Crave Me,Kill Me

Aria Quinn stood at the edge of the revolving glass doors of Vale Corp’s headquarters, staring up at the building that looked less like a workplace and more like the kind of place empires were born and burned.

Her palms were sweating. Not from nerves she told herself that lie often enough to believe it but from the weight of what this interview meant. A chance to leave the past where it belonged. A chance to disappear into a world so far above her own, no one would ever think to look for her there.

“Breathe,” she whispered, adjusting the strap of her portfolio bag.

The building loomed above, all black marble and reflective steel, forty seven stories of ambition, intimidation, and impossible standards. It pulsed with money. And danger. Even the doormen looked like they carried earpieces and sidearms beneath their tailored jackets.

Aria stepped inside.

The lobby was silent except for the echo of her boots on polished stone. Dozens of people in sleek black suits moved through the space like they were part of a private cult flawless, efficient, and unknowable. A gold Vale Corp logo an ornate V etched into onyx sat behind the reception desk like a threat.

The receptionist didn’t smile. “Name?”

“Aria Quinn. Here for the 9:30 interview. Creative Department.”

The woman nodded, typed something, then handed her a temporary badge without looking up again. “Forty second floor. Conference Room E.”

No welcome. No good luck. Just… go.

The elevator ride felt like ascending into another reality. Aria glanced at her reflection in the polished door: dark eyes, long brown hair tucked into a low bun, sharp cheekbones that made her look colder than she felt. She looked… composed. But inside?

Inside, she still heard glass shatter. Still smelled blood. Still saw the night that ended everything she once was.

The doors opened with a soft chime. Vale Corp’s executive floor was a study in muted elegance: gray stone, smoked glass, and silence. Too much silence.

She stepped into it like a ghost.

Scene 2: Ice in the Air

The waiting room was too quiet.

Six chairs lined the glass wall like chess pieces, each spaced with mathematical precision. One other woman sat near the corner sleek, blonde, designer heels, tablet in hand, posture so stiff it hurt to look at. Aria wondered if she was there for the same position. If so, she was already dressed like she owned the floor.

Aria sank into the farthest seat. She reached for her portfolio, flipping through the pages of brand designs she’d curated: bold, disruptive, elegant. All her best work but even that felt fragile in her hands inside this building. She could smell wealth in the carpet. Power in the walls.

You don’t belong here.

The voice in her head was louder than the one she used to answer interview questions. She silenced it, turned another page, and practiced her breathing like her therapist taught her.

“Aria Quinn?”

She looked up fast. A tall man in an immaculate charcoal suit stood in the doorway, no smile, no greeting. Just: “This way.”

She rose, clutching her work. As she passed the blonde woman, she caught a flicker of a smirk. Whatever. Let her smirk. Aria had worked three jobs to build this portfolio. She’d earned every page.

The man led her down a hallway and opened a conference room door. Inside, three executives sat on one side of a long glass table. Two men in identical navy suits, and a woman with perfectly silvered hair and a face like carved steel. None of them stood. None of them smiled.

Aria sat when they gestured. They didn’t introduce themselves.

“We’ve reviewed your portfolio,” said the woman. “It’s… unconventional.”

“That’s intentional,” Aria said, keeping her tone even. “Your brief said you wanted bold. A rebrand of Lure Fragrance’s luxury line needs to speak differently to the post pandemic market.”

One of the men arched a brow. “You don’t come from any of the agencies we typically work with.”

“No. I’ve been freelance the last two years.”

“Why freelance?” the woman asked sharply. “After working at Davenport & Marks?”

Aria’s spine stiffened.

“I needed space to rediscover my voice,” she said. “The agency world forces conformity. It silences instinct. I needed instinct to survive.”

It slipped out. The word survive. She saw it land, the woman’s head tilting just slightly.

“And what exactly did you survive, Ms. Quinn?”

Aria’s lips parted. Heat rose to her neck.

“I meant creatively,” she said quickly. “Surviving creative burnout.”

A tense silence followed. The kind designed to make people unravel.

The man on the right flipped through her portfolio. “Your aesthetic is darker than we’re used to. But compelling. There’s a sense of edge… control.”

“I think luxury is about tension,” Aria said. “Desire without safety. Wanting what you shouldn’t have.”

The woman narrowed her eyes, but didn’t disagree.

“Mr. Vale will want to approve any final shortlist,” she said.

Aria blinked. “Mr. Vale,as in Cassian Vale?”

“Yes,” said the woman. “This rebrand is his initiative.”

Aria swallowed hard. She knew the name. Everyone in Manhattan knew the name.

Cassian Vale. Billionaire heir. Cold. Brilliant. Untouchable.

“I see,” Aria said softly.

Before they could ask another question, the door opened.

Someone walked in.

And the room changed.

Scene 3: The Man Behind the Empire

He didn’t knock. He didn’t need to.

When Cassian Vale entered, silence followed like a shadow.

He wore a black suit tailored within an inch of its existence, crisp, clean, unbothered by time or heat or nerves. His presence sucked the oxygen out of the room. He didn’t look at the executives. He looked straight at Aria.

And Aria forgot how to breathe.

His eyes were the first thing she noticed steel gray, unreadable, like cold metal beneath ice. His face was all sharp lines and masculine symmetry, chiseled and still. Not handsome in a soft way, but… arresting. Like something ancient and dangerous in a modern suit.

Her heartbeat slowed and then doubled.

“Ms. Quinn,” he said, his voice low and smooth, cut from the same cloth as his suit.

She stood. “Mr. Vale.”

His gaze dropped only slightly to her portfolio, then back to her face. He didn’t smile.

No handshake. No warmth. Just an assessment. A dissection.

“I heard you were bold,” he said, walking slowly behind the chairs, arms folded behind his back. “I like bold.”

“She’s one of the final candidates for the Lure rebrand,” said the silver haired woman. “We were about to conclude”

“Let her finish,” Cassian said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

The woman fell silent.

Cassian sat at the head of the table,his table. Aria hadn’t realized how much power he carried until he sat down, and every other executive shifted like planets around him.

He gestured toward her portfolio. “Walk me through your concept.”

Aria’s throat tightened. She wasn’t prepared for this for him. His energy was like standing next to a fire without being sure if it would warm you… or burn you alive.

But she cleared her throat and pushed forward. “The campaign focuses on restraint. Aesthetic control. I used grayscale shadows, negative space. The bottle is placed just out of reach in every shot. Visually, the message is simple: Want it. Chase it. Never quite have it.”

Cassian studied the images, but his gaze never lingered on the work. It kept drifting back to her.

When she finished, silence returned.

Cassian leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. “You’re not from our world.”

The way he said it wasn’t an insult. It was an observation. A challenge.

“I don’t think your world needs more of the same,” Aria replied.

That made something flicker in his eyes. The slightest curl at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. More like… interest.

Then: “Leave us.”

The executives paused.

Cassian didn’t repeat himself. They filed out without a word.

Now it was just the two of them. Alone in a soundproof glass room high above Manhattan. The city pulsed outside. Cassian Vale sat across from her like a man deciding whether to keep her… or ruin her.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Their eyes locked. A different kind of silence filled the space now. Charged. Chemical.

He stood. Slowly. Then walked to her side of the table.

Aria turned slightly,just enough to keep her eyes on him. Her heart was pounding, but her spine stayed straight.

“I’m not in the habit of hiring people I can’t predict,” he said, stopping just behind her. “But you… you’re an edge I can’t quite trace.”

Aria felt his presence at her back, heat radiating off him like a storm gathering behind glass.

“Do you want predictable, Mr. Vale?”

“No,” he said, voice quieter now. “I want control.”

Aria turned to face him fully.

“Then maybe I’m not what you want.”

Cassian’s gaze dropped to her mouth. Then back up to her eyes.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The air between them buzzed. He didn’t touch her. But he didn’t have to. His presence was contact enough.

Then he stepped back.

“You’ll have an answer by the end of the day,” he said. “That’ll be all, Ms. Quinn.”

He left as abruptly as he’d entered.

Scene 4: The Envelope

Later That Day…

Aria sat in the building’s lobby again, alone.

Her head spun not from the pressure of the interview, but from the man who had turned a ten minute meeting into a silent war of attraction and control.

She clutched the envelope the receptionist had handed her just moments ago.

“Final confirmation packet,” the woman said.

Aria opened it as she stepped outside into the wind.

Her contract offer sat on top, formal and flawless.

And underneath it

A photograph.

Aria’s hand froze.

It was a photo of her, age eighteen, standing outside a crumbling brownstone in Queens.

Wearing the same coat she’d worn the night he died.

The night she disappeared.

Her throat closed. Her hands began to shake.

No note. No explanation. Just the photo.

Someone at Vale Corp knew.

Someone knew she wasn’t supposed to be alive.