Her cheeks ached. Not from joy, God no, but from holding the kind of smile life beats into you: one-sided curve, eyes crinkled just right, chin tilted for fake softness.
Sweet. Polished. Bullshit.
In her head: "Say one more word, Josh, or Jason, whatever, and I will stab you with this stylus. Deadass."
"...and that's why Q3 tanked," he kept going, tossing his thoughts across the table like soggy salad. Messy, limp, unwanted.
Typical.
Eris took a sip of tea, not for comfort, just to shut her own mouth before something vicious slipped.
Four people sat around her. Laptops open. Spreadsheet glowing. Financials. Merger projections. All eyes on everything except the anomaly in row E17.
Too clean. That number was too clean. Her finger hovered. Touchpad. Click. Scroll.
There it was.
She spoke, finally. Calm, clear, laced with venom. "If you input a margin like that, we're all gonna look like idiots in front of the board."
Silence snapped the room in half. Jason, yes, Jason, blinked. "Sorry?"
She turned to him, slow as syrup. Smile still on. Eyes still warm. But what came out? "That number's fake. Unless your plan is to get all of us torched alive by the CFO."
Dead quiet. Megan smirked behind her coffee. Someone else stared very hard at their blank notepad.
"Net margin only works if your gross isn't cooked. And this," she pointed, "reads more like fiction than finance."
Jason looked like someone had just slapped him with a ledger. Eris didn't flinch. Same soft tone. Sugar-laced. Dagger-tipped.
"It's okay though. Forgivable. You're still new." A beat. "But mistakes like this usually come from interns. Not senior associates."
Boom. No screams. No gore. But the damage? Beautiful.
She turned back to her screen, fingers already correcting his mess. No permission asked. No praise needed.
Because Eris Moreau lived by one rule: It's never about who's smartest in the room… It's about who knows when to speak,
and when to bite.
She was reworking the table, margin cells, color codes, projections that didn't sit right, when a low voice curled around her left side.
"I swear, you'd do my job better than I ever could."
Eris didn't look. Didn't need to. She knew that voice.
Adam.
Dark brown hair slicked back like he didn't try, except it looked expensively undone. That kind of casual that took effort. His tone? Slow. Lazy on purpose. Like he didn't care, but of course he did. Flirty in that way men do when they think it won't be obvious.
She finally tilted her head a fraction. Neutral face. Bored eyes. "Why? Planning to quit?"
A soft laugh from him. One of those rich boy laughs. "You wish."
He leaned against the desk. Too close. The scent hit first, oud and vetiver, sharp and heavy, like his cologne didn't get the memo about office hours.
His gaze dragged from her screen to her face. Stayed there. Too long. "You're sharp," he said, voice dipped in honey. "Feels like you've been here forever."
Eris turned slightly, small smile curling at one corner. Sweet. Sharp. Dismissive. "Real question, do you flirt with everyone, or am I just blessed today?"
Adam raised an eyebrow, palm up like a fake confession. "Guilty as charged?"
Across the table, Clara nudged Eris' leg under the desk. Subtle. Synchronized. When Adam turned away, Clara leaned just enough to whisper without moving her lips.
"Careful with him," she murmured. "His track record's a dumpster fire. He does this with every new girl."
Eris didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just one tiny nod, her smile still intact, charming as hell.
Inside her head: Of-fucking-course he does. Guys like him always do. Sweet coating. Rotten center.
But backing off? Not her style. If Adam wanted a game, he'd just walked onto the wrong damn field.
She tapped the touchpad. Slide changed. Numbers shifted. She didn't need to look to know… He was still watching. Still circling. Still trying to figure her out.
Poor thing didn't realize: This book? Written in poison. And Eris Moreau, She'd learned a long time ago how to smile while sharpening her knives.
"Hey," Clara whispered again, this time with a giddy spark. "I swear, I can feel it, tonight they're gonna take us out. It's a thing they do for new interns. Like… bar party thing."
Eris kept typing. Slide, figures, margins, like her fingertips could drown out the noise. Her smile stayed polite. Pretty. But her eyes? They emptied for a second. Glazed over like a cracked screen.
Clara didn't stop. "Adam's gonna be there for sure. He's like, bar royalty. Has a favorite spot and everything. Kinda hot, right?"
Her fingers froze mid-air above the touchpad. One second. Two. Her pulse skipped, off beat, off rhythm. Like a vinyl scratch in the middle of a song.
Party.
Bar.
Alcohol.
And suddenly, Clara's voice vanished, replaced by the shatter of a bottle hitting linoleum. A man screaming in the living room. Her mother crying in the kitchen. "Don't upset your father." The sharp sting of vodka soaking a carpet that never smelled clean, no matter how hard she scrubbed.
"Sounds fun, right?" Clara leaned closer, still whispering like nothing had exploded inside the girl next to her.
Eris blinked. Once. Air felt thinner than it should've. But the smile? Still there. Sharper this time.
"Fun," she said. Crisp. Smooth. Like a blade slid across satin. But inside… Thunder.
She hated dark rooms filled with fake laughter and the sticky scent of cheap whiskey. Hated the sound of glasses clinking like teeth grinding in someone's skull. Hated the way drunk men leaned too close and laughed too loud, their breath sour enough to punch.
And more than all that? She hated the weakness that crawled up her spine every time she had to say no. Because the world didn't like "no." It liked pressure. Smiles. "It's just one drink." Like trauma was some damn rom-com subplot.
She wasn't a subplot. She was a scar that hadn't healed and wasn't asking for sympathy. "If they ask, are you in?" Clara asked again, eyes bright, voice innocent.
Eris leaned back in her chair. Her smile returned, thin and practiced. Her eyes, for half a second, went somewhere far too cold.
"We'll see. I pick places, not people."
And that wasn't a lie.
If the place stank of her past, she wouldn't even touch the threshold. Adam could be standing there naked, holding a year-end bonus and begging in French… Still no. Hard no. Hell no.
"…and get this, Nadine got caught cozying up with Mr. Varga's personal assistant. Like, seriously? Of all people? His assistant? What was she even…"
ding.
A soft chime. One notification lit up Eris's screen. Private message. From: Laurent.
Subject: Quick Help Needed.
Just one line. Formal. Dry. But there was something in the undercurrent, something that didn't feel so... impersonal.
Can you come to my office for a moment? Need your insight on something.
Clara kept rambling beside her, voice buzzing like a fly trapped inside a motorcycle helmet.
White noise.
Eris barely registered a word. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen, finger already moving the cursor, clicking without thinking. Head tilted. A half-smile bloomed, quiet, knowing. The kind you wear when you spot an open door in a burning room.
"Oh no. Don't tell me you're falling for Adam too," Clara teased with a laugh, completely off-track. "If you are, I want every detail. Promise me."
Eris closed her laptop, slow, calm. The kind of calm that comes when you've just been saved from cheap gossip and half-buried trauma by something vaguely resembling purpose.
"Boss wants me," she said, flat. Standing without hurry, like none of this was new.
"Laurent?" Clara blinked, leaned in, voice dropping to whisper-level. "He's like… one of the hardest people to crack. If he's asking you for help, that means…"
But Eris was already walking.
The quiet tap of her heels echoed down the wood-paneled corridor, steady and sharp, slicing through whatever conspiracy Clara was spinning behind her.
Laurent. His office was always quiet. Too quiet. Not accidental silence, but curated. Controlled. Like even the plants had been warned: Don't breathe too loud.
And now, he wanted help? From her? Please. Way more interesting than Nadine's assistant fling or Adam the half-baked playboy.
At least Laurent came wrapped in mystery instead of cologne and bad pick-up lines.
Let's see if the ice had cracks.
Eris walked with purpose, not slow, not rushed. She wasn't the kind of girl who hurried toward something she hadn't sized up yet.
The corridor of the Strategy floor was bright but cool, the kind of luxury that didn't scream, it whispered. And that silence? It wasn't natural. It felt like something… watching. Something that blinked from behind the polished calm.
A few senior execs passed her, nodding with that fake, corporate courtesy. But their eyes? Always dropped. To her legs. Her waist. Predictable.
She gave them a smile. Barely there, more smirk than sweetness. Careful not to trip on the carpet, boys. These heels aren't made for charity work.
She stopped in front of Laurent's office door. Frosted glass, his name embossed cleanly across it, sharp lines, no frills. Just like his rep.
She knocked. Once. Twice. Silence. Ten seconds. Twenty. Okay… so maybe he's not…
click.
The door cracked open. Slowly. And there he was.
Laurent.
Half-shadowed, tie slightly off-center like he'd just lost an argument, with someone or with himself. His eyes hit hers a second late, like he wasn't expecting her to be the first thing he saw.
Then she looked past him. And boom. There. Violette.
Of course. Hair still glossy. Red lipstick untouched. But her eyes?
Confused. Disappointed. And, oh, that one was fresh, anger. Sloppily tucked away.
Why was she always... there? Always showing up in scenes that didn't belong to her. Like a background extra who hadn't figured out she wasn't the lead.
"Oh." Soft from Eris. Not surprised. But her gaze? It did all the talking. Caught again, sweetheart.
Laurent stepped aside, just enough room for her to pass. "Come in." Only two words. But his baritone was ice, like he'd just finished arguing with a knife.
Eris walked in, not acknowledging Violette, not even a flicker. Just that same flat smile, casual, dismissive.
Violette stormed out with a tablet in hand, heels clacking too fast for someone who'd supposedly just "stopped by." And her shoulders? Locked tight.
Eris held back the snark sitting on the edge of her tongue.
Girl. If you're trying to score points with the boss, maybe don't do it in someone else's room. Kinda tacky.
The door clicked shut behind them. Silence fell. Too thick. Too sharp. Way too loaded for a simple need your insight.