Chapter 5: First Impressions

The first day of a lie always feels heavier than the truth.

Sophia

I stand in front of the frosted-glass doors leading to the CEO’s office, my palms damp despite the cool air of the executive floor. Everything up here feels different.

Quieter.

Sharper.

Deliberate.

I inhale and knock.

No response.

After a few seconds, I push the door open.

The office is empty.

I freeze.

The receptionist clearly says Mr. Blackwood is inside. So where is he?

Should I wait outside?

Call out again?

But the room is silent.

My heart thuds in my chest.

Maybe he steps out for a moment.

Slowly, I step inside and close the door behind me.

And then I allow myself to look.

His office.

It isn’t flashy or overly luxurious. It’s refined. Controlled.

Like him.

Dark walnut panels cover the walls. The black marble floor reflects faint streaks of silver like quiet lightning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, but the blinds filter the light into soft shadows.

There’s no clutter.

No unnecessary decoration.

A long bookshelf stands against one wall — organized binders, structured files, a few neatly arranged novels. Everything aligns. Everything feels intentional.

His desk is wide, dark oak, sharp-edged. Almost bare except for a sleek tablet dock, a minimalist clock, and a braille display panel connected to a slim computer system.

So that’s how he works.

No paper chaos.

No disorder.

Just structure and control.

A painting hangs beside his desk.

I don’t know why it draws me in, but I find myself walking closer.

Thick strokes of midnight blue and charcoal gray layer the canvas. In the center — barely visible unless you truly look — a thin streak of gold cuts through the darkness.

Not bright.

Not loud.

Just there.

A quiet fracture of light.

It isn’t something you glance at.

It’s something you feel.

My fingers almost lift to touch the textured paint.

Why would a blind man choose something so visual?

Unless he remembers.

Unless he refuses to let the dark win.

I don’t know how long I stand there.

Then—

“What are you doing here?”

The voice slices through the silence.

Low. Calm. Controlled.

I spin around.

Desmond Blackwood stands near the door.

My heart nearly stops.

I don’t hear it open.

I don’t hear him move.

He stands tall in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His white cane, detailed with subtle gold swirls, rests in his left hand. Dark lenses shield his eyes, his expression unreadable.

And yet—

He faces directly toward me.

“Sophia,” he says evenly. “Why are you standing by that wall?”

My throat goes dry.

How does he know it’s me?

“I— I thought you weren’t here,” I stammer. “The receptionist says you were, but I didn’t see anyone.”

“You enter without permission.”

Not a question.

A verdict.

“I knock,” I say quickly. “There’s no answer.”

A pause.

Then he moves.

Confident. Precise. No hesitation.

He doesn’t use his cane.

“I don’t like surprises,” he says.

My pulse spikes.

“How do you know someone is here?” I ask before I can stop myself.

A faint pause stretches between us.

“I notice patterns,” he says. “Breathing. Movement. Silence.”

His chin lifts slightly.

“You don’t breathe like someone who is merely nervous.”

My stomach tightens.

“And you don’t smell the same as my previous secretary.”

Heat rushes to my face.

He steps closer.

Not touching.

Just close enough that I feel the shift in air between us.

“You chose something subtle,” he adds. “Careful.”

He reaches his desk and places a slim tablet in front of me.

“My schedule for the next six months. Meetings, calls, travel. You memorize it.”

He gestures toward a stack of neatly arranged documents.

“Pending contracts. Categorize them by urgency. I expect efficiency.”

His voice isn’t raised.

But it doesn’t need to be.

“My schedule for the next six months. Meetings, calls, travel.”

His fingers tap the edge of the tablet once.

“If you work for me, you anticipate. You don’t react.”

A pause.

“Can you do that, Sophia?”

The way he says my name isn’t careless.

It’s deliberate.

Like he’s memorizing it.

“Your predecessor lacks attention to detail,” he adds. “You will not.”

I nod before remembering.

“Yes, si—”

“I prefer Mr. Blackwood.”

Right.

“Understood, Mr. Blackwood.”

He presses a button on his desk.

“Aaron.”

The door opens almost instantly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Give Sophia the full tour. Every department. Before noon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Desmond turns slightly toward me again, his eyes unfocused.

“Don’t waste my time, Sophia.”

And just like that, I am dismissed.

The tour moves quickly.

Aaron explains the structure with precision — leadership tiers, internal systems, reporting lines. Behind glass conference walls, executives debate contracts. Analysts study screens filled with financial models and market graphs.

Everything moves with purpose.

Like a machine that never slows.

Legal is silent and intense. Marketing buzzes with creative energy. Tech is filled with developers staring at endless lines of code.

Halfway through, a voice cuts in.

“Well, this feels painfully serious.”

“Are you overwhelming her on her first day?”

I turn.

The man approaching wears dark jeans and a rolled-up shirt instead of a suit. Relaxed. Effortless.

Aaron straightens. “Mr. Gabriel.”

Gabriel waves him off. “You look like you’re presenting quarterly earnings.”

His gaze shifts to me.

“And you must be the brave one who takes this job.”

His tone isn’t mocking.

It’s warm.

“I don’t know about brave,” I reply.

“You’ll learn,” he says lightly. “Working here requires stamina. And caffeine.”

Despite myself, I smile.

He notices and extends his hand. “Gabriel. I handle operations. When Desmond goes into war mode, I keep the building standing.”

“You make it sound dramatic.”

“It is dramatic. Real estate is war. Just with contracts instead of weapons.”

I laugh softly.

But part of me is still aware of the office upstairs.

Of the man who hears breathing in silence.

“I’ll take it from here,” he says casually to Aaron.

Aaron hesitates only a second. “Of course.”

Gabriel slows his pace to match mine as we continue.

“That’s acquisitions,” he says. “They hunt undervalued properties.”

“Leasing negotiates rental escalations.”

“Asset management tracks yield, cap rates, cash flow.”

When I look overwhelmed, he notices.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to know everything today. Just locate the coffee machine. Survival first.”

I laugh softly.

He studies me.

Not flirtatious.

Observing.

He’s different from Desmond.

Warmer. Easier.

And undeniably attractive — enough that I have to stop myself from staring.

Employees greet him casually.

“Morning, Gabe.”

“Late again?”

“Don’t tell my brother.”

Brother?

My curiosity sharpens.

“So,” he asks as we walk, “what makes you apply here?”

The question feels dangerous.

“I need the opportunity,” I answer carefully.

His eyes linger.

As if he knows there’s more.

When we reach my office, I stop.

It isn’t enormous, but it’s elegant — glass panels, sleek desk, muted gray walls, comfortable chair.

Mine.

“I’ll let you settle in,” Gabriel says before leaving.

For one small second, I forget everything.

I imagine placing a photo of my mother on the desk. A small plant by the window. Something soft. Something human.

I spin once in the chair, a quiet laugh escaping me.

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

Then I open the desk drawer.

And freeze.

A folded piece of paper sits inside.

My initials are written on the front.

My chest tightens.

Slowly, I unfold it.

It reads:

Do not forget why you are inside Blackwood Enterprises.

You are not there to smile.

You are not there to make friends.

You are there because I allowed it.

Watch him. Report everything.

Or your mother dies first.

I will make you listen.

A.V.

The air leaves my lungs.

Adrian Vale.

The walls feel closer.

This is never a fresh start.

It’s a trap.

And I walk straight into it.