Beneath His Ice

Emery Quinn

I didn't belong here.

That was my first thought the moment I stepped into the glistening lobby of ValeCorp Tower. Not just because the floor beneath my heels looked polished enough to see my reflection in, or because every single person walking past me looked like they were born wearing tailored suits. It was more than that.

It was the air—cool and pristine, filtered through some expensive system that removed any hint of the city outside. It was the silence, broken only by purposeful footsteps and hushed, important conversations. It was the weight of invisible judgment pressing on my shoulders, as tangible as if someone had draped a heavy coat across my back.

I adjusted the strap of my fake leather purse, which creaked with protest, and prayed it wouldn't betray me by snapping in front of the glass-encased reception desk. The bag had served me well for three years now, through countless interviews and rejection emails. It was beginning to show its wear in the corners, just like my resolve.

My shoes—a sensible, worn pair of black flats—whispered against the marble. Not click-clacked. Whispered. The sound of someone trying not to be noticed, trying to blend into a world that wasn't designed for them.

No one else whispered here. Their footsteps announced their presence, their belongings didn't creak, and their eyes didn't dart nervously from corner to corner, searching for evidence that they'd made a terrible mistake just by showing up.

The reception area stretched before me like a museum exhibit, all clean lines and minimalist decor. Abstract art hung on walls that rose to a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A massive sculpture of what appeared to be the ValeCorp logo dominated the center of the space—sleek, imposing, a statement of power rather than beauty.

"Can I help you?"

The woman behind the desk looked up at me, her tone polite but glazed with that glossy disinterest of someone who filed humans into categories: important or unnecessary. I already knew which one I was. Her hair was pulled back into an immaculate ponytail, not a single strand daring to escape. Her makeup was flawless, highlighting cheekbones that could probably cut glass. The ValeCorp pin on her lapel glinted under the recessed lighting.

"Emery Quinn," I said, trying to make my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my chest. "I'm here for the assistant position. Ten a.m. interview."

Her gaze flicked to her screen, then to me again, lingering a second too long on my shoes. A barely perceptible change in her expression told me everything I needed to know about her assessment. She pressed a button on the landline, her manicured nail making a soft click. "Ms. Quinn is here. Yes... okay."

She stood, her movement as fluid as water. "Ninth floor. Human Resources. You'll need to scan this pass at the elevator."

She handed me a sleek black visitor badge that looked fancier than anything I owned. It felt cool and substantial in my palm, etched with the company logo and a barcode.

"Thank you," I murmured, clutching the badge like it might disappear if I loosened my grip.

I walked toward the elevators like I knew where I was going, even though every step felt like I was trespassing on private property. The lobby was vast, and crossing it seemed to take an eternity. My reflection ghosted alongside me in the polished surfaces of the walls, a constant reminder of how out of place I looked.

I'd applied for this job after yet another fruitless week of interviews. Three rejections, two "we'll call you" promises that never materialized, and one position that had been filled internally before I'd even sat down. Admin assistant to the CEO? I didn't think I'd even hear back. The listing had mentioned "competitive salary" and "comprehensive benefits"—phrases that had lost their meaning after months of job hunting, but still managed to kindle a flicker of hope.

But when the email came, offering an interview—at ValeCorp, no less—I'd stared at the screen for five minutes straight, rereading the words like they might disappear if I blinked. ValeCorp. The company whose skyscraper dominated the city skyline, whose CEO regularly appeared in business magazines with that trademark scowl, whose reputation for excellence was matched only by whispers about its cutthroat culture.

The elevator bank was tucked behind a curved wall, accessible only with a badge. I pressed mine against the sensor, and a soft chime indicated my clearance. The doors slid open silently, revealing an interior lined with the same dark marble as the lobby floor. I stepped inside alone, grateful for a brief moment to breathe.

My reflection in the mirrored walls didn't inspire confidence. My hair was neat, but not the glossy, magazine kind. The brown waves fell just past my shoulders, recently trimmed but lacking that salon shine. My blouse had been ironed last night, but the fabric was cheap—a pale blue that tried to look professional but instead just looked faded. My pants clung to my hips in a way that made me hyperaware of every inch of my body. I'd tried, though.

I'd tried so damn hard.

And now I was here, rocketing upward at a speed that made my ears pop, clutching a visitor badge like it was a golden ticket to a life I'd only glimpsed through windows.

The elevator displayed my ascent in glowing numbers. 4... 5... 6... Each floor brought me closer to a future I couldn't even imagine. What if I got this job? What would it mean? How would my life change?

Would I finally be able to pay off my student loans? Help my brother with his medical bills? Stop counting pennies at the grocery store? Stop lying awake at night, calculating and recalculating how long I could stretch my savings before the inevitable?

The doors slid open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing a corridor that was distinctly different from the grand lobby. This floor was designed for function, not impression. The carpet was a sensible gray, the walls a muted beige. Signs directed visitors to various departments, and the lighting was bright but not harsh.

A wave of relief washed over me. This, at least, felt more familiar. More human.

I stepped out, my shoes no longer whispering but still not quite belonging. The corridor stretched to my right, and a sign indicated Human Resources was just ahead. My shoulders relaxed slightly. I could do this. I'd prepared for this. I'd researched the company, rehearsed answers to common interview questions, even practiced my handshake in the mirror.

What I hadn't prepared for was the reality of being here, inside these walls, breathing this air. The enormity of the opportunity—and the potential for disappointment—crashed over me like a wave. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked forward.

The first step is always the hardest, my mother used to say. But she was wrong.

It's the steps after that—when you're committed, when there's no turning back—that really test what you're made of.

The HR office was smaller, more welcoming than the intimidating lobby. Potted plants softened the corners, and the lighting was warmer, less clinical. A bulletin board displayed employee achievements and announcements—evidence of actual humans working here, not just efficiency machines in expensive suits.

A woman in her mid-thirties stood to greet me with a warm smile that reached her eyes—the first genuine expression I'd seen since entering the building. She wore a burgundy blazer over a cream blouse, professional but not severe.

"Emery? I'm Kira, head of recruitment. Come in, let's chat."

Her handshake was firm but not aggressive, her tone friendly but not overly familiar. She gestured toward a chair across from her desk, which was stacked with neatly arranged files and a ValeCorp-branded coffee mug. The room smelled like cinnamon and printer ink—oddly comforting.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?" she asked, settling into her chair.

"I'm fine, thank you," I replied, though my throat felt like sandpaper. I didn't trust my hands not to shake if I had to hold a cup.

Kira was kind, surprisingly so. She asked about my degree in Business Administration, my last job at the environmental nonprofit, my availability. I answered everything as calmly as I could, though the tightness in my chest wouldn't leave. Each question seemed to carry hidden weight, implications I couldn't quite grasp.

"Your resume says you were working in nonprofit administration," she said, flipping through the pages. Her nails were painted a subdued plum color, and she wore a thin gold band on her right hand. "That's a big leap, coming to a corporate firm like this."

I gave a small smile, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "I'm a fast learner. And honestly, administration is administration, regardless of the setting. Organization, anticipation, communication—the core skills transfer."

She didn't immediately agree or disagree, which made my heart rate tick up a notch. Instead, she studied me, tilting her head slightly. "Why apply to ValeCorp specifically? You must have heard things about the company. Our reputation isn't exactly..." She paused, searching for the right word. "...warm."

The question hung between us. I could almost see my answer taking shape in the air, determining whether I'd ever see the floors above this one.

The truth was ugly. Rent that had increased twice in the past year. My brother's chronic illness and the medications insurance wouldn't cover. My savings, or what little was left of it after the heating system in my apartment failed in January.

But I couldn't say that. So I said, "I've always admired the company's... precision. Discipline. It's respected. Stable." I met her eyes directly. "I need stability."

Kira didn't nod or smile this time. She set the folder down and leaned forward slightly, elbows on her desk. "I won't lie to you, Emery. The CEO isn't an easy man to work for."

My mouth went dry, and I resisted the urge to reach for the water I'd declined. "I don't expect easy."

"He's... particular," she continued, choosing her words carefully. Each pause felt deliberate, calculated. "High standards. Minimal tolerance for mistakes. Three assistants in the last year have left, some in tears. Some didn't even collect their final check."

A cold flutter settled in my stomach, like a butterfly made of ice. "Why?"

"Because he doesn't like people," she said bluntly, without theatrics or apology. "He likes efficiency. Silence. Order. And if you're the type to take things personally..." She trailed off, the unfinished sentence more revealing than any explanation.

I swallowed, aware of how the sound seemed to echo in the sudden quiet. "I'm not."

She leaned back, eyeing me with quiet calculation. There was something in her expression—not quite sympathy, but understanding. Then: "He hasn't seen your file yet. I screen first. If I send you up, it means I believe you can handle him."

Handle him. Like a wild animal? Or a natural disaster?