SHATTERED BEGINNING

The sound of my name cracked through the office like a whip.

“Elena Torres!”

Dozens of heads turned toward me. Fingers paused mid-typing, whispers rippled through the cubicles like a low current of electricity. My stomach tightened as I rose from my chair, dread pressing against my commitment. I clutched the file in my hands so tightly the edges bent.

Mr. Lawson’s glass office sat at the far end of the room, elevated like a question, and he didn’t wait for me to reach the door before his voice cut through the chatter again.

“Do you have any idea how much you’ve cost this company?”

I froze halfway across the floor. My colleagues pretended to work, but I could sense their eyes on me. “M—my checkbook—I—I corrected the numbers, sir,” I said softly, forcing the words through a tightened throat.

He leaned back in his leather chair, sneering. Corrected? You mean ruined. He tossed the folder across the desk; papers scattered at my feet like fallen birds. Do you think anyone will take this department seriously with mistakes like yours? Maybe you should focus less on acting innocent and more on being useful, and people snickered. My vision blurred, but I blinked fast, desperate not to cry in front of them.

I can do the report. ort.

He stood, stepping close enough for me to smell the bitter coffee on his breath. “You’ve been here three years, Elena, and you still can’t follow simple instructions.” His eyes trailed down on me, lingering where they shouldn’t. “Maybe you’re just… distracted.”

The room went silent. My pulse pounded in my ears. 

He smiled slowly, deliberately, and poisonously. “If you want to keep this job, come to my office after hours. We’ll… discuss how to make this right.”

The meaning behind his words burned hotter than shame itself. I swallowed hard. “No,” I whispered, voice trembling but firm.

His jaw clenched. “Then you’re done here.”

He turned away, dismissing me like trash. The whispering started again, sharper this time: "pathetic, tic, fired, stupid girl." rl. I gathered the papers with shaking hands, pretending not to hear, pretending I still had a shred of dignity left.

When I stepped outside, the winter air hit me like punishment. The city lights blurred through tears. I refused to let it fall. My heels clicked against the pavement until one snapped, sending me stumbling into a puddle. Cold water splashed up my legs. Perfect. Just perfect.

By the time I reached my apartment, my body felt hollow. The tiny one-bedroom smelled faintly of damp plaster and exhaustion. I kicked off my shoes and sank to the floor, and for a moment, I just sat there in silence, in shame, in pain too deep to name. Then the tears came, heavy and ugly.

I thought about the rent due in three days. The bills were stacked like curses on the counter. My sister, Clara, who is still in school, depends on me. And the job I’d just lost because I refused to trade my dignity for a paycheck.

The sobs came harder. I pressed my palm against my mouth to muffle the kitchen; terrified neighbors would hear how broken I sounded.

When the crying finally stopped, silence filled the room like smoke. My reflection stared back from the window with smeared mascara, cracked lips, and swollen, empty eyes. pty. I looked like a life that had been chewed up and spat out.

I used to believe that if you worked hard and stayed kind, life would meet you halfway. But kindness doesn’t pay rent. And hard work doesn’t stop men like Lawson from seeing you as disposable.

I wiped my face and stood. My body ached, but something deeper inside—the kind of pain that makes you wonder if survival is really worth it.

My phone buzzed on the table. A message from Clara lit up the screen:

Hey, did you eat? Don’t forget to rest, okay? I love you.

My throat tightened. She didn’t know how dire the situation was. She couldn’t. She was too young, too hopeful. I’d promised her I’d handle everything. Even if it killed me.

I whispered to the empty room, “I’ll fix this, Clara. Somehow.”

But the words felt hollow. I no longer believed them.

The next morning, I put on my only clean blouse and printed résumés until the printer groaned. I spent the day walking from building to building, smiling through rejection after rejection.

“We’re not hiring.”

“We’ll call you if something opens.”

“We need more experience.”

By sunset, my legs ached, and my pride felt bruised. The city turned golden under the dying light, and for a moment, it looked almost cruelly beautiful, like a reminder that even misery can glow when the sun hits it right.

When my feet finally gave out, I ducked into a small café to rest. The warmth inside felt foreign, almost forbidden. I ordered the cheapest item on the menu—a cup of hot water—and sat by the window, pretending it was tea.

That’s when I saw a sleek black car pulling up outside. It didn’t belong here. It was the kind of car that whispered money even when silent. People glanced, curious but cautious.

The door opened, and a man stepped out. Tall. Dark suit. Cold eyes. His presence alone seemed to bend the air. He didn’t glance at anyone; he didn’t need to. For a brief second, his gaze brushed mine through glass, the glass sharp, unreadable, and unsettling.

Something in my chest stilled.

He was gone before I could blink, the door closing behind him. But his stare, that fleeting, askance look, burned into me long after.

I didn’t know then that I had just seen Damien Voss, the man who would change everything.

The man who would break me before putting me back together in ways I could never imagine.