Chapter 04

Emery Quinn

I 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 apartment's questionable heating system.

It was just a dream.

But it left behind a residue I couldn't shake—a film of anxiety that clung to my consciousness. The sensation followed me through my morning routine: brushing my teeth (twice, because the first time I was too distracted to be thorough), showering quickly in lukewarm water (the building's hot water was temperamental at best), selecting an outfit (a charcoal pencil skirt and cream blouse that looked professional without being flashy).

The coffee machine gurgled and hissed as I stared out my small kitchen window at the city awakening below. Traffic was already building, headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom like searchlights. Early risers hurried along sidewalks, breath forming clouds in the brisk morning air. I watched them without really seeing, my mind still caught in the echo chamber of that voice.

Everything is a test.

What did that even mean? Was it the standard corporate philosophy—that life was a series of evaluations, each one determining your worth? Or was it something more personal? A warning, perhaps. A challenge.

I poured coffee into a travel mug, added a splash of cream, and tried to shake off the lingering uneasiness. It was just workplace stress manifesting in my subconscious. Nothing more sinister than that.

But as I locked my apartment door and headed for the elevator, I couldn't quite convince myself it was true.

I arrived at ValeCorp early again—6:52 a.m. according to the imposing clock in the lobby. I wasn't trying to impress him; I just couldn't sit at home with that dream echoing in my head. The cold morning air had done nothing to wake me up, its bite merely adding another layer of discomfort to my already unsettled state. But the moment I stepped into the building, I was alert. Something about crossing that threshold—from the ordinary world into Killian Vale's domain—sharpened every sense.

The lobby was a cathedral of modern architecture. Soaring ceilings. Polished marble floors that reflected the recessed lighting. A massive sculpture dominated the center space—abstract metal twisting upward like ambition given form. Even at this hour, there was activity: security guards at their posts, maintenance staff polishing already gleaming surfaces, early executives striding purposefully toward elevators.

The receptionist raised a perfectly arched brow when she saw me. Her name was Charlotte, according to the sleek nameplate on her desk, though she'd never introduced herself. She regarded me with the same clinical interest one might give a lab specimen.

"You're early," she said, the observation carrying a hint of suspicion.

"I like getting a head start," I replied, aiming for casual confidence. The truth—that I'd been driven from my bed by dreams of her boss—seemed inadvisable to share.

She didn't respond. Just waved me through with a manicured hand, her attention already returning to her computer screen. The dismissal was familiar, part of the ValeCorp culture I was quickly learning: efficiency above courtesy, results above relationships.

I crossed the vast lobby toward the executive elevator banks. My heels clicked against marble, the sound oddly comforting in its predictability. At least something in this place followed expected patterns.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. Empty. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the top floor—the 87th, home to the most senior executives and, of course, Killian Vale himself. The doors slid closed, and I watched my reflection in the polished metal as the numbers climbed. I looked composed on the surface. Professional. Put-together. Only the slight tension around my eyes betrayed the chaos beneath.

The dream had unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. Not because it was frightening in the conventional sense, but because it felt like a premonition. Like my subconscious was trying to prepare me for something I couldn't yet see.

The elevator slowed its ascent, the digital display flashing 87. A soft chime announced my arrival at the executive suite, and the doors opened silently to reveal the now-familiar reception area.

I reached the top floor before anyone else. Even the executive coordinator wasn't at her desk yet, the usual clickety-clack of her keyboard absent from the morning quiet. The silence was heavier in the absence of people—thick, almost reverent, as if the space itself were holding its breath. I swiped my badge and stepped into my office area, flicking on the light.

The overhead fixtures illuminated the space gradually, revealing the sleek contours of my workstation. The glow reflected off the glass partitions, creating a maze of light and shadow that seemed to shift with each movement.

It was strange how quickly it had become familiar.

Desk. Chair. Monitor. Not a single personal item in sight.

Because this wasn't a space to exist in. It was a space to perform. To execute tasks with machine-like precision. To prove my worth through productivity rather than personality.

I hadn't dared to bring in even a small plant or a framed photo. Somehow, it felt presumptuous—like claiming territory that wasn't truly mine to claim. Or perhaps I simply sensed that Killian Vale preferred environments unmarked by individuality. Clean slates. Blank canvases. Places where emotion and sentiment couldn't interfere with efficiency.

I settled into my chair, feeling it adjust to my weight. The leather was cool against my back, a subtle reminder of how early I'd arrived. The computer hummed to life as I pressed the power button, the screen casting a pale blue glow across my hands.

I logged in and opened my inbox. Fifty-seven new emails.

They had accumulated overnight like snow—a steady drift of demands, questions, and tasks that would require hours to sort through properly. Subject lines blurred together: "Urgent: Board Meeting Materials," "FW: Quarterly Projections," "Request for Signature," "Meeting Confirmation," "Document Review Priority."

I stared at the screen for a long moment, then rolled up my sleeves. Metaphorically and literally, pushing the fine fabric up to my elbows as I prepared for battle.

The work was demanding but not impossible. I categorized the emails methodically—urgent, important but not time-sensitive, informational, and those requiring Killian's direct attention. I drafted responses where appropriate, scheduled meetings requested by senior staff, and compiled documents for review. The rhythm of the work was almost meditative, allowing my mind to focus on concrete tasks rather than lingering on dreams and anxieties.

Outside the window, the city emerged from shadow as daylight strengthened. The maze of buildings caught the morning sun, windows flashing like signals. Inside, the office remained in its perpetual state of climate-controlled perfection, untouched by the natural progression of the day.

By 7:20, the office door behind me clicked open.

I didn't turn. I didn't have to.

I felt him enter before I heard him—a subtle disturbance in the atmosphere, like air pressure dropping before a storm. The faintest shift in the air, like the room itself had straightened its spine in anticipation of his scrutiny.

My fingers continued typing, maintaining their steady rhythm on the keyboard. I kept my posture straight, my expression neutral. Showing neither surprise nor anxiety at his early arrival.

"Morning," I said, calm and professional. The word carried just enough warmth to be courteous without veering into the dangerous territory of familiarity.

No reply.

Only the subtle sound of expensive shoes against carpet, moving with deliberate precision. A few seconds later, the faint click of his door closing—a sound so soft it was almost imperceptible, yet somehow definitive.

I let out a slow breath I didn't realize I was holding. My shoulders relaxed fractionally, though the awareness of his presence remained—a constant hum in the background of my consciousness. Like working next to a high-voltage wire; even behind walls, you never quite forget its power.

The morning progressed with methodical efficiency. Other employees began to arrive—the executive coordinator settled at her station with a cappuccino and a brief nod in my direction; junior associates hurried past with tablets clutched to their chests; the IT specialist came to update software on my computer, his movements quick and nervous when Killian's name was mentioned.

I continued working through my tasks, occasionally glancing at the closed door. No sound emerged from his office. No calls. No summons. Just silence that somehow managed to be louder than any noise.

By mid-morning, I'd responded to twenty-eight emails, scheduled four meetings, and compiled a comprehensive brief on the upcoming shareholders' presentation. My coffee had gone cold in its mug, forgotten during the steady flow of work. I stretched discreetly, feeling the tension in my shoulders from hours of focused concentration.

The morning light had strengthened, casting sharp angles across my desk. Outside, clouds gathered along the horizon, promising afternoon rain. Inside, the climate remained perfectly regulated—temperature and humidity calibrated for optimal productivity.

I checked my watch—11:37 a.m. Nearly lunchtime, though I had no real appetite. Just a hollow space where hunger should be, filled instead with a nervous energy that seemed to feed on itself.

The office phone remained silent. The intercom unlit.

I returned to my screen, determined to prove—to him, to myself—that I could handle whatever test came next.

It wasn't until noon that he summoned me.

Just like before—no knock, no words—just a buzz on the line, sudden enough to make me start despite my vigilance.

I picked up immediately, spine straightening as if he could see me through the phone connection.

"Yes?"

His voice came through clear and precise: "Come in."

Click.

The line went dead before I could respond. Not that a response was expected or required. The summons was a command, not an invitation for dialogue.

I took a moment to gather myself—straightening papers that didn't need straightening, adjusting a collar that was already perfectly aligned. Small rituals of composure. Armor against whatever awaited me beyond that door.

I stood, smoothed my skirt, and walked the short distance between my desk and his office. Each step measured. Deliberate. My knock was firm but not aggressive—two quick taps against the polished wood.

No verbal response came, but that was expected. The summons itself was permission enough.

I turned the handle and entered his domain.