4 ~ The Crown Worn By My Ghost

DORIAN

And I got the damn job!

It felt surreal—like I was standing outside myself watching it happen. But I got it.

Ronan had tried everything short of dragging me by the collar to the bar he worked at to celebrate last night, but I declined.

Partly because I was still mourning my mother, and partly because I knew how close I had come to blowing the interview. I might have gotten lucky once, but showing up late on my first day at work?

That would’ve been the death knell. A level of recklessness even I couldn’t afford.

“I see you're trying to break the habit of lateness, Mr. Keene,” the receptionist noted dryly, her voice dripping with condescension. This time, I didn’t look away. I let my eyes land on her badge, burning her name into memory.

Deborah.

“Trying and succeeding,” I said smoothly. “Besides, you can't call it a habit if it happened once.”

She blinked, clearly not expecting the comeback. Her lips tightened, but she swallowed the rest of whatever sarcasm was about to tumble out.

“Inquisitor will show you to your office, but the Boss needs you in his office first.”

Her voice made my teeth itch. Karma must’ve been in a blackout spiral the day she was assigned personalities. Too damn bitter to be the face of any company.

I leaned a little closer, still smiling.

“Deborah,” I said, letting her name drip like venom, “a little advice? You might want to save the sarcasm for the clients. I wonder who made you receptionist with a face like that. Though, I suppose it's one way to scare off unwanted visitors. Petty.”

I know. Harsh. But she earned it.

I didn’t stick around for her reaction—I didn’t need to. Her expression already told me she was mentally writing a death wish in cursive.

I made my way to the Boss's office, my pulse thudding behind my ears. I had meditated, practiced yoga, even repeated affirmations in the mirror this morning just so my condition wouldn’t come knocking mid-conversation.

“Good morning, Boss,” I said from outside the door, my voice steady even as I felt something sharp and nameless clawing in my chest. He glanced up from his desk, cool and composed.

He gestured me in.

And then it hit me—those eyes.

Steel-gray with a tinge of glacial blue.

The kind of eyes that could quiet a room.

Blue Eyes was the boss? Like… he was the boss.

How could I have not realized this yesterday?

The way he moved with authority, like the floor bent beneath him... I should’ve known.

If I was right—and I always was—he was the same man from Hall Three. He must think I’m incompetent.

‘That idiot who couldn’t even read a damn room number.’

Life always knew how to throw your past back in your face like a drink laced with acid.

“Well, Mr. Keene, are you coming in or what?” His voice cut through the fog of my thoughts, sharp and amused. That single arched brow could crush a man’s ego if it were any higher.

I snapped back to the present, practically stumbling forward. “Sorry, Boss.”

I stood in front of his desk while he typed away like I wasn’t even there. A deliberate power play. One I knew too well.

But there was something deeper than that—a familiarity that unsettled me. Like I had known this man before time itself took its toll.

The way he looked at me…

Some stares don’t touch your skin—they sink into your soul.

He finally met my gaze, those eyes doing something dangerous to my insides.

“Mr. Vale,” I said softly, my eyes flicking everywhere but his. I felt like a sinner in confession.

“Hello, Mr. Keene,” he replied, motioning to the chair across from him.

I sat down, the seat feeling suddenly too small for my body. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, sir. I promise I won’t let you down.”

He offered his hand. I took it without hesitation. And then… I saw it.

A crescent-shaped birthmark. Just under the knuckle.

And the world… paused.

Something thundered in my memory, something bitter and cracked and wrapped in adolescent cruelty.

~~~~~

“Yo, y’all check out Nerd of the Year. Got a tattoo to feel better about yourself?”

I twirled the basketball in my hand, staring down the kid who seemed to piss me off for no reason other than the fact that he existed.

He flinched. “It’s not a tattoo.”

As the school’s golden boy—quarterback, prom king, all the clichés—I had power. And I abused it. No one stopped me. They laughed with me. That was worse.

“Sure it isn’t,” I smirked, and let the ball fly.

It cracked his glasses clean in half. His books spilled. His body followed.

I grabbed his hand and sneered.

“It’s a birthmark,” he said, near tears.

I shoved him. “Whatever you say, Caspian.”

~~~~~

The birthmark. That same damn smudge of skin.

And suddenly, I wasn’t Dorian Keene anymore. I was seventeen, cruel, and venomous, lording my power over someone who never deserved it.

“Caspian,” I whispered, still holding his hand in that handshake longer than necessary.

“You’ve got a strong grip, Mr. Keene,” he said coolly. “Almost like you’re trying to hold onto something.”

My heart twisted violently. I dropped his hand like it burned.

His gaze was piercing now. Not curious. Not suspicious. Familiar. Like he was dissecting me layer by layer. Like he remembered.

Maybe he did.

Maybe he was just waiting for the perfect time to twist the knife in return.

How do you apologize for being the villain in someone else’s story?

The truth is—you don’t. You sit there. You smile. You pray they don’t recognize you, or worse, that they do.

Because I was Caspian’s villain. In high school. And now?

Now I had to work for him.

God, what poetic hell was this?

I swallowed the lump in my throat, keeping my face blank.

This job—this life I was trying to build—I couldn’t afford to lose it.

If he remembered, he could destroy it. Destroy me.

And something told me… he knew.

“Welcome aboard, Dorian Keene,” he said, his voice smooth like silk wrapping around a blade. “I have a feeling we’re going to have… a lot of fun together.”

And that was it.

The glint in his eye? That wasn't a professional interest. It was personal history—laced with power and the promise of reckoning.

“Around here, I don’t believe in second chances, Dorian,” he said, sitting back with relaxed menace. “You get one shot. You either make it count... or you don’t.”

I slid my hands into my pockets, clenching my fists so tight they trembled.

He smiled. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

I wasn’t just stepping into a job—I was stepping into the Lion’s den.

And the Lion remembered.