Chapter 3 – Into The Lion’s Den

Aria's POV

I kiss his cheek, hug my mother, and walk out.

***************

The glass tower rises forty stories above downtown Los Angeles, reflecting the morning sun. I stand on the sidewalk staring up at 1500 Apex Plaza, my reflection distorted in the gleaming surface.

Walk away. Sophie's voice echoes in my head. Just turn around and walk away.

But my bank account balance flashes behind my eyelids like a neon sign. Seventeen dollars. Seventeen dollars between me and disaster. My father's trembling hands flash through my mind, the way they shake when he reaches for his medication. The bills stacked on our kitchen counter, red ink screaming from every envelope.

I touch my father's old watch on my wrist. The metal is warm against my pulse point. I close my eyes, draw in a breath, and push through the revolving doors.

The lobby takes my breath away. White marble stretches endlessly in every direction, gleaming under recessed lighting. A massive Cross Technologies logo dominates the far wall—sleek and modern. Everyone here moves with purpose. I don't belong here. My every instinct screams it.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist's smile is professional, perfectly practiced. But her eyes catalog my affordable suit, my last-season shoes, the slightly worn edge of my briefcase.

"Aria Holt." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. I grip my briefcase tighter. "I have an interview with Mr. Cross."

Her fingers pause on the keyboard. Just for a second. Just long enough. But I catch it—that flicker of recognition, of pity, of something darker that makes my stomach clench.

"Take the executive elevator to the fortieth floor." She hands me a visitor badge without meeting my eyes. Her smile has frozen in place. "Someone will meet you there."

The elevator is glass, offering a panoramic view as it climbs. Los Angeles spreads below me—the city where my family lost everything, where Damien Cross rebuilt his empire from ashes and rage. The city that chewed us up and spit us out while he rose higher.

I remember the news coverage from eight years ago. Emily Cross, sixteen years old, bright-eyed in her school photo. The girl my father's company killed through negligence he refuses to fully explain. The girl whose death sent Damien's father into a fatal heart attack six months later. The family my family destroyed.

My father served three years. We lost our home, our savings, our name. But they lost so much more.

The article about Damien rebuilding Cross Technologies called him "surgically ruthless." There was a quote that haunted me: "I don't forget. I don't forgive. I collect what's owed."

And now I'm walking straight into his collection.

Each floor that passes feels like another step into his territory. Twenty floors. Thirty. Thirty-five.

By the time I reach the fortieth floor, my hands are shaking. I clasp them together, pressing my palms until they hurt. I step into the executive suite.

The temperature drops ten degrees. Everything here is glass and steel and sharp edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the city.

"Ms. Holt?"

A woman in her mid-forties approaches, her expression kind but cautious. She's dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. Not a strand out of place.

"I'm Elena Santos, Head of HR." She extends her hand. "Welcome to Cross Technologies."

Her grip is firm but her eyes hold something that makes my stomach twist.

"Thank you." I force a smile, trying to match the professional warmth in her voice. "It's good to be here."

The lie tastes metallic on my tongue.

Elena leads me down a corridor of glass-walled offices. Executives glance up from their desks, their gazes sliding over me with mild curiosity before returning to their screens. No one smiles. No one nods. It's like I'm invisible except for that initial assessment.

"You can wait here." Elena gestures to a stark waiting room. Two modern chairs face yet another wall of windows. The view is dizzying from this height. "Mr. Cross will see you shortly."

Shortly becomes twenty minutes. Then thirty. Forty.

Through the glass walls, I can see Elena at her desk. She glances toward me twice, and both times there's something in her expression that looks uncomfortably like pity. Not sympathy—pity. Like I'm already defeated.

My phone buzzes again. Sophie: Aria, PLEASE. Just walk out.

I silence it. She doesn't understand what it's like to watch your father's hands shake so badly he can't button his own shirt. To see your mother work double shifts until she's dead on her feet. To know your family's name is poison in every professional circle in this city.

At forty-one minutes, male voices drift from down the corridor. Deep. Authoritative. One has to be him. My heart rate spikes, pulse hammering in my throat. But the voices fade, moving toward another office.

This is deliberate. He's making me wait. Making me doubt. Making me desperate.

By the time you finally see him, you're already grateful just to be acknowledged.

I press my thumbnail into my palm. I won't be grateful. I can't afford to be.

At exactly forty-three minutes, footsteps approach. Measured. Deliberate. Unhurried.

I stand, smoothing my skirt with damp palms. My heart hammers against my ribs. I force my breathing to steady, counting seconds between inhales.

The office door opens.

Damien Cross stands silhouetted against the Los Angeles skyline, and I forget how to breathe.

He's taller than I expected. Six-two, maybe more. His suit is midnight blue, perfectly tailored to broad shoulders and a lean frame that speaks of controlled power. Dark hair styled with perfection. Strong jaw. Sharp cheekbones. And his eyes.

Gray eyes lock onto mine with such intensity I feel pinned in place like a butterfly on a board.

"Ms. Holt." His voice is deeply controlled, each syllable sharp. He doesn't move from the doorway. "How… fitting that you're here."

He doesn't extend his hand. Doesn't smile. Doesn't offer any of the pleasantries I expected. Just watches me with the focused attention of a predator who's found exactly what he's been hunting.

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "Mr. Cross. Thank you for seeing me."

"Oh, I've been looking forward to this." Something dangerous flickers across his face. “Come in”