First Glance, Fatal Spark

Chapter One

Aria’s POV

The elevator doors slid open, and the energy inside Blackwell & Vale hit like a cocktail of ambition and caffeine. Sleek glass panels. Cold marble floors. Clicking heels and fast-talking assistants zipped past, barely glancing at the newcomer clutching her ID badge like a lifeline.

That newcomer was me Aria Lane, first day on the job.

At least ten floors above, Julian Blackwell the man himself ruled the empire from a penthouse suite. Everyone whispered his name with reverence or fear. Sometimes both. I hadn’t met him yet, but I’d seen his photos. His tailored suits, arrogant jawline, those devastating gray eyes.

But pictures didn’t prepare me for him in motion.

“New girl?” a voice called out behind me.

I turned to find a woman about my age leaning against a desk, twirling a pen like she owned the air around her. Curly auburn hair, crisp black skirt, and the most judgmental eyebrows I’d ever seen.

“Yeah,” I offered. “Aria. Data analyst.”

“Madison. Julian’s executive assistant and your best bet at surviving around here.”

I blinked. “That intense?”

Madison smirked. “This place eats soft people alive. Don’t let the glass walls fool you. We’re all sharks.”

Before I could reply, a hush fell across the floor. Heads dipped. Voices hushed.

He was walking toward us.

Julian Blackwell.

No entourage. No files in hand. Just confidence dripping off his perfectly tailored charcoal suit. People cleared his path like they felt his presence before seeing him.

He stopped at Madison’s desk. “Is she the new analyst?”

I expected him to look through me. Maybe nod and walk on. Instead, those storm-gray eyes locked on mine like they’d been waiting.

“Aria Lane,” Madison answered.

“She’s early,” he said. “I like that.”

A slight smirk touched the corner of his mouth before he turned away and disappeared down the corridor.

He didn’t have to say more. The pull was immediate and dangerous.

Madison leaned closer once he was gone. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“That look. He gives it to everyone he finds interesting. Doesn’t mean anything. Julian Blackwell doesn’t date employees.”

“I wasn’t” I started, but she raised an eyebrow.

“Trust me. That man is an HR violation in a three-piece suit.”

Later that afternoon, I was setting up my workstation when a message popped up on my screen:

Julian Blackwell:

Meeting in my office. 4:00 p.m.

No subject. No explanation.

Just a summons.

Madison nearly choked on her coffee when she saw it.

“He never calls junior staff into his office. What did you do?”

“Nothing. I swear.”

My nerves were on high alert when I entered his top-floor suite. The view behind his desk was unreal Manhattan sprawled across the horizon, a testament to his empire.

He didn’t look up right away.

“Close the door.”

Click.

“You graduated top of your class. MIT. Dual major. Cybersecurity and data systems,” he said, scanning his monitor. “You left a high-paying role at QuantumByte to join us for half the salary.”

He finally looked up. “Why?”

“I didn’t want just a job. I wanted to make an impact. And your company’s restructuring plans what you’re doing with data ethics I wanted to be part of that.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “People say that. Rarely mean it.”

“I mean it.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “You’re smart. Driven. But here’s a rule don’t give me loyalty unless you understand the price.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

I walked out of that office with my heart pounding and my skin flushed. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t flirt. But that look like he could see through skin to bone lingered long after I sat back down.

The following days blurred. Long hours. Confidential files. A mounting sense that something wasn’t right. Certain documents I wasn’t supposed to see. Gaps in financial reports. A redacted memo labeled “Project Ember.”

One night, working late, I caught a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear. Madison and Julian arguing in his office sharply, urgently.

“You think bringing her in will fix it?” Madison snapped.

“It’s not about fixing. It’s about control,” Julian shot back.

Silence.

Then, “She’s going to find out.”

“She already suspects.”

I slipped away before they knew I was there.

Later that night, my inbox pinged again. A file with no sender. No subject line. Just a single attachment.

I opened it.

One sentence stared back at me:

You don’t know what you’ve stepped into. But it’s already too late.

My blood turned cold. Attached was a blurred image of someone on the floor, in what looked like the Blackwell data center. Unconscious. Or worse.

A second ping followed.

This time, it was video footage only five seconds long.

Julian standing in the shadows of the server room.

Looking down at the body.

And smiling.