Three weeks.
That's how long Brittany Taylor had been navigating the treacherous waters of working under Damien Wren — the man infamous in the industry as the Ice King.
Three weeks of precision.
Three weeks of flawless execution.
Three weeks of meticulously monitoring every word, every breath, every movement, because she understood — one misstep, and she'd be out in the open.
And yet… he hadn't let her go.
In fact, it felt like he was scrutinizing her more than ever.
"Your report on the Zurich branch," he remarked one morning, his voice sharp as a shard of glass. "You submitted it two minutes early."
She froze. "Was that… an issue, sir?"
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "No. Just… unusual."
Her heart raced. He notices everything.
As he walked past her desk, he paused just long enough for her to feel the weight of his gaze. "You've been remarkably consistent, Ms. Taylor. Almost too consistent. It's as if you're trying to conceal something."
She managed a faint laugh. "Or perhaps I'm just really good at what I do."
"Perhaps," he replied, stepping closer. "But even the best make mistakes. You don't."
With each passing day, his tests became more subtle — rearranging schedules, assigning her impossible deadlines, giving her contradictory instructions.
Each time, Brittany adapted, responded flawlessly, and kept a smile on her face.
But every night, when the office lights dimmed and the glass towers turned into shadows, Damien lingered — poring over her file again and again.
He had his team conduct multiple background checks.
Everything came back spotless. Too spotless.
Her university records were impressive but strangely sparse.
Her work history — immaculate but untraceable beyond three years.
Her emergency contact? Nonexistent.
And her listed address? A residential block that had been demolished five years ago.
Who are you, Brittany Taylor? he pondered, staring at her profile photo on his screen.
The deeper he dug, the more perplexing it became.
He had built an empire on exposing lies — mergers, betrayals, boardroom politics. But this woman… She was like a ghost wrapped in sunlight.
And worse, she captivated him.
Every time she stepped into his office — polite, composed, those calm brown eyes meeting his with a quiet defiance — something inside him stirred. Something he hadn't felt in years.
It drove him mad.
So he pushed harder.
"Ms. Taylor," he said one afternoon, sliding a thick folder across his desk. "I need you to audit these files. They're from our oldest subsidiaries — dating back fifteen years. Confidential. Not a word to anyone."
"Understood."
"And if I find even a hint of these documents outside this office…" His gaze turned steely. "You'll wish you hadn't been so perfect."
She nodded. "You can count on me."
"I intend to find out," he replied quietly.
That night, as Brittany sifted through the files, she stumbled upon a name she recognized in one of the old records — Verdan project.
Her breath hitched.
Her father's name
The name loomed up at her like a specter from her past. For a moment, her vision blurred, memories flooding back — the news headlines, the cold morgue room, her mother's tears.
Her hands shook as she turned the page — but froze when she heard a sound.
Footsteps.
Damien's voice came from behind her, calm and low.
"Still here?"
She quickly shut the file. "Just wrapping up, sir."
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You're the only one who doesn't bolt when I work late."
"Someone has to keep up with you," she replied lightly.
He smiled — just barely. "You're brave. I'll give you that."
Then his gaze fell to the folder she'd just closed.
"Interesting choice," he remarked.
Her heart raced. "It was the next one in the stack."
"Was it?" he asked, watching her a bit too closely.
The tension between them thickened — a mix of danger and curiosity neither could quite name.
Finally, he said, "Go home, Ms. Taylor. Before I start thinking you enjoy being in my office after hours."
She forced a small smile. "Good night, Mr. Wren."