Maci | First Day

The revolving doors of Wintermere & Co. glare at me like a giant, unblinking eye, and my imposter syndrome screams at me to turn and bolt.

Today is the day I prove I belong here. Even if my thrift-store blouse and second-hand heels are screaming reminders that I don’t.

Smoothing down my black A-line skirt, I glance at my reflection in the mirrored surface of the doors. No flyaways from the high pony I wrangled into submission this morning. Good. I push through and am hit with an arctic blast of air-conditioning, stepping into Wintermere’s own personal Siberia.

This whole place is freezing. First paycheck is going straight to thermal layers, or I won't survive. The chill seeps into my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the ice I feel when my gaze flicks up to the cavernous space of the lobby.

Forcing my feet to keep moving, I head to the reception desk. The place is just as I left it two days ago. But something feels different today.

No, I feel different

Thorne Wintermere invading my entire life, tilting me off my carefully balanced axis. That’s what's changed.

The moment his too-big presence stepped into my too-small apartment, my whole Saturday went to shit. Getting the job, awesome. Him, something else. Turning up in a James Bond car and his fancy suit, looking so out of place in my tiny, one room to rule them all, existence. His smell lingered all day. Rendered me motionless, staring into space replaying every second, every look, every word, over and over.

The way he stared, like I was prey, and his flirting. He had flirted, hadn’t he? My body reacted to him in a way it has never done, with anyone, ever. What was with the weird, Alphahole possessive routine? Ok it had warmth pooling in my belly, that’s neither here nor there. God this is inappropriate, he's my boss. Will he flirt again today?

I don’t have to wait long to find out.

He’s there, standing by the elevators. The black tailored suit fits him like the gods stitched it, clinging to every impossible line of his frame. Body isn’t the right word. This isn’t a body; it’s a declaration.

Saturday was the first time I’d seen him standing, and now, up close, the memory doesn’t do him justice. He has to be 6’8”. Maybe taller. I have to crane my neck to even catch his eyes. Shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the world taper down to a waist that would make Adonis weep. And those thighs… I could climb them like a tree. My mouth goes dry looking at him.

His face, a masterpiece of sharp angles and full lips, his bone structure is almost intimidating in its perfection. But it’s his eyes, those ice-blue eyes that stop me in my tracks. They’re endless and unforgiving, the kind of cold that burns. Looking at them too long feels dangerous, like leaning too far over a cliff edge.

And now I’m staring, I am actually just ogling my new boss, and he looks totally unimpressed.

His stance radiates control, hands shoved deep into his pockets like a military general inspecting the troops, or a serial killer. Either way, he stands like the world bends to him. Which, I suppose it does. At least this little part of it. Every strand of his hair obedient, the complete opposite of my untamed mane.

“Miss Carter,” his tone clipped, colder than the air-conditioning blasting through this ice palace.

My steps falter, the warmth I felt last week replaced with a sharp indifference. Flirty Thorne? Nowhere to be found. Question answered.

His eyes sweep over me. My stomach twists, embarrassment bubbling to the surface. He’s… different. The heat, the spark I could’ve sworn was there? Gone.

“Mr. Wintermere,” matching his energy as best I can. I’m practically begging his lips to twitch into that almost-smile, but his jaw stays tight, his expression frozen.

“You’re late,” he snaps.

“No, I…” I glance at my watch. It’s exactly 8:55. “I’m five minutes early.”

At a glacial pace, he pulls one hand from his pocket and lifts his own watch to eye level. Some sleek black piece that probably costs more than my entire apartment and everything in it. His jaw actually ticks and that vein in his neck is fit to burst.

“Right,” he finally says, his voice dry enough to wither flowers. “Early.”

If you looked up the world dismissive, this exact interaction would be the gold standard. He came to this lobby, just to find a reason to snip at me, didn’t find one and now he’s pissed.

Why did I walk in here expecting him not to be an asshole? That’s on me. Saturday, he was all smolder and mine vibes, staring at me like I was something he couldn’t let go of. And now? Now, it feels like rejection. The kind that shouldn’t bother me, especially not to the point where my chin is threatening to wobble. Which it is.

“I’ll pass you off to HR,” he’s already turning away not bothering to meet my eyes “They’ll handle your onboarding and introduce you to your team.”

“Okay,” I murmur, biting down hard on my tongue to keep from snapping back. Or worse, asking him outright what his problem is.

Where does he get off being Mr. supremely hot one minute, then Mr. icy cold the next? I don’t even know him. Not really. But this feels personal.

Way to ruin my new-job-Monday dickweed.

Everyone hates their boss right?

He turns on his heel, throwing a sharp nod over his shoulder for me to follow. His strides are infuriatingly long and I’m jogging in my shit heels just to keep up. When we reach the elevator, he steps inside, so do I because apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.

The silence inside the elevator is suffocating. We’re squished together, and by squished, I mean I can feel him, his sheer size, the heat radiating off his body. This is why the entire building is kept subarctic. He’s a walking furnace, and the tension rolling off him is enough to make my already frayed nerves snap and twist into a thousand knots.

“I...” The silence is crushing me. My mouth opens, desperate to say anything to break the tension, but the elevator stops before I can embarrass myself.

The doors open on the second floor, and a woman in a sharp red blazer saves the day.

Thank you, random elevator lady. Your timing is impeccable.

“Miss Carter,” she says warmly, stepping forward. “I’m Jane, the hiring manager. I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you last week. I was so sick, living between the bed and the bathroom.”

Okay. Noted. Jane is an over sharer. Filing that away under Never Tell Her Anything in Confidence.

“No problem at all,” Instantly grateful for her friendliness and the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Compared to Thorne’s frosty, behold how aloof I am energy, Jane feels like a human lifeline.

Thorne nods. “Jane will take it from here. Good luck, Miss Carter.”

Good luck? Good…luck. What a shitty, generic, impersonal ASSHOLE. He’s already walking away, his long strides carrying him down the hall without a backward glance.

I shouldn’t care. Not even a little bit. But I do.

Jane leads me down the hall. I glance back, of course I do. Thorne’s there, standing in the elevator, unnaturally still and watching me. I am trapped in his a-hole tractor beam.

I catch the slightest movement and I’m drawn to his hands at his sides. White knuckled into fists, something flicks across his expression, regret? Frustration? But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and the doors slide shut, sealing him away.

“What’s he like to work for?” I am trying, and failing, to sound casual as we walk.

Jane lets out a small laugh. “Intense. But brilliant. And fair, demanding, but who isn’t at his level? Don’t let him intimidate you, though. He respects talent, and your portfolio screams it.”

I nod like I’m taking it all in, but my mind is still racing. Intense, brilliant, fair. Sure, I can believe that. But none of it explains the way he watched me just now.

We round a corner, and she gestures toward a set of glass doors ahead.

“Your team’s just in here. They’ll help you get settled.”

The office is everything you’d expect from a billion-dollar company: stark and blindingly modern. White dominates the space, with it's minimalist open-plan layout and desks that look like they’ve been plucked straight out of a Scandinavian design catalog.

It’s pristine and intimidating, not a coffee stain or stray paperclip in sight.

Natural light pours through even more floor-to-ceiling windows, because of course there are windows. It’s apparently his thing. I hope karma’s giving him a headache right now.

The light glints off glass partitions and polished chrome. The desks, clustered in precise formations, come equipped with dual monitors and ergonomic chairs that look seriously squishy. Everything screams money.

Jane strides forward with effortless confidence and is glowing as she gestures to the space.

“This is where the magic happens,” her grin beaming. “Your team handles branding and creative campaigns for our most exclusive clients,” she continues, “It’s fast-paced, but I’m sure you’ll thrive.”

Thrive. No pressure.

“Here we are” stopping in front of a cluster of desks near the centre of the room. A small group of people look up, their expressions ranging from curious to polite.

“Maci, this is your new team.” Jane’s tone is upbeat, like she’s presenting a gift. “Everyone, meet Maci Carter, our new branding associate.”

The first to rise is a striking woman, tall, with a sharp bob and a slash of red lipstick that screams confidence rather than effort. She offers a firm handshake, her smile warm and inviting.

“I’m Emma,” her voice is smooth and welcoming. “I handle most of the digital campaigns. An extra set of eyes is going to save lives. If you need anything, just shout.”

“Thanks,” I reply, even managing a small smile despite the ball of nerves in my chest. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Next up is a wiry guy with a shaved head and thick-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t bother standing, just nods once in my direction.

“Chris,” he says simply. “I’m the data guy.”

Makes sense. “Nice to meet you,” I’m already appreciating his no-nonsense vibe.

And then there’s the walking red flag.

Leaning against the edge of his desk, he’s all practiced charm. A lopsided grin that probably works on someone, sandy blond hair falls in deliberate disarray, the kind that screams effortless but actually took twenty minutes.

His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to hover between I’m relaxed and please notice my pecs, the vibe as subtle as a neon sign. The guy exudes gym selfie energy, and my alarm bells are deafening.

“Ethan,” he says, extending a hand. “Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks,” keeping my tone polite as I give his hand a quick shake. Too quick, apparently, because he lingers just a second too long, his fingers brushing mine in a way that is entirely deliberate.

I pull back sharply, wiping my palm against my skirt to remove him.

He’s objectively good-looking, I’ll give him that. But the way his eyes rake over me makes my skin crawl.

Jane gestures toward a pristine desk by the windows.

“That one’s yours, Maci. You’ll find everything you need there. Laptop, phone, supplies. Ethan will give you a quick tour and help you get settled.”

His grin widens as though she’s handed him a golden opportunity.

“It’d be my pleasure,” oozing charm like it’s his job.

I want to protest, to tell Jane I can figure it out on my own, but she’s already moved on, calling out instructions to someone across the room. My chance to bail is gone, and I’m stuck with Captain Smug Grin.

I want to hang back, take a moment to soak in the fact that I have a brand-new laptop and phone. Me. A new thing of my own, well, technically the company’s, but for now, they’re mine.

I don’t get new things, ever. But, of course, the need to people-please wins out. So I paste on a smile and trail after Ethan as he starts the ‘tour’.

“This… is the coffee,” stopping in front of a kitchenette. The espresso machine probably costs more than my rent. “Not as good as Starbucks,” he adds with a wink, “but it gets the job done.”

“Good to know,” I really don’t want to encourage him, not that he seems to notice.

“And over here,” he says, leading me to a wall of whiteboards covered in color-coded notes, “is where we brainstorm. You’ll spend a lot of time here. We like to keep it collaborative.”

Collaborative. Ugh. Buzzwords already. I fight the eye roll.

He’s walking too close, his arm brushing against mine as he talks. I step to the side, pretending to admire the whiteboards, but he shadows me, leaning in like he’s about to share a life-altering secret.

“So, Maci,” he says, voice dripping with fake charm, “what made you want to work here? Besides the chance to hang out with me, of course.”

I force a laugh. “Oh, you know, just fulfilling a lifelong dream.”

He chuckles, clearly not picking up on my tone. “We’re the best in the business, but I can make your dreams come true”

Yack.

I am fighting the urge to gag in his face when his arm brushes against my chest. My eyes flick down, then back up, catching him just staring at my tits.

Not a quick glance. Staring.

His grin widens like he’s proud of himself, like I should be thanking him for noticing me. The audacity. I step back, the motion sharp enough to create space, but not sharp enough to let him know how badly I want to shove him into the nearest potted plant.

“Personal space,” I almost snap, but before I can, his phone rings, obnoxiously loud. He glances at the screen, and for the first time, his smug grin falters.

“Hold that thought,” he says, holding up a finger like he’s doing me a favor, then turns away to answer. “Yeah? Okay. Got it. I’ll be there in five.”

The look of annoyance on his face is so satisfying.

“Sorry, darling, duty calls. We’ll finish this later, though.”

“Sure,” I manage, the word flat and devoid of all enthusiasm. I don’t even care if it’s obvious. Relief floods my system the second he walks away.

I pad back to my desk. My desk. The thought sends a small thrill through me. It’s small but pristine, with a brand-new MacBook Pro gleaming under the overhead lights and the latest iPhone still nestled in its packaging. Everything a stationery nerd like me could dream of is here. Fresh notebooks, pens that probably glide like silk, and post-it notes in every color. My heart does a little skip.

It’s just stuff, I know. But somehow, it feels like a small validation. Like the company actually cares. It’s hard to reconcile that kind of thoughtfulness with the icy hurricane that is Thorne Wintermere, though. The man who looked like he wanted to incinerate me in the elevator not even an hour ago.

Getting settled in the plush office chair, I fire up the laptop and log into the company portal with the credentials Jane has left on my desk. It’s straight in at the deep end and my first task is simple enough: review a batch of rejected campaign designs and make edits based on the company’s notes.

Time slips through my fingers as I find my rhythm. The colors, the layouts, the subtle satisfaction of pulling the pieces together, it’s a soothing kind of chaos.

But then the prickle starts.

At first, I dismiss it as nerves or the strange quiet that hangs in the air, like everyone’s too focused to risk making a sound. It’s easy to blame the unfamiliarity of the space or even the ridiculous tension Ethan left behind.

But the sensation grows, sharp and insistent, twisting low in my gut.

Someone is watching me.

I glance up. Everyone’s absorbed in their work. Ethan hasn’t even slithered back yet. There’s no reason for the unease coiling in my chest.

Still, the prickle doesn’t fade.

Shake it off, Maci.

I turn back to my design, forcing my attention to the notes in front of me, but my mind keeps wandering. Circling. Picking at the edges of thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

Thoughts about him.

Thorne.

The way his jaw clenched when he looked at me this morning. The burn in his eyes, the tension in his fists. That controlled fury, simmering beneath his tailored exterior.

What would those hands feel like gripping my throat?

Nope. I shift in my chair and force my heart back to a normal rhythm. My phone buzzes in my pocket. The sound shatters the silence, making me jump.

Pulling it out, I glance at the screen.

And my breath catches.

Another text. Another unknown number. The words blink up at me, stark and deliberate:

'He’s not who you think.'