Chapter 2: Off Limits (Story 1)

Dominic Cole doesn’t walk. He advances.

That’s the first thing I learn following him down the 47th floor. No wasted motion, no pause to let me catch up. The hallway is all glass and brushed steel, and the people we pass go quiet. Not in the “celebrity in the room” way. In the “shark just swam by” way.

“You said Austin failed,” he says without turning around. “Quantify it.”

I’d rehearsed this. I’d pulled the campaign spend from a leaked case study, cross-referenced it with foot traffic data from a city planning site, and stayed up till 3 AM making sure I wasn’t bluffing.

“17% under projected ROI,” I say, matching his pace. “Your team targeted 25-34 urban professionals. But your creative showed rooftop brunches and dog parks. Austin’s 25-34 demo is 61% remote tech, most left downtown during COVID. They’re in South Congress bungalows, not penthouses. You sold them a lifestyle they’d already rejected.”

He stops. Finally.

We’re outside a conference room. His name is on the door in nothing but small etched letters: D. Cole. No “CEO.” No “Founder.” Like the building would apologize if it got it wrong.

He turns. And for three seconds, Dominic studies me like I’m a contract he’s deciding whether to sign.

“Who told you to look at Austin?”

“No one,” I say. “Your Q2 report is public. The failure wasn’t.”

A flicker. Not a smile — Dominic doesn’t smile — but something behind his eyes shifts. Interest. Or assessment. Same thing, for men like him.

“Conference room,” he says. “Now.”

Inside, there’s a single tablet on a table that could seat twenty. No water, no “welcome intern” packet. Just him, me, and a view of Manhattan that makes my apartment look like a shoebox.

He slides the tablet toward me. It’s open to a dead campaign. Project Meridian. I’ve never heard of it. The numbers are bleeding red.

“Fix it,” he says. “You have ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. No context, no budget, no target demo. This is the part where the Harvard MBA probably asks for more data. This is the part where Ethan would’ve called his dad’s assistant to save him.

I don’t ask. I don’t flinch. Because flinching is what Ethan expects from me.

I scan. Lifestyle app. Soft launch in Chicago, bombed. Retention at 8%. Influencer spend high, conversion low. The creative is… God, it’s bad. All minimalist fonts and people meditating on yachts.

“They’re selling calm,” I say out loud. “Nobody wants calm. They want control. Especially post-pandemic. You’re telling burned-out 30-year-olds to ‘breathe.’ They want to know your app will shut their boss up at 9 PM.”

I grab the stylus. My hand is steady. It shouldn’t be. “Ditch the yacht. Show a woman closing the app at 7:00 PM sharp, phone in a drawer, kid on her lap. Tagline: ‘Meridian. Your time, off the clock.’ Then you retarget with a feature drop — auto-reply that says ‘I’m off Meridian time.’ Make it a status symbol to not be available.”

I push the tablet back. Eight minutes, thirty seconds.

Dominic doesn’t touch it. He just watches me.

“Why marketing?” he asks.

It’s the same question he asked in the elevator, but now there’s no elevator to escape to.

“Because people lie,” I say before I can sanitize it. “But their data doesn’t. And I’m good at spotting the difference.”

That earns me the second flicker. “Marcus.”

The door opens like he was waiting for his name. Marcus is tall, Black, mid-30s, in a suit that costs more than my rent. His eyes are cop eyes. He’s been in the room for 0.2 seconds and already decided I’m a problem.

“Ms. Reyes will take the Meridian desk,” Dominic says. “Full access. She reports to me.”

Marcus doesn’t argue. He doesn’t have to. His face says This is a mistake in four languages.

“Mr. Cole,” he says, calm. “We have two final candidates left. Board expects—”

“The board expects results,” Dominic cuts in. “She gave me one. They gave me schools.”

He stands. Meeting over. “HR will send your paperwork, Ms. Reyes. Be here at 7 AM. Don’t be late.”

He leaves. Just like that. No “welcome to the team.” No “congrats.”

Marcus stays. He studies me the way Dominic did, but without the curiosity. Just threat assessment.

“Do you know how many people want that desk?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “But I know how many people deserve it. One.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. “Really, you think so.”

“Yes, I do”

I shouldn’t have said that. It slips out, sharp and honest. Marcus hears it. Files it away.

“Careful,” he says, holding the door for me. “Dominic doesn’t like games. And he always wins them.”

I walk out with a keycard, a tablet, and a target on my back. Round one: mine.

---

7:02 AM, Day One.

I’m early. Dominic is earlier.

He’s at my desk. My desk. It’s in a corner of the open floor, not an office, but it’s mine. He’s reading my notes. The ones I wrote at 5 AM about Meridian’s color palette.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up.

“It’s 7:02.”

“Your day started at 7.”

I set my coffee down. “Noted.”

He finally looks at me. “You don’t drink coffee.”

It’s not a question. It’s a test. He’s been reading my HR file.

“I do when I haven’t slept,” I say. “Austin kept me up.”

“Meridian will keep you up more.” He drops a file on my desk. “Chicago relaunch. Six weeks. $400k budget. Don’t waste it.”

$400k. That’s more than my entire student debt. More than my mom made in three years.

“No pressure,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “Results.”

He walks away. Over his shoulder: “And Ms. Reyes? Don’t call it ‘revenge’ in the metadata again. Marcus is paranoid enough.”

My blood goes cold. He saw.

He saw the file name I used at 4 AM: ProjectDRevengeDraft1_. I’d changed it before submitting, but he has access to everything.

He knows.

Or he suspects.

He doesn’t fire me.

That’s worse.

---

Day Three.

Ethan finds me.

I’m in the break room, reheating noodles because I forgot to eat lunch again. The door slides open and he’s there, in a suit that’s trying too hard. He looks like he’s been practicing this entrance.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

I don’t jump. I’m proud of that. “Working. You?”

“This is my father’s company.”

“Pretty sure it’s a publicly traded company,” I say, stirring my noodles. “But sure. Nepotism, yay.”

He steps in, lets the door close. “You think this is cute? You think you can waltz in here and—”

“And what, Ethan? Do my job?”

“You’re playing games.”

“Took you two months to notice I’m good at them.”

His face does the thing it does when he’s losing. Red, blotchy, mouth twitching. On the rooftop, it would’ve made me back down. Here, with Dominic’s name on the building, it just makes me tired.

“Dad doesn’t know you,” he says. “He’ll figure it out.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But he knows you. That’s why I’m here and you’re in the break room threatening a girl over noodles.”

The door slides open. Marcus.

“Mr. Cole,” he says, voice flat. “Your father wants you in his office. Now.”

Ethan blanches. “What? Why?”

Marcus looks at me. Then back at Ethan. “He didn’t say. But he said to tell you ‘don’t waste my time.’”

Ethan leaves. He doesn’t look at me.

Marcus doesn’t leave. “You’re poking the bear, Ms. Reyes.”

“I’m feeding it,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

He almost smiles. “We’ll see.”

---

Day Five. 9:47 PM.

The floor is empty. I’m still here, mocking up the new Meridian creative. The woman, the kid, the drawer. Your time, off the clock. It’s good. It’s better than good. It’s the first thing I’ve made in months that isn’t about Ethan.

“Your hands are shaking.”

I jolt. Dominic is standing behind me. I didn’t hear him come in. Nobody hears Dominic come in.

“Low blood sugar,” I lie. “Forgot dinner.”

He looks at the screen, then at me. Then he does something that doesn’t compute.

He takes off his coat — the same expensive wool one from the interview — and drapes it over my shoulders. It’s warm. It smells like cedar and something expensive I can’t name.

“Go home, Ms. Reyes,” he says. “Chicago’s still there tomorrow.”

He walks away before I can give it back.

I sit there for ten minutes, in Dominic’s coat, staring at a campaign that’s supposed to ruin his son.

My hands don’t stop shaking.

---

Day Seven.

Sienna meets me after work. She takes one look at me and orders tequila.

“You look like shit,” she says, affectionate.

“Thanks.”

“You also look like you’re in love with your evil plan.”

I’m not. That’s the problem.

I tell her about the coat. About the way Dominic listened when I talked about Austin. About how he hasn’t mentioned Ethan once, like Ethan’s just… not a factor.

Sienna’s face goes still. “Alina. Listen to me. You don’t get to have a crush on the mark.”

“He’s not—”

“He’s 45, rich, and your ex’s dad. He’s the definition of a mark. And you’re telling me he gave you his coat?”

“It was cold!”

“Alina.”

I drain the tequila. “It’s not like that. It’s strategy. He trusts me. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. And when he finds out why you’re really here?”

I don’t have an answer. I didn’t think I’d get this far. I thought I’d get fired by day three. I thought Dominic would be like Ethan — loud, easy to manipulate, full of ego.

He’s not. He’s quiet. He’s precise. He asks questions Ethan never thought to ask. Why marketing? Not What can you do for me? but Why?

“I don’t know,” I admit.

Sienna takes my hand. “Then get out. Now. Before you do.”

I think about it. All night.

At 6:58 AM, I’m back at my desk.

Dominic walks by at 7:00 sharp. He sees me. Nods once.

And I know I’m not leaving.

Not yet.

Because for the first time since, someone looked at me like I was more than temporary.

Even if it’s a lie.

Even if I’m the one telling it.