Chapter 7- Debt and Demand

Aria’s POV

He sits on the edge of his desk, too close, the folder open again in his hands. His gray eyes scan the pages with intensity, piercing through every line as if searching for something deeply buried. Silence hangs thick in the room, broken only by the soft flutter of paper as he turns each sheet.

"Market analysis for Santiago," Damien's voice is controlled, but each word carries the weight of judgment. "Incomplete. You've covered basic market trends but missed the competitive positioning analysis entirely." His gaze sharpens, cutting through the flimsy excuse he anticipates.

"I didn't have time to…" I start, my voice trailing off under his scrutiny.

"Competitor research." He flips another page. "Superficial at best. You've listed companies but provided no depth on their strategies, no insight into their weaknesses. This is freshman-level work." His disappointment is noticeable.

My nails dig painfully into my palms as I fight the rising panic. "If I could have more time."

"The proposal revisions." Another page turned, his eyes never leaving mine. "You've made cosmetic changes but ignored the fundamental structural issues I outlined in my notes. Did you even read my notes, Ms. Holt?"

"Yes, but"

"Q4 strategy document." The folder snaps shut with a sharp crack that echoes in my chest. "Blank. Not a single word. Not even an outline."

The silence stretches between us suffocating. He's waiting for me to justify, to defend my failure, but there are no defenses left in me. So I force myself to meet his eyes, steadying my voice, though my heart threatens to give out.

"You're right." I say quietly. "The work is incomplete. I apologize."

"You apologize." He sets the folder aside and stands, moving around the desk to lean against it, arms crossed as he watches me. "Is that what you think I want? Apologies?"

"I'm asking for realistic deadlines." I keep my tone professional, though it wavers with desperation. "The workload Victoria assigned would take forty hours minimum. I had nine. I did my best."

"Your best isn't good enough." His words cut through me coldly. "You graduated top of your class from UCLA. You have a business degree. You should be able to manage time effectively, prioritize tasks, and work efficiently."

"I can do all of those things with reasonable expectations." I say.

"Reasonable?" His laugh is a bitter, hollow sound. "Do you know what's not reasonable, Ms. Holt? A sixteen-year-old girl burned to death because someone's father cut corners. A family business collapsing because of negligence. A father dying of a heart attack from stress."

The air leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp.

"That's not reasonable." Damien's voice drops lower and more dangerous, as if the echo of that tragedy still haunts him. "So forgive me if I don't care about your reasonable expectations."

My carefully built composure cracks. Just slightly—just enough that my voice wavers when I speak, betraying the storm beneath my calm exterior. "I understand you hate me." I stand abruptly, needing to anchor myself. "I understand you want me to suffer. But I can't complete forty hours of work in nine hours. It's impossible. No matter how hard I try."

"Then you'll work faster." He doesn't move, doesn't blink, his gaze unwavering and cold. "You'll work smarter. You'll stay late. Come in early. Whatever it takes. There are no excuses here."

"That's not"

"Fair?" His smile is chilling. "Welcome to Cross Technologies. Nothing here is fair. Everything here is earned through blood and sacrifice. If you can't handle it, there's the door."

He gestures toward the exit, the invitation heavy with cruelty.

Leave. Walk away. Quit on day one.

My mind flickers to my father's medication bottles lined up on the kitchen counter, my mother's weary eyes from sleepless nights, the few pennies left in my bank account like a cruel joke.

"I'll do better." The words are hollow. "Tomorrow, I'll"

"Tomorrow, Victoria will assign you more work." Damien steps closer, and I recoil inwardly, fighting the urge to retreat. "And the day after that. And the day after that. Until you either rise to meet my standards or break trying."

His presence looms, so close I can see the gray in his eyes isn't uniform—there are darker flecks near the pupil.

"Do you understand what you've signed up for?" His voice softens now, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "This isn't just a job, Ms. Holt. This is penance."

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hurl his cruelty back at him, but the words catch in my throat.

Instead, I nod. "I understand."

Something shifts in his expression. A flicker crosses his face—too quick to read. He opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw tightens. For a brief moment, I think he might say something different.

Instead I hear "Good." He steps back, retreating to his desk, dismissing me with a cold glance toward his computer. "You can go. Be here at seven AM tomorrow. And Ms. Holt?"

I'm halfway to the door when my hand pauses on the handle. "Yes?"

"Your father destroyed my family." His voice remains soft and controlled, but it carries the weight of years of hatred compressed into a single sentence. "Every single day you're here, I want you to remember that. This is what you owe."

The words hit me like a punch, knocking the wind out of my chest. I don't respond. I can't.

I just turn the handle and walk out.

Behind me, I hear papers shuffle. Then silence. I don't look back. If I look back now, I'll break completely. My heels click against marble floors.

The elevator ride down is a blur. The lobby is nearly empty. The cold night air bites at my face as I step outside, desperate for relief.

I make it to my car, hands trembling as they grip the steering wheel, and then the tears come silent at first, then in bitter waves.