By Monday morning, the city felt different.
Or maybe it was just me.
Sleep had been impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that dim room again — the shadow of his figure, the sound of his voice saying my name like it already belonged to him.
Now I was standing in front of his building.
Vale Industries — the name everyone in New York knew.
I'd seen it on tech billboards, in headlines, and even on the gadgets in our apartment. I never imagined I'd be walking through its glass doors, especially not because of the man who'd once locked me in a room.
The lobby buzzed with quiet efficiency. Polished floors. A curved front desk. People in suits moved with the kind of rhythm that said they belonged.
I didn't.
The guard barely looked up as he scanned my name on the visitor list. "You're cleared, Miss Hartwell. Top floor."
I nodded and stepped into the elevator. The mirrored walls threw my reflection back at me — pale face, tired eyes, hair that refused to stay down. I adjusted my jacket just to have something to do with my hands.
When the doors slid open, the top floor was nothing like the ground level. It was quieter, colder. Conversations here sounded controlled, measured — like every word mattered.
A woman in a fitted navy suit walked toward me. She had the kind of presence that said she ran things. "You must be Miss Hartwell," she said, her voice clipped but polite. "I'm Dana, Mr. Vale's executive coordinator. He said to bring you up."
Bring me up. Not "welcome aboard."
I nodded anyway. "Thank you."
She led me past glass-walled offices where people typed and talked in low tones. Every surface gleamed. Every desk looked curated.
When we stopped in front of a large door with frosted glass, she gave me a brief look — professional, but curious. "You'll be working under Mr. Vale directly. Your desk will be just outside his office. He'll explain your responsibilities himself."
Before I could even process that, she opened the door.
Lucas Vale stood near the window, back to us, phone to his ear. The morning light cut through the blinds, outlining his frame — tall, sharp, deliberate. When he finally turned, his eyes met mine, steady and unreadable.
Dana announced softly, "Miss Hartwell's here."
He nodded once. "Leave us."
The door clicked shut behind me.
I felt every second of silence stretch between us.
He motioned to the seat opposite his desk. "Sit."
I did.
He ended his call, set his phone aside, and looked at me like he was measuring something invisible. "You came."
"You told me to," I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt.
A faint trace of amusement crossed his face. "You could've chosen not to."
"Would that have been an option?"
That earned me a short pause. Then, "No."
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on me. "You already know who I am."
"I looked you up," I admitted. "You're... Vale Industries."
"Among other things." His tone didn't invite questions. "For now, you'll be assisting me directly. Scheduling. Briefings. Administrative details."
"That's all?"
"For now," he repeated.
He stood suddenly, the quiet rustle of his suit breaking the stillness. "You start today. Dana will get you set up. I want you to observe the operations meeting at ten."
"Today?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked back to mine. "You'll need to catch up fast if you're going to be useful."
There it was — the warning, wrapped neatly in professionalism.
"Understood," I said.
"Good." He walked past me toward the door, but stopped just before opening it. "And, Emily—"
I turned.
"Whatever happened that night stays between us."
I froze. The weight of his words hung in the air — calm, quiet, dangerous.
"I wasn't planning to tell anyone," I said softly.
"See that you don't."
He opened the door, and the tension broke. Dana appeared, tablet in hand, all efficiency again.
"Right this way, Miss Hartwell."
I followed her out, trying not to let my legs show how unsteady they felt.
The corridor outside gleamed under the pale light, and somewhere behind me, his door closed with a soft click.
I didn't know what I was walking into — a job, a trap, or something in between.
But one thing was clear: I wasn't free.
Not really.