Chapter 1: The Glass Tower

Clara

The elevator speed dialed its way up to the fifty-fourth floor of Thorne Enterprises, and as we ascended, my stomach slowed and sort of sank.

*Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four.*

*Ding.*

The doors opened silently, affording a expansive view of the space that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and was filled with glass and grey, shiny marble. The office resembled more a fortress with high-tech walls than an executive office, and it had the effect of keeping humanity at bay. Ideal for the enigmatic, cold-blooded CEO named Sebastian Thorne, whose name rocked the stock markets and sent market analysts in a panic.

Smoothing my navy tailored blazer, taking a deep breath and straightening the leather portfolio under my arm. I had come here, the very pinnacle, after seven years of working my way up the corporate ladder in Manhattan. Working for the head of the multi-billion dollar luxury hotel empire is more than enough to pay off my remaining student loans and secure my future. I wasn't going to let Day One get ruined by little ol' me.

"Ms. Mercer?"

A lady in a crisp grey skirt suit came out from behind a floating oak desk. She was neither warm nor affectionate in her expression; neither was she polite nor efficient.

“Yes, good morning,” I said with a business like smile. "Clara Mercer."

"Mr. Thorne is awaiting you, I'm Brenda, Senior Operations," she said, and she turned to a pair of double frosted glass doors at the end of the long corridor. Be prompt, always keep your personal information confidential and avoid speaking on any personal matters, and never leave your cell phone on ring. Understood?"

"Understood."

Brenda knocked on the glass door once and it was a short sharp knock and it opened. "It is me, Mercer," said Ms. Mercer.

A voice inside shouted "Send her in.Inside a voice shouted "Send her in.

This sound struck me down like a physical punch. Low, deep, rich and dark timber that danced through the soles of both my heels. I got choked up. I knew that voice. It had been seven long, agonising years I had heard it in my dream.

*No. It's not possible, it's just a strange coincidence.

My feet took me into the big, bright office.

By the ubiquitous window looking out on the Manhattan skyline, a man stood back to me. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit with tapered waist and long legs, and he was broad-shouldered. With a crystal glass of water clutched in his hand he turned slowly, his dark eyes fixed on mine.

My heart stopped. All around me, the world fell silent.

The sharp jaw. The small, notched scar in his left eyebrow. The eyes that poke holes in me on cheap dorm mattresses when the city rains outside, eyes that used to laugh down at me while I was dropping out of school.

*Julian.*

The little boy who kept my hand till we graduated from school. The boy who told me he loved me under a broken streetlight, without saying a word, a text, a trace, without a word, a text, a trace, seven years ago, and then vanished into thin air.

"Ms. Mercer!" Sebastian Thorne exclaimed.

He had no discernible emotion in his voice. There was not a single spark of familiarity on those known features. His eyes looked as cold as steel, and as flat and distant as storm-grey.

He hadn't caught sight of the girl whose heart he'd pulverized. He didn't see Clara. He saw an employee.

I've looked over your file," he went on, standing behind his huge mahogany desk that I had not seen, and sitting down without offering me a seat. I'm impressed by your references from the Vance Group, but I want you to give me all of your attention, if you don't meet my needs I won't make it to the end of the probation. “Do you understand me?”

My knuckles went white around the edge of my portfolio. The shock was soon fading, and replaced by a white hot searing wave of fury. He was sitting there as though he didn't know me. Playing the part of strangers.

Fine," I said, turning my head away and closing my jaws, "I thought that.Fine," I thought, turning the head away and closing the jaws, "I thought that. If you want to play a game of cold, professional chicken, Julian, let's play.

“Yes, Mr. Thorne, perfectly clear,” I said, sharp as a tack and with ice in my voice. I don't do things wrong.

His mask of a face didn't move, but a tiny, hardly noticeable twitch appeared at the corner of his jaw.

He leaned back and said softly, "Good. "Then let's get to work."