't exist in spreadsheets."
Boom.
Clara's mouth opened. Closed. "You always sound like a true crime doc on 1.5x speed."
Leon shrugged. "Still not wrong."
Eris let her gaze flick over. Yeah, she'd heard whispers too. About that floor. Rooms with no names, no invoices, no check-ins logged. Cleaning staff assigned to that level had weird shifts. Real weird. Middle-of-the-night, don't-ask-questions weird.
Some said if you went in… You didn't leave using the same elevator. But that was just a story, right?
"Thirteenth floors usually get skipped in high-rises. Superstition," Eris murmured, eyes flicking back to the screen. "Or marketing. 'Forbidden floor' sounds sexy. Makes the brand feel edgy."
Leon made a small clicking noise. "Sounds like you've rehearsed that. Like you're trying real hard to believe it."
She smirked.
Touché, Hoodie Boy.
But she didn't give them the win of a reply. Because, yeah. She wanted to know. Not just about the damn floor. About everything Vanguard buried beneath its bergamot-scented lobbies and glossy marble sins.
Something was off.
But God, wasn't that the point?
From the far side of the room, she felt it—like a chill crawling up her spine.
Laurent had stopped typing. Not slowly. Not distracted. Just—stopped. And his coffee? Still untouched. Still hot. Still waiting for something.
Klik.
Laurent closed his laptop with a motion too slow to be casual, too smooth to be angry—but somehow still sharp enough to slice the air clean in half. That soft snap of the lid landing felt less like plastic and more like metal doors sealing in a prison block.
Eris froze.
Clara? Still talking. Still smiling. Still steering her damn Titanic straight into the iceberg.
"Clara," Laurent said. Calm. Flat.
No tremor. No rush.
But cold.
Like-the-last-thing-you-hear-before-a-body-goes-missing kind of cold.
Clara, bright and oblivious as a child holding a sparkler in a forest fire, beamed. "Yes, Sir Delacroix Laurent?"
Oh God. No. Abort, girl. Abort.
Laurent stood. Unhurried. That white shirt crisp enough to cut glass, sleeves rolled like he might perform surgery or murder optimism—hard to tell which. His height didn't help. He always looked like someone who'd been sculpted by stress and elitism in equal parts.
"It's been seven minutes past office hour." His eyes flicked—Eris's desk, Clara's face, Leon's slouch. "I wasn't aware Vanguard paid its interns to investigate ghost stories."
Leon? Gone. Vanished into his hoodie like a turtle with anxiety.
Clara, bless her comedic timing, giggled. "Hehe… just warming up the day, Sir!"
Oh honey.
Laurent looked at her. Just looked. No twitch, no sigh. But it still felt like someone had replaced the air with knives.
"Then warm up your manners as well."
That smile—God, that smile—barely there, sharper than sin. "If you're well enough to speak after ignoring my presence for three full minutes, I'll assume you're healthy enough for tonight's overtime."
Twenty-one words. One professional death sentence. Clara melted into her chair with the grace of a discount candle.
"Noted, Sir."
Then he turned to Eris. Didn't speak. Didn't have to. He'd heard. Thirteenth floor. No records. No invoices. Ghost-level secrecy.
And now she felt like a kid caught sneaking into her dad's closet with a stolen lighter and bad ideas.
But she didn't flinch. Didn't fidget. Just smiled. Not the sweet kind. Not the harmless kind. The kind that meant: I'm watching you too.
Laurent didn't smile back. Just sat, lifted his coffee—still steaming.
Still hot. He'd been there since she walked in. How the hell…?
"Finish the hotel report," he said, eyes already on his screen. "And try to remember the difference between work and a murder podcast."
Not a suggestion. A line carved in stone.
Eris gave a crisp nod. "Yes, Sir."
Then leaned toward her screen like she was fully back to work.
Note to self: Laurent. DILF. Dangerous. Probably part-NSA.
Also?
His sarcasm could end careers before lunch. But hey… At least the drama was hot.