C8

​CHAPTER 8

​The hum of the air conditioning on the 49th floor feels louder now, or perhaps my senses are just raw after our encounter in the warehouse. Every time Amy’s dark wood door opens, my spine tenses like a violin string about to snap. Barely a few hours have passed since she left me trembling among the boxes of old files, and the coldness with which she ignores me now is almost more painful than her intimidation.

​It’s 3:00 PM, and my stomach emits a roar of protest, reminding me that I hasn't tasted a bite of food since six in the morning. Taking advantage of the fact that Amy is submerged in a video conference with the London office, I decide to slip away for a few minutes to the staff breakroom.

​“I need sugar, caffeine, or a miracle,” I mutter to myself as I walk down the glass hallway.

​The breakroom is an architectural gem: designer sofas, a marble counter with espresso machines that look like spaceships, and a panoramic view of the surrounding skyscrapers. I pour myself an iced tea and lean against the counter, sighing as I close my eyes for a second. The silence is short-lived.

​“Hi. I haven't seen you around here before. And trust me, I would have remembered.”

​I snap my eyes open. In front of me stands a young guy, probably in his late twenties, with the look of a modern intellectual: black-rimmed glasses, a perfectly ironed plaid shirt, and a smile overflowing with a confidence that I, at this moment, completely lack.

​“I’m Julian, from the fiction editing department,” he says, extending a hand. “You must be the new secretary who has the entire floor in a state of absolute terror.”

​I let out a nervous laugh, accepting his hand. His fingers are warm—a normal, human sensation that has nothing to do with the electric shocks Amy makes me feel.

​“Camila Contreras,” I reply. “Is my reputation really that bad?”

​“Not yours, but the position's,” Julian jokes, leaning against the counter in a relaxed manner, subtly invading my personal space, though in a friendly way. “The average lifespan at that desk is ten days, but judging by the way you look, I think you could break the record.”

​“How do I look?” I ask him, curious.

​Julian leans in a bit closer, lowering his voice to a playful tone.

​“You look like someone who has a lot of fire inside, Camila, even if you try to hide it behind that good-girl face and that librarian skirt. Those honey eyes don't lie.”

​I feel my cheeks warm up. It’s harmless flirting; it’s the kind of attention any girl my age would get at a bar on a Friday night. Under normal circumstances, I would have played along or simply laughed it off, but in this building, beneath Amy Murphy’s roof, I feel a spike of anxiety instead of flattery.

​“I’m just trying to survive my first day, Julian,” I say, trying to step back slightly.

​“Well, if you need a guide to survive the 'Ice Queen,' I know the best places to grab lunch far away from her gaze,” he continues, ignoring my evasive body language. “In fact, there’s a small French bistro just around the corner. We could go tomorrow and—”

​He doesn't finish the sentence; he doesn't need to.

​Suddenly, the temperature in the breakroom seems to plummet twenty degrees. The air becomes heavy, charged with a static electricity that makes my hair stand on end. Julian, who has his back to the hallway, doesn't notice it immediately, but I do.

​Amy Murphy is standing at the entrance, about five yards away from us.

​Her silk blouse seems to gleam with a dangerous light of its own. Her hands are tucked into her pants pockets and her posture is of military stiffness, but what freezes my blood is her face. There is no trace of the curiosity she showed in the warehouse; her blue eyes are two icy blades locked onto Julian’s hand, which is still lightly brushing my forearm.

​“Mr. Vaughn,” Amy says. Her voice isn't loud, but it cuts through the air like a whip.

​Julian jumps, backing away from me as if I were made of boiling lava. He spins around, turning pale instantly.

​“Ms... Ms. Murphy. I... I was just welcoming Ms. Contreras.”

​Amy walks toward us. Her footsteps, firm and rhythmic, echo on the marble floor like a countdown. She stops a step away from Julian, ignoring me completely, though I can feel her fury radiating toward me in invisible waves. She is an owner claiming what she considers her territory. I find all of this very bizarre. Could this be considered a form of harassment? Or perhaps she is just like this all the time.

​“Welcoming her?” Amy repeats, her voice dropping to a dangerously deep register. “I didn't know the fiction department had so much free time as to send welcoming committees to my personal office.”

​“No, I just... we were taking a break, it's lunch hour,” stammers Julian, whose confidence has completely evaporated.

​Amy tilts her head, observing him with a mixture of disgust and superiority.

​“Lunch hour ended seven minutes ago, Mr. Vaughn. And since you seem to have so much energy for socializing, I assume the manuscript for the Aether Chronicles saga is already reviewed, proofread, and ready for print. Is that correct?”

​Julian swallows hard, audibly.

​“Well, I’m still missing a couple of chapters, but I was planning to finish them this afternoon...”

​“Tomorrow morning,” she interrupts, her gélid gaze piercing into him. “I want that manuscript on my desk at eight o'clock sharp. If it isn't there, don't bother packing your personal belongings; we will courier them to your home address. I do not need editors mistaking my company for a dating app.”

​“Yes, Ms. Murphy. Of course. I’m very sorry,” Julian says, throwing me a look of pure terror before practically sprinting out of the breakroom.

​I am left entirely alone with her. My heart beats so hard I fear Amy can hear it. She keeps her back to me for a few seconds, breathing in a controlled manner. She seems furious, but it isn't an explosive anger; it’s a more restrained, possessive kind of fury—one that scares me much more. It’s the type of fury my ex-boyfriend used to have. Which leaves me even more confused, because she is simply my boss and this is my first day on the job.

​Finally, she turns toward me.

​“Are you having fun, Camila?” she asks. Her blue eyes are two pools of cold fire.

​“I didn't do anything, he just came over to talk to me...”

​“Shut up!” she barks, and the sound echoes off the walls. She takes a step toward me, cornering me against the marble counter. “Do you think I hired you to be a distraction for my editors? Do you think this is a place for your college seduction games?”

​“I wasn't seducing anyone,” I reply, feeling indignation begin to override my fear. “I was just drinking tea. He was the one who started talking.”