Saphirra bit her lower lip as she stepped out of Laren's office, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Every step toward the elevator felt heavier than the last, as if her own conscience was questioning her sanity. This isn't part of the plan... I'm not even an official employee yet.
Still, she pressed the elevator button, watching the numbers descend. When the doors finally slid open, she stepped inside, her reflection staring back at her in the mirrored walls. Her expression was pale, nervous, and unsteady. She forced herself to inhale deeply, pressing the number 17 with trembling fingers.
As the elevator ascended, her chest rose and fell rapidly. Each passing floor dinged like a countdown to her doom. She straightened her posture, silently whispering, 'You can do this. Just notes. Nothing else.'
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the seventeenth floor—a place entirely different from Laren's quiet workspace. It was larger, grander, with modern designs and sharp professionalism exuding from the walls. The atmosphere here carried a weight, the kind only the higher-ups of a massive corporation could create.
Saphirra stepped out carefully, her eyes scanning the plaques on the doors until she spotted it: Conference Room A.
She paused in front of the tall, glass doors, her heart hammering against her ribcage. Her palms were damp, and she had to wipe them against her skirt discreetly. This wasn't just any meeting—this was a meeting so important that Mr. Flame himself was attending. The thought of seeing him again, especially after their sharp, prideful exchange on the phone, sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
Her grip tightened on the door handle as she whispered to herself, "Laren already helped me so much. He even arranged my documents... I wouldn't even be here without him. The least I can do is return the favor."
She closed her eyes briefly, gathering what courage she could. Backing out now wasn't an option. She had already made her choice when she dialed Laren's number yesterday, even though this was not part of her plan.
With one final breath, she pushed the glass door open.
The room fell silent.
All eyes instantly turned toward her, sharp and curious. Executives in dark suits sat around the long oval table, papers spread before them, their gazes heavy with authority. Their attention snapped onto her as though they had been waiting.
Saphirra froze just beyond the doorway, her pulse thundering in her ears. Her throat tightened. She had imagined this moment countless times when dreaming about entering the corporate world—but never like this.
Her heart skipped a beat in nervousness. She gripped her small notepad tighter, lowering her head slightly to avoid the full force of their stares, and stepped further inside. Each step felt like walking onto a stage full of an audience, just like what those models usually do, especially during the catwalk.
At the head of the table, with his piercing presence dominating the room, sat Mr. Flame.
The room's heavy silence pressed against Saphirra's chest, but she forced herself to clear her throat softly and straighten her posture. Her back stiffened, her chin raised just enough to look composed—even though inside, her nerves were unraveling thread by thread.
Mr. Flame's gaze found her instantly. It was sharp, unwavering, and far too intense for comfort. His dark eyes scanned her as if trying to read the reason behind her sudden appearance. For a brief second, Saphirra thought she saw confusion flicker there, but it was quickly masked by something else—a knowing smirk tugging at his lips, the kind that made her stomach twist.
Her first instinct was to look away, to pretend she didn't feel the weight of that stare burning into her. Instead, she stepped forward, quietly moving at the side near his chair with steady steps, her heels barely making a sound against the floor. She clasped her notes tightly in her hands, finding her position near his side, where an assistant would normally stand.
Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm as she tried to anchor herself with a single thought: I've done this before. I've assisted Ms. Travez, I've assisted Travier. This is no different. Just another meeting... just another day.
But there's also in her guts saying that it wasn't the same. Not with him. Not with Mr. Flame.
She could still feel his eyes lingering on her, almost studying her reaction. Her palms grew damp, and she quickly put the notepad on the table in front of her, trying to look composed. Please don't get furious. Please don't question me now," she pleaded silently, lowering her gaze to the clean, white pages in front of her, knowing that he might be confused about why she was there and many other things.
Mr. Flame leaned back in his chair with a quiet authority, that smug curve never leaving his lips. His presence filled the entire room, and everyone else seemed to wait for his next move.
Then, without breaking the tension, he stood. His tall frame and commanding presence immediately shifted the atmosphere. Every executive around the table straightened instinctively, their eyes snapping to him.
"The meeting will begin now," Mr. Flame announced, his voice low and steady, echoing through the large room with effortless dominance.
Saphirra let out the smallest, discreet breath of relief, lowering her eyes again as she quickly flipped her notepad open. Her pen hovered for a second before she forced her hand to move, ready to capture every word.
The first words spoken weren't from her, weren't about her, and she clung to that fragile safety. She focused on the flow of the meeting, jotting down points, scanning the documents being discussed, forcing herself to concentrate as if her life depended on it.
Still, the faintest awareness lingered—Mr. Flame's smirk, the way his gaze occasionally flicked back to her, as though he hadn't quite decided whether to call her out or simply let her play this unexpected role.
And Saphirra, despite all her effort to remain invisible, couldn't shake the feeling that he was testing her—measuring how long she would last in a room where she was never supposed to be.
The room filled with a low hum of voices as the executives shifted into the heart of the discussion. Charts and holographic displays flickered across the wide screen at the far end of the table, presenting a sleek new project proposal.
"Artificial Intelligence integration with hologram technology," one of the lead developers explained with practiced enthusiasm. "Imagine a system where holographic interfaces respond not only to voice but also anticipate user intent through adaptive AI. It could revolutionize the communication sector, business meetings, even personal entertainment—bringing a new dimension to virtual presence."
Saphirra's pen moved steadily across the page, but her mind drifted from simply recording to absorbing. Her eyes flicked to the animated display of a holographic assistant shaking hands with a businessman. It wasn't just intriguing—it was groundbreaking. The more she listened, the more her curiosity sparked alive. She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch every word, already dissecting the concept in her head.
But beside her, Mr. Flame's presence shifted. His sharp jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing as the presentation continued. A low scowl carved across his face, barely hidden from the others, as he saw the programs and algorithms used.
"Adaptive systems, yet you're inserting unstable modules," he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for the nearest executives to stiffen. His eyes swept the table like blades. "You want to build an empire on weak foundations? One error in predictive learning and your hologram doesn't just collapse—it fails catastrophically in live sessions. That is not a system, that's a liability."
A tense silence followed his words. No one dared to meet his eyes.
Except Saphirra.
She lowered her pen, her heartbeat picking up. Every flaw he pointed out, she understood. He was right. The way the current design was structured—it was ambitious, but careless. A single mismatch between data flow and the projection engine could indeed corrupt the system.
But before she could stop herself, her fascination betrayed her. Her thoughts ran too fast, her lips parted—and her voice spilled out into the silence.
"Actually... the concept can work."
Every head snapped toward her. Saphirra froze, her breath hitching, but it was already too late to back down. Mr. Flame's dark gaze locked on her, sharp as a hawk, yet a glimmer of intrigue flickered behind his eyes.
She swallowed and forced her words to steady. "The issue isn't the holographic interface itself; it's the adaptive learning algorithm you're feeding into it. The modules are mismatched. You'd need a cross-check programming bridge—something that can filter out corrupted predictions before they reach the projection engine. That way, even if the AI makes an unstable leap, it won't destabilize the hologram itself."
Her words flowed faster now, her earlier nerves forgotten under the pull of her excitement. "The advantage is scalability—it could adapt to industries beyond communication. But the disadvantage..." she hesitated, tapping her pen lightly against her notes before continuing, "...is cost efficiency. The programming bridge requires higher computational power and constant updates. Without proper maintenance, the whole system could collapse under its own weight. But if those changes are integrated from the start, you'd have a system that not only anticipates but safeguards itself against failure."
The room went dead silent.
Saphirra's chest rose and fell quickly, only then realizing she had leaned forward while speaking, her voice carrying far more confidence than she had intended.
Across from her, Mr. Flame's scowl faded—not completely, but enough for something else to slip through. For the briefest moment, the corner of his lips curved upward, a secret smile that he immediately masked with his usual serious, calculating expression.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving her. "Interesting," he drawled, his voice deliberate. "You mean to tell me, you see the weaknesses I've been pointing out... and already have an alternative solution in mind?"
Saphirra's throat tightened. Heat crept to her cheeks, but she nodded, clutching her pen as if it could shield her. "Y-yes. At least, from a theoretical standpoint."
A hum rumbled in his chest, low and unreadable. "Hmph. Not bad... for someone who wasn't even supposed to be in this room."
The executives shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether his words were praise, mockery, or both. But his eyes stayed on her, sharp and unreadable, as if peeling back layers she didn't want exposed.
Saphirra ducked her head quickly and scribbled something in her notes to avoid that piercing stare. Her hands trembled, but not from fear—from exhilaration.
Mr. Flame, on the other hand, sat back with a composed mask. But beneath it, a secret amusement lingered. She had revealed herself—and he was suddenly very interested in seeing just how far she could go.
The silence after her explanation stretched longer than she expected, heavy enough that Saphirra felt her palms dampen against her notes. Then, slowly, it broke—not with words, but with the quiet shuffle of people shifting in their seats.
Several executives exchanged puzzled looks, as if asking each other what exactly Mr. Flame meant when he fixed his eyes on her. A few leaned toward one another, whispering under their breaths. Some pairs of brows rose in curiosity, others in disbelief.
One of the younger project managers allowed himself a small smile, clearly impressed. He scribbled something on his tablet, perhaps noting down her suggestion. A senior executive, however, scoffed quietly and rolled her eyes, the gesture sharp enough for Saphirra to catch in her peripheral vision.
The tension thickened—until Mr. Flame suddenly stood.
The scrape of his chair against the polished floor made every head turn, the air in the room instantly shifting under his command. He towered with an easy authority, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other gesturing vaguely toward Saphirra.
His lips curved into something between a smirk and an unsettling smile. "Interesting," he said, his voice low yet cutting through the silence with ease. "I was beginning to think this room had no pulse. But it seems I was wrong."
Every spine straightened. Saphirra's breath caught.
Then, without warning, his words landed like a thunderclap.
"Well done, Miss...?" He tilted his head slightly, as though taunting her to supply her name.
Saphirra swallowed hard, her voice barely steady. "Saphirra."
"Well done, Saphirra." The name rolled off his tongue like he was testing it, savoring the sound.
The room erupted in collective shock. A few gasps slipped out before people could hide them. Murmurs rippled across the table. Mr. Flame—cold, sharp, and merciless—never praised anyone. Ever. Yet confusion spread across them as they began to wonder why Mr. Flame was asking her name when she was sitting in the secretary's chair, which was supposed to mean she was his secretary.
"If only," he continued, his tone deceptively smooth, "the rest of you had the same kind of brain she does, perhaps this company wouldn't be choking on mediocrity every time a new project is presented to me."
The words cut deep. Some lowered their gazes, their shame visible, while others clenched their jaws, barely hiding their resentment. A few pairs of eyes darted toward Saphirra, not with admiration—but envy, even hostility.
He let the tension linger, clearly enjoying the way his statement twisted the atmosphere. Then, with a final glance at her, lips still curled in that unreadable smirk, he announced, "Meeting dismissed."
Chairs scraped. Papers shuffled. The room instantly buzzed with whispers and gossip, a hive of mixed emotions.
Saphirra sat frozen, her notepad clutched tightly in her hands. As the others filed out, she caught fragments of their hushed voices.
"...who even is she?"
"...not even part of the team."
"...brilliant, though. Did you hear how she broke it down?"
"...full of herself, that's what. Lucky Mr. Flame was amused, otherwise—"
"...first time he's ever praised someone..."
The words tangled together, a storm of admiration, suspicion, and bitterness. Saphirra lowered her gaze, pretending to organize her notes, but her ears burned. She wanted to feel proud—but the sting of those mocking whispers clung to her, heavy and sharp.
Above it all, she could still feel Mr. Flame's presence in the room. He hadn't left yet. She dared not look up, but she knew—deep down—that smirk of his hadn't faded.
For reasons she couldn't quite understand, it felt like he had just thrown her into the lion's den... and was waiting to see if she'd come out alive.