The air turned dense. Wrong. Like rot curling under her skin.
Eris stumbled back, heels scraping the cold floor. Her eyes darted, wild, walls, monitors, fake uniforms, where was the damn door?
Then it opened.
A silhouette framed by fluorescent helllight. Tall. Cut sharp like a blade. Authority bleeding from every inch of him.
Darian Gravelle.
Behind him, Violette. Stone-faced. Almost matching the concrete.
Eris didn't think.
Her body moved before her brain could protest, surging forward like a string-cut marionette, drawn by some invisible thread of desperation.
She needed something, someone, to hold on to. Anything solid. Anything real.
Her hand, cold, slick with sweat, almost caught the lapel of his suit when his voice stopped her. Low. Controlled. Unfazed.
"If only you had waited…"
He never got to finish.
Because her stomach turned traitor.
Everything inside her rebelled, hot, acidic, unstoppable, and came tearing out of her mouth in one violent surge.
Right on him. All over his pristine, stupidly expensive suit. Silence detonated.
No one moved.
Not Violette. Not Darian. Not even Eris, frozen mid-breath, horror blooming under her skin. The sound of it, sick hitting tile, echoed like a gunshot.
She looked up. Chest heaving. Vision swimming. The taste of bile clawing her throat.
Oh, fuck me sideways.
This was it. Her grand collapse. Her glamorous spiral into what-the-hell-even-is-this-anymore. Weak. Disgusting. Humiliated. Everything she swore she'd never be again.
And still, her hand clutched his suit like it meant something. Like she had the right. The vomit stuck to her palm. Her legs shook like they didn't belong to her.
She heard Violette's sharp inhale. A quiet step back.
He just stood there. Like this wasn't the first time someone lost their soul all over him. Like chaos was something he wore better than suits.
Her vision blurred. Eyes hot. Tongue dry and ugly in her mouth. She didn't know whether to cry, run, or punch something just to feel alive again.
But then… His voice again. Calm. Frigid. Razor-clean.
"Get her out of here."
Not to anyone. Not a command. A thought spoken aloud, maybe just for himself. Then, he reached for her.
Bare hands. No hesitation. No flinch at the mess between them. He gripped her wrist, vomit, shame, and all, and started pulling her with him.
She wanted to resist. Wanted to tell him she was fine. That she could walk. That she still had pride somewhere buried under all this filth.
But her body betrayed her again.
So she let him.
Let herself be dragged out of that sterile nightmare, half-floating, half-drowning in the weight of it all, with her ruin painted on the only man who hadn't flinched when she broke.
✦ 𝔈𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔲 ✦
Dark.
Everything's melting. Short-circuiting. Like someone yanked the wires in my brain and dumped them in a bucket of shame.
Panic. Humiliation. Nausea. Frustration. And yeah, humiliation again. Loud, bold, screaming in capital letters.
I feel heavy. Like I'm drowning in a wet, filthy blanket I can't shake off. Breathing hurts. My brain, god, is it empty? Full? I can't tell. I don't even want to tell.
Somewhere in the distance, there's a sound. Low vibrations. Footsteps? Water dripping? My sanity evaporating?
I blink.
Vision blurry. Eyes sting.
The first scent that hits me isn't vomit (praise be), but something... clean. Warm. Stupidly masculine. Like expensive soap had a lovechild with a thunderstorm.
I shift, feel something soft beneath me. Couch. A stupidly expensive couch. In Darian Gravelle's office.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
I lift my head slowly, like maybe, maybe this is a hallucination. Nope. Darian. Darian Fucking Gravelle.
Standing in the corner of the room. Back turned. Back... bare. BARE. Just, skin. Skin like a damn sin.
Water clings to his muscles, glistening under the lights like a cologne ad from hell. Not gym-rat ripped, no, this is "I was born like this, peasant" sculpted. His shoulder blades are carved, sharp but smooth, tapering into a narrow waist wrapped in dark slacks. His hair's wet, curling a little at the ends.
I blink again. Where. Is. His. Shirt. Better question: Where. Is. My. Self-control.
I inhale, bad idea. My own body smells... wrong. Off. My blouse. Gone. I'm wearing something loose. Dark. Definitely not mine.
Which means, HE. He changed me.
Darian Gravelle, human iceberg, king of criminal couture, changed my damn clothes. I press both hands to my face, willing myself to scrub my soul out through my cheeks.
Kill me. Actually, no, kill him. Then kill me. I should run. Escape. Catapult myself out the window.
Then he turns. Slow. Controlled. Like he already knew I was awake before I did.
His eyes are soft steel, unreadable, that lazy kind of lethal that makes you wonder if you're still safe or already dead.
"You're awake," he murmurs. Voice low. A little raspy. Like it bathed in whiskey and stormclouds.
I swallow. Mouth dry as sandpaper. Tongue heavy like I've been chewing regret for hours.
"Uh…" I try to sit up, fail spectacularly. "Sorry, I, uh, about the whole, vomit, thing…"
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. More like: You amuse me, mortal. "Yes," he says, deadpan. "That part was fairly obvious."
I want to die. I want the couch to eat me. I want to dissolve into vapor and never be spoken of again.
I clutch the shirt I'm wearing like it'll hide the nuclear embarrassment detonating in my chest.
"I can pay for your dry cleaning," I mumble. "Or replace the suit. Or... throw myself off a bridge?"
One eyebrow lifts. Just one. Mocking. Beautiful. Lethal. I groan and bury my face in my hands again. And that's when I smell it.
The couch. No. Not the couch. Him. That warm, sharp scent. Like spice and secrets. Like... expensive danger.
"Oh my god, get it together," my brain yells, as helpful as a paper umbrella in a hurricane.
He steps closer. Slow. Intentional. Like every stride is an invasion. And when he stops in front of me, I have to look up.
Water beads still cling to his chest. His abs, Jesus. That muscle line dipping down from his stomach?
Unnecessary. Illegal. I'm going to jail. My rational brain screams STOP. The other part? The slutty little gremlin in me?
It wants to grab him by the waistband and take a full damn anatomy class. With visuals. And maybe... tongue-based participation.
"Focus, Eris," I hiss inside my skull. "Do not become a statistic."
Darian leans in, one arm braced on the back of the couch, bringing his face closer to mine.
His breath is warm against my cheek. His gaze dips, searching, reading me like a classified file.
Then his voice drops. "I should start getting used to you."
What. WHAT. There are no thoughts. No logic. No calculations. No cost-benefit analysis. Just heartbeat. Just fire. Just him.
I don't melt.
I burn.
Okay. Okay. Maybe… maybe he's not mad.
Maybe Darian Gravelle, walking danger sign, human embodiment of intimidation, has forgiven me?
For throwing up on him? For detonating my dignity in under five minutes?
I stare at him. He stares back. There's something in his eyes. Just for a second. Like… Warmth?
I hold my breath, seconds away from composing the most poetic apology of the century.
But of course. God is still a comedian. Darian steps back. Slowly. Casually. Picks up a towel from the desk.
"You owe me, Miss Moreau."
Three words. Three. Damn. Words. And I'm yanked from whatever heaven I imagined straight back into hell.
I freeze. The smile dies on my face. I'm positive I look like a squashed tomato that just got hit by a semi-truck.
I. Owe. HIM?
Shouldn't he be taking care of me right now?
Shouldn't he be… I don't know, a little more gentlemanly?
But no, Darian Gravelle just dabs the towel over his skin, slow and indifferent,
like he's wiping off the last traces of my dignity.
He tosses the towel on the desk. Reaches for a black suit hanging nearby. Right arm in. Left arm in. Each button closed with excruciating slowness.
He's trolling me. He knows he's trolling me. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to run into the ocean and become a fish.
He glances at me. Blank expression. Cold, bored. Like the awkward semi-erotic disaster of the last ten minutes never happened.
"I'm not a gentleman," he adds, voice low, like he's announcing a death.
I almost laugh. Almost. But then reality slaps me across the face.
What the hell did I expect? A pat on the head? A bar of chocolate? Some tender forgiveness?
Nope. Idiot. I need to stop hoping. I need to remember exactly who I am… And who he is.
I move to stand, to run, to disappear… But suddenly, I catch a whiff. Oh no.
No.
I sniff. Discreet. Then panic. I STILL SMELL. I still smell like… Oh God. Vomit.
I glance at Darian, horrified. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even wrinkle his nose. Just adjusts his cuffs like he's used to dealing with disasters in human form.
I grab the oversized shirt I'm wearing. It smells like his soap. His cologne. And… my shame.
"Is this… is this your shirt?" My voice sounds like a dying mouse.
Darian glances at me sideways. "Not mine," he says casually. Like we're discussing stock prices.
I blink. Blink again. Brain buffering.
"Not… yours?"
He buttons his cuff. Neat. Methodical. Merciless. "No," he says, not even looking at me. "Violette's."
I want to die. Right here. Right now. Turn into ash and drift out the goddamn window.
Violette. Violette saw me throw up. Violette changed my clothes. Violette… Oh God. Kill me. I bury my face in both hands, praying for the Earth to open up and swallow me whole.
"Kill me," I mutter. "Just. Kill me."
Darian exhales, bored as ever, walking toward his desk like nothing happened. And that's when I realize… He's not finished with me. Not even close.
Okay. Let's recap.
I'm an intern. An intern who just vomited on her boss. Not just any boss, mind you… Darian Gravelle. Mr. Iceberg. Mr. Untouchable. Mr. Way-The-Hell-Out-Of-My-League.
I want to dig a hole. Crawl in. Hibernate for the next five centuries.
But no, of course not, I'm still alive. Still sitting on this sinfully expensive leather sofa, wearing an oversized t-shirt that smells like luxury soap, expensive cologne… and the rotting carcass of my dignity.
And him? He's already back at his desk. Like nothing happened. Like I'm not a human catastrophe who literally desecrated his body.
My head's pounding. My stomach's staging a revolution. My hands are clammy, like I'm about to face judgment day. But I force myself to sit straighter, breathe slower, smile, just a little.
Smile like sunshine, think like a blade. That's the rule.
Darian opens his laptop. Thick documents slide out like he's orchestrating a silent war. His hands move fast, sharp, elegant. Then, he speaks. Voice like a glacier, perfectly unbothered.
"You're aware that you failed the simulation."
Slap. It lands like a slap. No build-up. No mercy. Just, bam. I can't breathe for a second. But I can't afford to look shaken. Not here. Not now.
I glance at him, half-hoping, half-dreading. But he doesn't look at me. Not even once. Eyes glued to the screen, face blank like I'm a glitch he hasn't decided to delete yet.
Right. The simulation. I didn't just fail. I flopped. Gloriously. Embarrassingly.
My brain starts doing math, how bad is the fallout? That simulation was part of my evaluation. So that means… what? Cut from the program? Blacklisted? Career death?
Shit.
I swallow. It tastes bitter.
"Understood, sir." My voice comes out steadier than expected. Good girl, Eris. Now shut up before you cry in front of him.
I want to throw myself on the floor and scream into the abyss.
I don't have the luxury of messing up. Not like the rich kids here. One mistake for me = one-way ticket back to scraping coins on the street.
I inhale slowly. Still smiling. Still pretending. On the outside, I'm a calm lake. Inside? Chaos. Full code-red mental lockdown.
Okay. Darian Gravelle doesn't waste time.
If he said I failed, it means he's already processed the consequences. So why am I still here? Why hasn't he kicked me out yet?
I try reading his body language… But he's too... flat. Like I'm just some empty bottle floating through his pristine ocean.
His hands shuffle papers. Quick. Clean. Too clean. Too smooth. It's off.
And that? That's what makes me nervous. Because Darian Gravelle doesn't do anything without reason. I clutch this borrowed shirt tighter. My smile falters. Smaller. Faker.
If I want to survive this? I have to endure. I have to think. I have to understand the game. And maybe… Just maybe… He hasn't made his final move yet.
Not yet.
I tilt my head slightly, eyes peeking through my fringe. Studying him like a chessboard. Smiling sweet. Thinking sharp.
I can't sit still.
No matter how badly I just threw up on him, no matter how it feels like I just torched my entire future with one violent gag reflex, I'm not the kind of girl who stays quiet and accepts defeat.
My pride may be in shreds, scattered across this fancy-ass office like confetti, but it's still there.
I clear my throat, swallowing down the volcano of humiliation bubbling in my chest, and speak as smoothly as I can manage.
"Sir," I begin, steadying the slight tremble in my voice, "If I may ask… why exactly did I fail?"
Darian stops typing. Just for a second. But I catch it. He raises one brow, either surprised I dared to ask… or annoyed I don't know my place.
Hard to tell.
He leans back in his chair, the motion unnervingly fluid, like lava sliding down a mountain that hasn't exploded… yet.
"You broke protocol," he says coolly, voice like ice dragging across skin. "You're not allowed to tamper with evidence."
I blink. My brain kicks into overdrive, flipping through the chaos of earlier.
Evidence? Oh, Oh, hell. The victim's phone. I forced it open, tried to extract data…
But what was I supposed to do? There was blood everywhere, the guy was dying. The scene was a nightmare.
Still, I clench my fists silently. "If I didn't take initiative," I say, tone polite, even sweet, "that data could've been lost."
"You assumed you'd survive long enough to use it," he shoots back, flat as stone. I bite my tongue. Fair point. Still infuriating.
I want to argue. I want to say I had my reasons. But before I can even open my mouth… Another memory slams into me.
The victim. She touched my shoulder. I instinctively cover it now, bile rising like a second wave waiting for permission to crash.
God. That happened. That cold hand. That tap. I glance at Darian, and for a second, my blood goes cold.
He catches my stare. And maybe, maybe he reads the panic bleeding through my eyes, because he says it casually. Like it's no big deal:
"Simulation."
One word. I hold my breath. My heart's a damn marching band in my chest. He straightens, gestures to the table between us.
"Everything you saw was fake," he says, calm enough to make me want to flip the table. "Actors. Real people, paid to play dead."
My mouth nearly drops open. I barely keep it shut. Actors. They were alive. Not real corpses. Not real blood. Not real screams.
Holy sh, But… No. Wait. My eyes narrow. My brain spots the gaping hole in that statement before I even finish the thought.
"The actors knew it was a simulation," I say slowly, voice quiet but sharp, "But you said they didn't…"
Darian glances at me like: There you go, princess.
"Exactly," he replies coolly. "You didn't know." And just like that, I feel like I've been tossed out of a plane without a parachute.
This wasn't just a test. It was a setup. He wanted me to panic. He wanted me to think I was in actual hell. Not just to test my skills. To test my mind.
And I, I cracked. I squeeze the hem of this borrowed T-shirt harder. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to kick something.
But instead… I inhale slowly. Smile. Fake, of course. But clean. Bright. Let them think they won.
In my head? I'm giving them a round of applause for trying. But I'm already planning my comeback, with heels, and fire.
"You lied to me," I say lightly, still polite, still playing nice, even if my blood is boiling. "Classic bait and bleed method."
Darian tilts his head, face unreadable. "Business is blood," he says calmly. "Better you learn it now."
I swallow hard. Lesson one: Never trust anyone in this room. Lesson two: Hold the vomit.
Whether from fear, disgust, or heartbreak… Keep it in. Because this world? Doesn't hand out tissues for the mess you make.
I sat there, still pretending to look cool, even though my brain was torching every remaining system I had left.
Okay. Maybe I'm not getting a permanent position at Vanguard. Maybe, just maybe, my name will be forever etched in gold in some corporate hall of shame: Eris Moreau, the girl who threw up on her boss.
Spectacular. So proud. My future children and grandchildren will absolutely weep with pride. I swear, I wanted to drag myself out the nearest window and evaporate into the ether.
But of course, Darian didn't stop.
He leaned forward slightly, like he was about to whisper some national secret.
"You know," he said, voice low and stable, like always, "you're the first person who's ever thrown up on me."
Silence. I. Heard. That. Clearly.
WHAT?
I could feel my blood doing a freefall straight from my head to the tips of my toes.
The first. THE. FIRST. Holy hell. HOLY. HELL. YOU. ICE-BASTARD.
I almost, almost, lost my face. But somehow, miraculously, I managed just a blink and a perfectly preserved fake smile like a goddamn museum artifact.
But inside? An emotional wildfire, Category 5. He dropped those words like he was tossing a live grenade into my lap.
And the worst part?
Darian Gravelle, human iceberg, emotional suppression himself, still looked calm as a frozen lake...
But. There was something. A flicker. The tiniest motion. At the corner of his mouth. Almost, and I mean almost, like a smile.
I wanted to die. I mean it. Bury me. Plant a tree on top. Use my bones for fertilizer.
But I was still breathing. Still here. And I still had to keep my face on, because if there's one thing worse than throwing up on your boss… It's losing your dignity after you throw up on your boss.
So I took a tiny breath. Rose to my feet slowly. And I smiled. Sweetly. So sweet it could've starred in a dish soap commercial.
"Well, Sir," I said brightly, with all the fake sunshine I could muster, "I suppose... that's an achievement?"
Darian gave the smallest nod, as serious as if I'd just handed him a five-million-dollar presentation.
I almost laughed. Almost. But I chose a different path. I gave a polite little bow. Smile. Composed. Professional.
Then walked out of his office with the finest fake grace I could muster. And the moment the door clicked shut behind me, I leaned against the wall.
And stood still. Letting the humiliation soak into me like sin into cathedral stone.