Chapter 02

Emery Quinn

I 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 too wide, my posture too rigid. Even my carefully arranged hair seemed to have lost its composure, a few strands escaping to frame my face.

What had I done?

The enormity of it settled over me like a weighted blanket. I'd stood toe-to-toe with a man whose name was whispered in business circles with equal parts fear and reverence—and I hadn't flinched. At least, not visibly. I'd challenged him, even implied he was a monster, and instead of throwing me out, he'd hired me.

There had to be a catch. No one gets that lucky.

The elevator reached the ground floor with a muted chime that seemed to echo the uncertainty reverberating through my body. I stepped out into the sterile glow of ValeCorp's lobby again, but this time I felt different. Off-kilter. Like something fundamental had shifted in the universe and the rest of the world hadn't caught up yet.

No one looked at me. No one cared. The receptionist who had judged me earlier was helping someone else now, her perfect posture and practiced smile directed at another visitor. The security guards maintained their stoic vigil. The employees passing through the lobby were wrapped in their own importance, their own deadlines, their own lives.

I moved through the lobby like a ghost, my footsteps soundless on the polished floor. Every step took me further from that office, from those eyes, from that moment when my future had taken a sharp, unexpected turn. I passed through the heavy glass doors and onto the sharp edge of downtown, the transition from controlled environment to urban chaos as jarring as a slap.

The city was loud again. Horns blared from taxis caught in midday traffic. People shouted across the street to each other. A siren wailed in the distance, its pitch rising and falling like a warning. The chaos of normal life pressed against my skin like static electricity, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I blinked against the sunlight, so much brighter and harsher than the soft, recessed lighting of ValeCorp's upper floors.

I stood still, allowing pedestrians to flow around me, a stone in a stream. Then, with fingers that wouldn't quite stop trembling, I dug into my bag until I found my phone.

One missed call.

From Milo.

My chest tightened with that familiar combination of love and worry. My brother never called unless something was wrong. Unless he needed something. Unless the pain was back.

I found a bench just past the revolving doors, dropped into it, and called him back. It rang twice before I heard his voice—raspy and annoyed, the way it always got when his medication wasn't quite cutting it.

"Took you long enough."

"I was in the interview," I said, keeping my tone calm even though guilt coiled in my gut like a familiar serpent. "I told you I wouldn't be able to pick up."

There was a pause. The sound of rustling fabric, then a heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of his nineteen years. "Did you get it?"

I hesitated, then said softly, "Yeah. I start Monday."

For a second, all I heard was static. Then: "Seriously? ValeCorp? Emery, that place—"

"I know." My voice was sharper than I meant it to be, an edge that came from exhaustion and stress rather than anger. "I know what people say. But it's a paycheck. And we need it."

Milo didn't respond right away. I could picture him—curled on the old couch at home, hoodie up despite the warming spring weather, jaw clenched against the constant ache in his joints. Too thin. Too angry. Too young to carry what he carried.

I softened, regretting my tone. "This is going to help us, Milo. I'll be able to catch up on rent. Maybe even fix the heater before winter." I didn't mention his medical bills, the stack of them that grew taller each month. We both knew they were there, silent monuments to an illness that refused to be tamed.

His voice came smaller this time, stripped of the defensive layer he usually wore. "You're not gonna disappear into that place, are you?"

The question hung between us, laden with more than just words. Milo had watched our father disappear into his work after mom died—coming home later and later until one day he just... didn't. The apartment still held the ghost of him in certain corners, certain sounds.

I closed my eyes, feeling the sun on my lids, the city noise washing over me.

No promises.

Some things were better left unsaid.

"I'll call you later," I told him instead. "We can celebrate. I'll bring home that disgusting pizza you like."

He laughed, just a small huff of air, but it loosened something in my chest. "With anchovies?"

"If you insist on ruining perfectly good food, yes."

"You're the best, Em."

The nickname, the softness in his voice—it made everything worth it. The terror of the interview. The uncertainty ahead. The knowledge that I was walking into a situation that had broken others before me.

For him, I could face anything. Even Killian Vale.

I ended the call and sat for a moment longer, watching the city rush by. People with places to be, lives to lead. Just like me. Just trying to make it through another day.

When I finally stood, my legs felt steadier. My head clearer.

I had a job.

At ValeCorp.

With the most intimidating man I'd ever met.

God help me.

By Sunday night, the nerves returned.

They came in quiet waves, subtle at first—a flutter in my stomach while I laid out the only two professional outfits I owned on my bed. A tightness in my chest while I polished my worn black flats, willing them to look newer than they were. A tremor in my hands while I repacked my bag twice, then again, just to check I hadn't forgotten anything.

And then, as night deepened and sleep remained elusive, they grew. Expanded. Became a chorus of what-ifs that refused to be silenced.

What if I couldn't handle him? What if I made a mistake on my first day? What if this was all some elaborate joke, and I'd show up only to be told there was no position? What if I was walking into a trap of my own making?

The ceiling above my bed had no answers, just the familiar water stain that vaguely resembled Australia if you squinted. I traced its outline with my eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, listening to the quiet sounds of the apartment: the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional passing car, the soft wheezing of Milo's breath from the next room.

He was sleeping soundly for once, the new medication finally doing its job. I envied him that peace.

I rolled over, checking my phone again. 1:37 AM. Less than six hours before I needed to be up, dressed, and functioning at a level that would impress Mr. Vale.

Impossible.

Yet I must have slept eventually, because suddenly it was 6:00 AM, and I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing my hair into a neat, low bun and pretending I didn't feel like a fraud. The dark circles under my eyes testified to my restless night, but concealer worked minor miracles. My navy blue pants and white blouse were pressed within an inch of their lives. I'd even found a pair of small pearl earrings—my mother's—that added a touch of elegance without drawing too much attention.

"You've done harder things than this," I whispered to my reflection, the words fogging the mirror slightly. "You've been through worse."

My reflection didn't argue, but it didn't look convinced either.

I made coffee, strong and black. Forced down a piece of toast I couldn't taste. Checked on Milo, who was still sleeping, his features softened in repose, almost boyish. Left a note on the counter reminding him of his afternoon appointment and the leftovers in the fridge.

And then it was time.

The walk to the subway station was brisk, the morning air sharp enough to clear my head. The train was crowded with Monday commuters—tired eyes, coffee cups, newspapers, screens. I stood, gripping the overhead rail, watching the city blur past the windows. Three stops. Two. One.

And then ValeCorp Tower loomed before me, glass and steel reaching toward a sky that was just beginning to lighten from gray to pale blue. It seemed even more imposing in the early morning light, less like an office building and more like a monument to ambition.

To power.

To the man who waited at the top.