Beneath His Ice

Emery QuinnI 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

Emery QuinnI didn't feel victorious.I felt... numb. Hollow, as if something vital had been scooped out and replaced with a strange, pulsing uncertainty.The elevator doors closed behind me with a metallic hush, and I was still clutching the visitor pass like it was evidence from a crime scene. I looked down at the sharp, black rectangle in my palm—proof that I'd been up there. That I'd met the infamous Killian Vale. That I'd somehow been offered a job by a man who hadn't smiled once during our entire encounter.Start Monday. Seven a.m.It sounded more like a warning than a welcome. Like I was being summoned to a reckoning rather than a position.I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding and leaned back against the mirrored wall, the cool surface grounding me as the elevator descended. My reflection stared back at me from all angles, pale and stunned. I looked like someone who had just walked away from a car crash—untouched on the outside, but not quite whole. My eyes were

Emery QuinnBy 9:00 a.m., my hands were already starting to ache.I had typed four memos, drafted two reports, updated the executive calendar, and reorganized the meeting itinerary for a board member I'd never heard of until this morning. Each document required meticulous attention to detail, with margins precisely measured and formatting executed to perfection. The memos alone had taken nearly an hour—corporate language is its own peculiar dialect, with veiled meanings and subtle implications hidden beneath innocuous phrases. I'd triple-checked my work, terrified of making even the smallest error.There were color codes—blue for immediate action, yellow for pending approval, red for urgent executive attention. There were abbreviations I had to Google under the desk like a criminal, fingers dancing across my phone screen while glancing nervously at the closed office door across from me. EOCQ (End of Current Quarter), BFMA (Budget for Marketing Allocation), SVP-CD (Senior Vice Presiden

Emery QuinnI dreamed of him.It wasn't romantic—not like the dreams that leave you flushed and disoriented, clinging to phantom sensations.It wasn't sexual—none of that desperate heat that crawls under your skin and stays there well into the morning.It was just his voice—low, cold, and sharp, an instrument of precision rather than passion. In the dream, he stood in shadow, face obscured, only his silhouette visible against a backdrop of endless glass windows. That voice repeated the same thing over and over again, each iteration more insistent than the last: Everything is a test. Everything is a test. Everything is a test.I woke with a gasp and my heart pounding against my ribs like a prisoner trying to escape. The room was still dark, my cheap alarm clock blinking 5:29 a.m. in pale green numbers that cast an eerie glow across my rumpled bedding. I sat up slowly, pressing my hand to my chest, feeling the rapid flutter beneath my palm. My t-shirt was damp with sweat despite the apa

Emery QuinnThursday started like every other day—with silence.Not the comforting kind that wraps around you like a familiar blanket, but the kind that hangs heavy in the air, sharp and expectant, like everything could shatter if you breathe too loudly. That kind of silence lived on the top floor of ValeCorp like a ghost that refused to leave, haunting the sterile corridors and minimalist offices where ambition came to die a slow, suffocating death.I arrived at 6:58 a.m., exactly as I did every morning, coffee in one hand, dignity in the other. My dignity had started to wear thin lately, though. Not from anything specific—there were no dramatic confrontations or public humiliations to point to—just... erosion. The subtle kind that comes from working under a man who never raises his voice but somehow still leaves you feeling like you've failed just by existing in his presence. The kind that strips away layers of self-worth so gradually you barely notice until you're standing naked in