Hana
The SUV feels different with Linda in it.
Yesterday, it was all panic and silence, Carlos's watchful eyes burning into me while I fought to breathe. Today? Linda fills the space with her voice, her laughter, her running commentary about everything she sees out the tinted windows.
"Holy hell, is that an actual Gucci billboard? Like, a whole skyscraper just for handbags? Do you think they'd notice if I licked it?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose, but I'm smiling. "Please don't lick the city."
She waves me off, already craning her neck to point out another building. "And that one! Oh my God, it looks like a giant USB stick. This is insane, Izzy. I cannot believe this is your commute now. Ten days ago, you were in sweatpants watching crime shows with me. Now look at you. Corporate queen."
Carlos hasn't said a word. He sits across from us, sharp in his dark suit, staring out the window like he's made of stone. Linda leans close to me, whispering — not quietly enough.
"He always this broody, or is he saving his smiles for the stockholders?"
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Carlos doesn't react. If he heard, he's pretending not to.
By the time the SUV glides to a stop in front of Sterling Global, Linda is buzzing with so much energy she's practically vibrating. She grips her carry-on like a shield. "Okay. Deep breath. I'm about to step into the Death Star."
"Don't call it that."
"Fine. Evil castle. Same thing."
The lobby is just as cold and cavernous as yesterday, whispers already starting the second we step inside. Suits glance up from their phones, eyes narrowing at the sight of me with someone new in tow.
I don't flinch. I square my shoulders, heels clicking against marble as I announce loud enough for anyone listening:
"This is Linda Jameson. She's my new personal assistant."
A few heads snap up. A few lips purse. The whispers spread like wildfire.
Linda just beams, like she doesn't notice a thing. She sticks her free hand out to the nearest executive who stares too long. "Hi! I'll be the one keeping her life together. Pray for me."
The poor man doesn't know whether to shake her hand or faint. And me? I feel like I've got someone on my side.
Linda's laughter fades down the hall as she disappears into the small office next to mine, already fussing with her desk setup like she's moving into an apartment instead of a cubicle.
The door to my office shuts with a soft click. Silence.
Carlos stands by the window, hands in his pockets, looking down at the city like he owns it. The glass reflects him back at me — tall, controlled, unreadable. I hate that I can't read him.
I sink into my chair, tossing my clutch onto the desk. My pulse has been pounding since this morning, and for once, I can't swallow it down.
"They knew," I say quietly.
Carlos doesn't turn. "Who?"
"The reporters. They knew about my mother. About…" I hesitate, fingers curling into fists on the desk. "About the possibility that my father's death wasn't natural."
That makes him turn. His eyes lock on mine, sharp and steady. "What do you mean?"
I debate lying. Pretending I didn't just crack my armor. But the words slip out anyway.
"I got a message. Anonymous. It said his death wasn't an accident."
The silence stretches. His jaw tightens — just slightly — before he exhales through his nose.
"Anonymous messages are easy," he says. "Anyone can send one. Doesn't mean it's true."
"Except the press repeated it this morning."
He studies me, and for a moment, I think he might dismiss me. Then, instead, he says, "Vivian used to scream at your father."
The words land heavy, unexpected.
I blink. "What?"
Carlos's voice is low, even, like he's cataloging facts in his head. "When I was first brought in, I stayed close to the house. I heard things. Fights. Vivian accusing him of throwing his life away on you and your mother. He always calmed her down in public. But behind closed doors? It wasn't pretty."
The chill that runs through me has nothing to do with the office air conditioning.
"You think she…?" I can't finish it.
"I think," Carlos says, stepping closer to the desk, "that Vivian Sterling is smart enough to hide her claws. And I think she wanted more than she got."
My throat feels tight. The office suddenly feels too small, like the walls are closing in.
I lean forward, voice low, steady despite the quake inside. "Find out who sent that text. I don't care how. I don't care what it takes. Just—find them."
Carlos studies me for a long moment, then nods once. No argument. No hesitation. Just silent agreement.
The door shuts behind Carlos, and I'm left alone.
The silence is almost too heavy, pressing against my ribs. Outside, I can hear the faint hum of the office — phones ringing, heels clicking, muffled conversations. Life moving on, as if mine hasn't just been ripped wide open.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. For years, I dreamed of this: walking into Sterling Global, taking my place at the top, proving every whisper about me wrong.
Now I'm here. And instead of power, all I feel is a target on my back.
I rub my temples, forcing my breathing to steady. Maybe Carlos is right. Maybe it's nothing but noise. Maybe the press, the whispers, the text — maybe it's all smoke.
My phone buzzes. The sound is sharp in the stillness. Too sharp. I reach for it, telling myself it's Linda texting me about how the stapler on her desk is possessed or that she's already broken the coffee machine.
But the number is blocked. Just like before. One line glows on the screen:
"He trusted the wrong people. Don't make the same mistake."
My hands go cold. The phone slips from my fingers, clattering against the desk. For a long time, I just sit there, staring at the words until they blur.
Outside my office, I hear Linda's laugh, bright and easy, a reminder that not everyone in this building is circling for blood.
But as I pick up the phone again, one thought claws its way to the front of my mind:
Who's watching me now?