Chapter 6 A new dawn

Ariana

The Voss Enterprises elevator hummed like a held breath, smooth and silent as it climbed. Floor numbers blinked—30, 35, 40—each one a step deeper into Damien’s world. Ariana stood perfectly still, with her spine straight and her hands clasped in front of her. Her navy pencil skirt and crisp white blouse felt like armor. Thin armor.

She’d ironed the blouse twice last night.

Her reflection in the polished steel doors stared back, it was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, her lips pressed into a line so tight it hurt. She looked like someone trying very hard not to be afraid. And failing.

She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her father’s hollow gaze the night the police came. She heard her mother’s shrill, “What have you done?” echoing in the boardroom. And worse, she felt the phantom brush of Damien’s stare, it was cold and assessing, like he could peel back her skin and count her ribs.

She hated that he unsettled her. Hated that her pulse jumped just thinking about walking into his office again. It wasn’t fear. It was something else. Something that made her skin prickle and her thoughts scatter.

The elevator dinged. Forty-seven.

The doors slid open, revealing the heart of Damien’s empire.

The air smelled like money, it was clean, sterile, and utterly untouchable. A receptionist glanced up, offered a smile too polished to be real, and gestured wordlessly down the hall. Ariana nodded, her throat dry, and walked.

Every step echoed. Every head turned, just slightly. Whispers followed her like ghosts. She felt them their stares. Some were curious, pitying and dismissive. The Blake heiress. The scandal’s daughter. Damien Voss’s new toy.

She kept her chin up. Eyes forward. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

Damien’s office loomed at the end of the hall, a wall of glass overlooking the city like a throne room. She paused outside the door, took a slow, steadying breath, and knocked.

“Enter.”

His voice came out low and smooth. A command disguised as permission.

She pushed the door open.

He was already at his desk with his head bent over a tablet, his fingers flying across the screen. He didn’t look up. Sunlight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes. He looked carved like a statue.

“Coffee,” he said, without glancing up. “Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Single-origin. Brewed at precisely ninety-three degrees Celsius. In the blue porcelain cup. Not the white one.”

A test. Of course it was a test. "Fuck you" Ariana muttered under her breath.

“And?” she prompted, her voice surprisingly steady.

He finally lifted his gaze. Those blue eyes pinned her, sharp and unreadable. “Bring it in exactly seven minutes.”

Seven minutes. From this office, down to the lobby café, through what was surely a line of well-dressed executives, back up forty-seven floors.

Impossible.

A flicker of something, amusement?

Or perhaps a challenge?, passed over his face. “Tick-tock, Ms. Blake.”

She turned on her heel and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her like a guillotine.

***

The café was, predictably, chaos. A line snaked out the door. Men in thousand-dollar suits argued over oat milk. Women tapped impatiently on designer phones. Ariana pushed to the front, her voice tight.

“Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Single-origin. Ninety-three degrees. Blue cup.”

The barista, a young man with tired eyes, blinked. “Uh… we don’t measure by degrees, ma’am. And the blue cups are for VIP lounge members.”

Ariana’s stomach dropped. She glanced at her watch. Four minutes gone.

“Please,” she said, lowering her voice. “It’s for Damien Voss. I need to get it to his office before even minutes.”

The barista’s eyes widened. He nodded quickly, turning to the gleaming machine behind him. Steam hissed. Beans ground. Ariana watched the seconds tick by on her watch, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Five minutes. Six.

The barista handed her a steaming cup, a white porcelain. “Best I can do. It’s… hot”

She grabbed it, mumbled a thanks, and sprinted for the elevator. The doors slid shut just as she jammed her finger on the button. "Forty-seven. Forty-seven. Forty-seven". She muttered to herself.

The elevator climbed. Six minutes, forty-five seconds.

The doors opened and she ran as quickly as possible.

Seven minutes, one second.

She burst into Damien’s office, breathless, the white cup trembling in her hand. “Your coffee, Mr. Voss. Ethiopian. Single-origin. Approximately… very hot.”

He didn’t look up from his tablet. “Late. And it’s lukewarm.” He finally glanced at the cup, then at her. “Start over.”

"Over? You've got to be kidding me " She cursed to herself.

Her fingers tightened around the handle. Heat flooded her cheeks. Humiliation, sharp and acidic, rose in her throat. She wanted to throw the cup at his perfectly composed head. She wanted to scream. She wanted to walk out and never look back.

But Lily’s face flashed in her mind. Her sister’s quiet tears. The fifty families depending on Blake Enterprises.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Nodded, turned around, and walked out.

***

The second trip was worse. The line was longer now. The barista was flustered on seeing Aria again. She begged, she pleaded, she nearly cried. She got the blue cup this time. She raced back up, her heart pounding, lungs burning.

Six minutes, fifty-eight seconds.

She placed the cup on his desk with a soft clink. “Your coffee, Mr. Voss. Ethiopian Yirgacheffe. Single-origin. Brewed to perfection. In the blue porcelain cup.”

He looked up. Really looked at her. His gaze traveled over her flushed face, her damp hairline, the determined set of her jaw. He picked up the cup, took a slow, deliberate sip. His eyes never left hers.