The Encounter

Chapter 1: The Encounter

 Ivy wakes up to the coldness of the morning, harsh, biting, and unforgiving as it seeps through the cracks in the wall of the small room she shares with her stepbrother's muddle. Her blanket, light and overwashed clung to her legs as if it knew letting go would mean facing another disappointing morning. Outside, the wind wailed. Inside, her alarm flashed a relentless red: 7:30 AM.

She had an interview at ten. Another one. Another ten maybe 

She gazed at the ceiling, letting her eyes trace the faded paint, a daily ritual that bought her a few more moments before the weight of reality surged in. 

She sighed and swung her leg over the side of the bed, her feet momentarily hesitant as they touched the icy floor. Her blonde hair was a mess of waves falling stubbornly as she made her way to the mirror perched above the dresser. The dark circles under her eyes were more pronounced than usual; another night of restless sleep had taken its toll.

Ivy averted her gaze from the mirror.

The house was eerily quiet, but that wasn't new. It had been like that since her father died— silent, chill, and calculated. Her stepmother, Evelyn, barely endured her presence. And Rowan, her stepbrother, rarely speaks unless he has to. When he did, It was sharp and cold.

She walked into the hallway, mood already sullen as she heard Rowan’s voice from the kitchen.

“I thought serious interviews started before ten,” he said, not looking at her as he poured coffee.

“I didn't realize you were monitoring my calendar,” Ivy replied striding past him to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. She maintained a steady tone.

Rowan glanced at her —slow and expressionless. His hair was flawlessly styled as always with his jaw contracted, his dark pants crinkled, his shirt ironed and spotless. He always looked like he belonged in a courtroom.

“You’ve been pursuing interviews for what — four years now?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m curious about what the end goal is.”

She slammed the fridge door harder than necessary. “The end goal is to not breathe the same air as you, Rowan.”

A faint smile played on his lips, but it never reached his eyes. "I'll toast to that.”

She despised him most when he smiled.

Evelyn appeared a moment later in her silk robe, her hair swept up as if she were still gracing the front page of a Vogue magazine. She glanced at Ivy before turning to Rowan and touching his arm.

“Have you eaten darling?”

Rowan’s smile softened. “Not yet”.

Of course.

Ivy returned to her room to get ready and emerged an hour later. She left without saying a word, keys in hand and a bag slung over her shoulder. The door slammed shut behind her as the cold air stung her cheeks. It was better than feeling numb.

The bus ride to downtown Timberline was quiet. Ivy gazed out the window, watching the city she had always hoped to escape come into view. She had thought college would provide her with a way out, her ladder to a better future. But now, four years later, the rungs of that ladder felt broken. She realized that degrees didn't hold much value without the right connections and money.

And her hope had faded away with her father's passing.

Her phone buzzed with a reminder: “Interview — Inkwell PR, 10:00 AM.”

She hadn’t heard of the firm until yesterday. The job listing was vague: assistant-level, full-time, with benefits included. She didn’t care; she just needed something. A foothold.

The building was a tall, sleek structure of glass and concrete, nestled between two skyscrapers. She checked her reflection in the doors — a clean blue blouse, black skirt, and mascara holding up. Not the most lustrous look, but enough.

The lobby was modern and minimalist. A woman at the front desk nodded and gestured Ivy to the elevators.

She rode up alone.

Upon exiting, she was struck by the deep silence—sterile and weighty.

She walked to the receptionist's desk,  “Hi, I’m Ivy Hart. I have a ten o’clock—”

“Please take a seat,” the man replied without looking up. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

Ivy sat, and time seemed to crawl.

She anxiously ran her hands over her knees and checked the time on her phone. It was 9:58.

She could hear the faint sound of footsteps down the hall, approaching slowly. Then they stopped.

The office door swung open.

For a moment, everything around her froze.

The man who stepped out was not the HR assistant she expected. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a tailored navy suit. His hair was slicked back, and he had a chiseled jawline, with intense gray eyes that seemed to see too much yet revealed nothing. His presence was commanding and inscrutable.

When his eyes met hers—deep, frosty, and strangely familiar—her breath caught in her throat.

It was him.

The man from that night years ago.

She didn't know his name, but she could never forget his face.

He studied her as if trying to place a stranger.

“Miss Smith?” he asked, his voice smooth and almost bored. “Follow me.”

She stood slowly, every nerve on edge, the hallway behind him becoming a blur.

As she stepped into the office, one thought burned louder than the rest in her mind: 

What the hell is he doing here?….