I sat in his luxurious Rolls‑Royce, in the back corner seat like a random passenger he forgot to drop off.
Uncomfortable. Cramped. Awkward. Why didn't he tell me to sit up front by the driver?
He was absorbed in his phone. The car felt tense and muted, as if the air was waiting for his command. Outside, afternoon traffic crawled like thick mud.
— Found anything interesting while digging into my life? — I asked evenly, staring ahead.
Probably not much. Maybe that I took custody of my half-sister when our mother died. Her father vanished, leaving debts trailing behind like snakes. Typical setup, right? Except in reality you can't legally force teenage debt on me. That romantic trope—billionaire saves poor girl—is a convenient pink lie.
In reality, you either take responsibility for someone else's financial shit, or it affects property. One coincidence—and the debt noose is around your neck.
— Nothing special. Drunken stepfather ran off, you took the sister, gray mouse, — he said, as if reading from a script without looking up.
I didn't respond. Something inside me cooled. After I'm gone, nothing remains—no footprint, no memory, not even a passing thought. Just a shadow. Mousey.
I turned to stare out the window. Outside, strangers lived inside boxy cars.
Betrayals. Theft. Indifference. Abuse. All off-camera. Because even pain doesn't make me interesting. I'm too convenient to matter.
— You know, in endurance you surpass my secretary—Hilda, — he said without looking up.
— Yeah, — I just sighed.
We entered the building from the underground parking. He had his own elevator—no buttons. It took him straight to what he called an office.
Behind that hidden door in which he first interviewed me lay a sterile, museum-like hall. Behind another door—bedroom, bath, a mini-lounge, like a glossy spread of rich men without fantasy.
Supposed to impress me? Material stopped impressing me long ago. I don't even know what could. Unless it's a giraffe in the closet. Then maybe.
He motioned to the conference table. I sat. He behind his desk. Took the documents. Silence. Half an hour.
Testing me—or just forgot I existed?
Silence broke with a loud, nervous voice:
— Teron! I have a problem with the store! We tried laundering a portion, but the tax office caught us! I'll be hit with fines!
He looked up. Furiously silent.
The guy finally saw me.
— What is she doing here?! I thought you were alone!
— Some people have doors. Or secretaries. At worst—some brain.
— Who is this anyway? — he looked like I was contagious.
— Meet Dave Veskari, — Teron said. — My brother.
— Younger? — I clarified calmly.
— Yeah.
— Teron, seriously? Who is she? This... mouse?!
— Your move? — he asked me, looking right at me.
I stood and walked over to his brother:
— Documents. Or whatever you brought.
— Are you insane? What nonsense is this? — Dave erupted.
— Give it to her, — Teron said, never looking up from the paperwork.
He handed me the folder and returned to his seat, continuing to scream at Teron. I didn't listen. I read.
The errors were obvious. No effort needed.
I approached Teron and put the documents on his desk.
After Dave's outburst, Teron addressed me again.
Speak.
— Your sales exceed your purchases. You reported selling suits as sets of two, but invoices show partial shipments. You sold them separately, yet didn't record that anywhere. You either submit corrected invoices—or... — I looked at him. — Hire a few new tailors. Post-date the contracts. Buy raw materials from them and pay a bonus for your grey deal. They get exposure—you patch your books. Cleaner documents, minimum cost. Reality doesn't need to make sense.
He smiled. Easy. Almost dangerously. The same smile that once made my throat dry.
Dave froze.
— Got it? — Teron asked.
Silence.
— Prepare the contracts. I'll find the tailors, — he assigned as my first task.
— Office, — I reminded him.
He didn't even glance at his brother:
— Exit.
His voice was ice.
Honestly, I wasn't sure whether he meant me or the brother—but I hadn't had time to stand yet. Dave muttered under his breath, slammed the folder on the table, and stormed out as if fleeing a burning building.
Teron leaned back in his chair, ran his hand through his hair and exhaled heavily—like the air he breathes was wearing him thin. As if I was poisoning his air just by breathing.
— How do men even tolerate you? You're such a... — he stopped. Not pitying—but choosing words carefully.
— Annoying, — I finished coolly.
He looked at me instantly. Sharp. Nailed it.
— Men don't tolerate me. I prefer girls, — I added casually. It was a perfect lie that worked as armor—a simple shield against closeness, assumptions, reading me.
He snorted, squinted, folded his hands and rested his chin on them, as if preparing to solve a crossword on my face.
— You couldn't tell, — he mused.
— Nor could you that this was illegal, if the first assignment is a crime, — I replied evenly.
Silence.
A subtle expression flickered on his lips—not a smile, not mockery—something slippery. Something I never wanted to see twice.
We could've gone on trading edges forever. But I decided to stop, not because I couldn't—but because I didn't want to.
I looked away.
He seemed to sense my resolve—and also let it rest. As though we both silently agreed: enough. For today.
Minutes later he called Hilda. His tone normal, routine—as if our verbal skirmish never happened.
— Give her everything she needs, — he said. — She'll outline what later. End of day—report. She starts tomorrow.
Hilda nodded without expression, escorted me to the waiting area and seated me by the wall's waiting table.
— Let's begin, — she said, pulling out a tablet.
She was precise and eerily attentive, asking about everything: desk height, adjustability, water cooler style, lighting, coffee maker vs kettle.
I asked if she was talking about me.
I wasn't used to preferences being noted—especially with such detail.
— Chair, — I said. — The only thing that matters is comfort. I'll choose it myself.
At 23, my body felt 35. The chair was more essential than coffee.
— Everything else standard, — I added. — I don't need a smart cooler.
She nodded sharply and led me through five identical, bland, clean offices. I chose one on the 12th floor—near the staff lockers and cleaning room. Quiet, if you prefer no one sees you.
Essentially, I was a janitor—but cleaning others' mistakes.
I noticed a freight elevator. A service entry for those who avoid ceremonial entrances. I asked for access to that route.
Hilda, unwavering, replied:
— That depends on Mr. Veskari.
I ordered my own chair delivery—functional and personal. She escorted me to the main entrance and quietly reminded:
— Work hours: 9–4. No lateness. Meet at the reception desk.
I nodded. Clear instructions, no questions.
The rest of the day I spent productively—ordered my chair, shopped for essentials: UV stamps, spare flashlight, pens that don't slip, pencils. Simple items tailored to me.
They were mine—functional, not flashy.
By evening, I reviewed new reports—read laws, auctions, heritage items, collectibles. I hadn't dived into this topic before—but if the company thrives here—I need to know where they slip.
In this game, survival belongs to those who find cracks first. Even behind gilded facades.
Next morning I arrived 20 minutes early—a habit, not out of zeal but calm.
Hilda waited by reception. No greeting—just a nod. Using my key, she guided me through the service entrance. It was approved. I was allowed.
She handed my access card and briefly outlined rules: floors, access, security, lunch, departure hours. Clear and precise.
— Work hours are nine to four. One hour lunch. — she added.
Four? That felt generous. Caring, even.
For a second, I felt human. Almost.
Later I realized we hadn't discussed salary. That meant another meeting with Teron. I didn't want it. But there was no choice.
Hilda led me to the 12th-floor office. The one where I finally felt in place.
My chair was already there. A small window facing the noisy city. Everything else standard office fare: desk, drawer, lamp, folders—a tidy, practical setup. Not borrowed.
— Work time begins, — Hilda said, pointing at the stack of papers on my desk.
— Understood, — I replied and rather enjoyed being alone.
I sat at my desk. Papers were clean and organized.I began decoding.
Today: I wore a gray pencil skirt suit. Closed shirt. Jacket that hid rather than revealed—a uniform meant to not be noticed.
Within minutes, I spotted a glaring discrepancy. Not minor. A serious mismatch. And if I saw it—someone else would too.
Fifteen minutes before lunch, I decided to bring it to Teron's attention. And to ask about pay, which he dodged yesterday.
Using the staff elevator, I reached his back reception door. I exited quietly—like a ghost—and saw Hilda at her station. I approached silently, holding the folder. She was on the phone, unaware of me. I wondered if I had the right to be here.
But there was no time to wait.
The door opened. Teron stepped out—not alone. With him—a woman in her mid‑twenties, tall, platinum‑blonde, wearing a gown fitting for an evening gala or a runway model.
The dress was short. The décolletage modest but pointed. Her face—icy like a boutique façade. Bold, severe beauty. Too confident.
I felt irritation immediately.
Teron noticed me too—and strangely, paused.
— Just wait. I'll be free soon, — he told her.
She raised a brow:
— Teron, who is this?
— Wait, — he repeated and gestured me inside.
I entered confidently—but he didn't let me reach depth. He closed the door behind me and stood—too close. Facing me from half a meter. Tall. Strong. Expressionless—but condensed.
I shifted breathlessly. Thoughts surfaced—bodily, uninvited, unwanted. I crushed them immediately and stepped aside.
— Hello. We haven't yet discussed my salary, — I began.
He took one step forward.
My instinct pushed me back.
He forward. I back. Like children in a strange dance until one of us hit a wall.
He would later say I was "annoying."
I snapped sideways, freeing myself and approached his desk. Placed the two sheets.
— Look at these reports, — I said.
He came slowly, hands in pockets, almost lazily—despite the woman behind him who glanced, disappointed, about to storm.
His ease no longer felt powerful. Something cracked. Under the veneer, the predator seemed weary.
He studied the papers. With each line, expression hardened. Vanity dropped. Left only cold clarity.
— How soon did you find this? — he asked, not looking up from the docs.
— I'm no expert in art or your schemes, — I answered calmly. — But I do spot inconsistencies. I compared your upcoming auction against the input data. The mismatch was obvious.
He didn't answer—just pressed his lips.
— Damn, Dave… — he hissed through teeth. Rage as though it was taboo.
His glare at those reports showed he didn't know. That Dave was working behind his back—or in darkness. And from his reaction, it wasn't the first time.
Teron reached for a small slip, scribbled something, and handed it to me—bold writing.
— I'm sending Austin to you. He'll help you access data you can't get directly. All inconsistencies go through him. Urgent? He reports to me.
He looked at me. Dryly. Precisely.
— And remember: you talk to me—or to him. No one else.
Not a request. Structure. A wall. An order. Trust wasn't shared—it was controlled.
He escorted me to the door. I left without a word.
From the corridor behind, a voice echoed—icy, quivering with betrayal:
— What do you mean you're not riding?!
A beautiful woman's voice twisted in fury.
Poor thing. I ruined her morning—or evening—or something in between.
My elevator arrived. I took a step forward—and suddenly—
— Who are you anyway?
A slender hand yanked me by the elbow. I stopped—unhurriedly. Just felt bone-deep annoyance.