Chapter 05

Emery Quinn

Thursday 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 your own insecurity.

Killian Vale hadn't summoned me yet.

But I could feel it. The inevitable pull of his attention, like gravity. Inescapable and constant.

He always did, eventually.

I settled at my desk, the sleek glass surface reflecting my face in fragments as I arranged my belongings with practiced precision. Everything in its place—pens aligned, notebook open, phone screen down. Order was currency here. Organization was armor.

The office hummed with the quiet pulse of expensive technology—air filtration systems that made the atmosphere feel almost too clean to breathe, intelligent lighting that adjusted to match the rising sun beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, security systems that watched without being seen.

I took a sip of my coffee. It was already cooling, the bitter warmth no match for the chill that permeated this floor regardless of season or thermostat setting.

My computer screen glowed to life as I logged in, the familiar corporate logo pulsing once before fading into my dashboard. Dozens of unread emails demanded my attention. Spreadsheets waited for updates. Calendar appointments loomed like sentinels marking the hours of another day under his command.

The silence of the morning stretched on as colleagues began to filter in, each moving with the careful precision of prey animals in predator territory. No one spoke above a whisper. No one laughed. Phones were answered on the first ring, keyboards clicked with muted urgency, and every pair of eyes darted occasionally toward the closed door.

His door.

Behind it, Killian Vale was already working. He arrived before me, doesn’t matter how early I came in. I sometimes wondered if he slept here, if he even slept at all. Or if perhaps he simply powered down at night, like the machines he seemed to prefer to people.

My coffee was empty by 7:30. The morning ritual of emails and reports continued without interruption. The systematic dismantling and reconstruction of information that made ValeCorp one of the most feared and respected companies in the industry.

I checked his schedule again—a habit born of survival instinct rather than professional diligence. Three meetings. Two calls. One blank space at 2 p.m. that could mean anything or nothing. Killian Vale didn't believe in transparency, even in something as mundane as a calendar. Information was power, and he hoarded power like a dragon hoards gold.

The hours ticked by in measured increments marked by the soft chime of my computer alerting me to new tasks, new demands, new opportunities to either excel or disappoint.

And still, I waited. For his voice over the intercom. For his door to open. For whatever test he had planned for today.

Because there was always a test with Killian Vale.

At 9:15 a.m., his door opened.

No intercom. No warning. Just the soft hydraulic hiss that announced either salvation or doom, followed by the quiet, rhythmic click of his custom Italian shoes against the polished concrete floor.

I looked up, startled despite my anticipation. No matter how prepared I thought I was, the sight of him always caught me off guard—like staring at an eclipse without proper protection. Dangerous, but impossible to look away from.

Killian Vale moved like a predator—smooth, purposeful, economical. Not a single gesture wasted. Not a single step without intent. His suit today was charcoal gray, the fabric so fine it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. No tie. White shirt, top button undone. A concession to humanity that somehow made him seem less human, not more.

He didn't speak. Just walked past my desk and dropped a file in front of me—thick manila, no labels, nothing to indicate its importance except for the fact that it came from his hands.

"Meeting in Conference Room B in thirty minutes. I want you there."

His voice was low, controlled. The kind of voice that never needed to raise itself to command attention. The kind that made you lean in, straining to catch every syllable like they were precious metals instead of mere words.

I blinked, my brain struggling to process the unexpected command. "Me?"

His eyes flicked to mine—dark, impenetrable, bordered by lashes that seemed too thick, too perfect for a man so devoid of softness. "Do you see anyone else?"

I ignored the sting in his tone, the subtle reminder that questions were weakness and weakness was unacceptable. "What's the meeting about?"

"You'll find out."

And just like that, he walked away, the sharp lines of his shoulders cutting through the air like a blade, leaving nothing in his wake but questions and the lingering scent of his cologne—something woodsy and exclusive, probably created just for him because Killian Vale would never smell like anyone else.

No explanation. No briefing.

Just a test.

Always a test.

I stared at the folder, heart racing despite my efforts to remain calm. This was new. Different. I'd never been invited to a meeting. I'd scheduled them, prepared for them, documented them afterward—but never participated.

What had changed?

Why now?

Why me?

The questions buzzed inside my skull like trapped insects as I opened the folder with careful fingers, already dreading what I might find inside. With Killian, information was never given freely. It was a weapon or a shield, depending on who wielded it. And I had exactly twenty-nine minutes to arm myself.

The folder was thicker than I expected. Inside were reports, emails, financial projections—all related to a real estate development ValeCorp had been circling for months. I skimmed quickly, my brain scrambling to connect dots, to build a coherent narrative from the fragments before me.

There was tension between the New York and London branches. Disagreements on zoning, investor confidence, risk thresholds. Numbers that didn't quite align. Promises that couldn't quite be kept. Timelines that stretched beyond reasonable expectations.

Messy.

Killian hated messy.

He existed in a world of clean lines and clear decisions. Of irrefutable facts and incontrovertible logic. Emotion was inefficient. Hesitation was weakness. And weakness, in his world, was unforgivable.

I traced my finger down a column of projected earnings, searching for the discrepancy I knew must be there. Killian wouldn't have given me this file if there wasn't something hidden inside it—something I was meant to find. Something that would prove my worth or confirm my inadequacy.

My eyes caught it on the third page—a subtle inconsistency in the quarterly projections. Numbers that had been massaged to look better than they were. Someone trying to hide failure beneath layers of financial jargon and creative accounting.

I made a note, then kept reading.

By 9:40, I had filled three pages of my notebook with observations, questions, and potential issues. My coffee sat forgotten at the edge of my desk, gone cold as I lost myself in the puzzle before me.

At 9:42, I followed Killian into Conference Room B.

It was smaller than the others. Intimate, almost. A single oval table of dark walnut, eight chairs upholstered in butter-soft leather, floor-to-ceiling windows on one side offering a vertiginous view of the city below, a glowing digital screen on the other wall waiting to display whatever truths or lies would be presented today.

Two men were already seated, both in expensive suits that tried to disguise the nervous sweat beading on their brows. They stood when Killian entered, a Pavlovian response to power that made me wonder if they would have done the same for me had I entered alone.

One extended a hand. "Mr. Vale, thank you for making time this morning."

Killian didn't take it.

He just sat, a subtle dismissal that left the man's hand hanging awkwardly in the air for a second too long before he withdrew it and returned to his seat, the rejection coloring his face with an embarrassed flush.

I hovered awkwardly behind Killian's chair, uncertain of my role in this carefully choreographed display of dominance. Was I meant to stand? To speak? To fade into the background like the furniture?

Then Killian gestured to the chair on his right—not looking at me, not acknowledging me beyond that single imperious movement of his hand.

"You'll take notes," he said, the command soft but unmistakable.

Of course. I was here to witness, not participate. To record, not contribute.