Chapter Five

Elena

I get to Blackwood at 9:47 exactly.

Navy suit pressed within an inch of its life, hair twisted into the kind of bun that says “I have my shit together” even when I absolutely do not. I look like I belong here. I do not feel like I belong here.

Security waves me through. The receptionist smiles like she didn’t watch me flee the building yesterday looking like a crime-scene survivor. I manage to smile back without my face cracking.

Rachel Kim meets me at the elevator bank. Late twenties, sleek ponytail, glasses that probably have their own mortgage. She’s all easy warmth and zero bullshit.

“Elena! Ready for round two?”

“Born ready,” I lie.

She laughs like she believes me. “Fair warning: we bite. But only because he trained us that way.”

The elevator climbs. My stomach stays on the ground floor.

Ninth floor again. This time the big glass conference room. Five people look up when we walk in. Five sets of eyes that can smell fear.

No Damien.

I hate how much air leaves my lungs.

Rachel does quick intros.

Marcus Vale, CFO—silver temples, watch heavier than my future rent. Curt nod.

Sophia—my Sophia—grinning like she’s about to explode. She never told me she sat on hiring panels. Brat.

David Park, Creative—beard, ironic T-shirt under a blazer, already doodling on his notepad.

Lisa Chen, Analytics—sharp bob, sharper eyes, writing before I even sit down.

And Rachel, who drops into the last chair and kicks us off.

Marcus doesn’t waste time. “You’ve never run marketing at our scale. Convince me you won’t drown.”

I smile the way I practiced in the mirror this morning—small, calm, a little dangerous.

“You’re right. I haven’t. Yet.”

I lean forward. “But I took a startup from two million to twenty-two in eighteen months. Same playbook works here; you just add zeros. The real question is whether Blackwood is brave enough to let me.”

David snorts. Sophia hides a grin behind her coffee.

Lisa doesn’t look up. “So we’re the problem?”

“No,” I say. “Comfortable is the problem. You’ve been coasting on brand equity for three years and your engagement numbers are bleeding out. I can stop the bleed. Question is—do you want surgery or just a Band-Aid?”

Marcus’s eyebrow climbs. “You diagnosed all that from the outside?”

“I diagnosed it from your I*******m comments section. Your customers are screaming. You’re just not listening.”

David actually laughs out loud. “I like her.”

Rachel slides the crisis brief across the table. “Walk us through this mess.”

I hook my laptop to the projector. I didn’t sleep. I have receipts.

I flip to the first slide—mock tweets, fabricated headlines, a stock chart diving like a cliff diver.

“Your briefing says apologize and go quiet. That’s how you die slow.”

I click.

“Instead: own the screw-up in public, invite the angriest customers to co-design the fix, livestream the whole thing, match every complaint with a donation. Turn the mob into missionaries.”

I run them through the timeline, the copy, the paid amplification, the earned-media snowball. By the time I’m done the room is quiet in the way that means I didn’t bomb.

David slow-claps. “Jesus. Hire her before she goes to the competition and ruins us.”

Lisa finally looks up. Smiling. “She just called the boss an idiot in front of all of us. Bold.”

I open my mouth—and the door opens.

Damien.

Of course.

Suit dark as sin, eyes locked on me like I’m a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

“Ms. Martinez,” he says, voice flat. “Care to repeat what you just said about my social strategy?”

Every head swivels. You could hear a pin drop on the carpet.

I stand. Meet him dead-on.

“I said it’s nonexistent. And it’s costing you millions.”

His jaw does that ticking thing I remember from last night—different context, same jaw.

“My office.” He turns on his heel.

Sophia’s eyes are saucers. Marcus looks like he’s already writing my obituary.

I grab my laptop and follow the grim reaper down the hall.

His office is exactly what I expected: glass, steel, city sprawled beneath him like he owns it. He doesn’t sit. Just stands at the window, hands in pockets, shoulders tight.

The door clicks shut behind me.

“You’re determined to get fired on day zero.”

“I’m determined to be useful. There’s a difference.”

He turns. The morning light slices across his face and for one stupid second he looks exhausted instead of furious.

“You just humiliated me in front of my entire team.”

“They needed to hear it. So did you.”

He stalks closer—close enough that I catch the same cologne from the hotel and hate my body for noticing.

“This can’t happen, Elena.” Low, rough. “You know that.”

“Give me one good reason that isn’t fear.”

He laughs—short, sharp, humorless. “Because every time you’re in a room I can’t think straight. Because they’ll smell favoritism in a week. Because I will ruin your reputation trying to keep my hands off you and you’ll hate me for it.”

My pulse is hammering so loud I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

“Then don’t ruin me,” I say. “Hire me anyway. Be the adult in the room. We pretend Tuesday never happened. We’re good at pretending, Damien.”

His eyes darken when I use his name. He reaches past me, pulls a folder from the desk, slides it over.

“Contract. One-twenty base. Full benefits. Ninety-day probation. One foot wrong and you’re gone. Sign it or walk.”

I flip it open. The salary alone makes my eyes water. I sign before I can talk myself out of it.

He takes the pen from my fingers—slow, deliberate—his knuckles brushing mine. Electricity snaps up my arm.

“Monday, eight a.m.,” he says. “Rachel will set you up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackwood.”

I head for the door.

“Elena.”

I stop. Don’t turn around.

“This stays dead and buried. Understood?”

I glance back. He’s gripping the edge of his desk so hard the wood creaks.

“Understood,” I say.

But we both know it’s not.

Some things you can’t bury when they’re still breathing.