Alexander Voss did not shake hands. He evaluated them.
A limp grip meant weakness. A too-tight squeeze meant overcompensation. A damp palm meant nerves. He had built an entire taxonomy of human frailty in the span of a single second of contact.
Elena Reyes's hand was none of those things.
It was warm, calloused at the fingertips (ink stains, he noted, faint indigo under the nails), and it held his for exactly one beat longer than protocol demanded. Not flirtation. Not challenge. Just presence. As if she were saying, I see you, and I'm not going anywhere.
"Ms. Reyes," he managed, releasing her hand and gesturing to the conference table. "You're late."
"By four minutes," she said, sliding into the chair opposite him without waiting for permission. "The F train decided to reenact the apocalypse. I could've blamed the MTA, but I figured you'd rather see the work than hear excuses."
She flipped open her portfolio case. No tablet. No sleek presentation deck. Just a stack of matte prints, edges curled from handling, and a battered sketchbook bound in cracked red leather. She pushed the first print across the glass toward him.
It was the VossTech logo—his logo—reimagined.
The iconic silver helix was still there, but it had been unraveled. Threads of electric blue and molten copper spiraled outward, weaving through negative space to form a constellation. Beneath it, in her own handwriting: Innovation isn't a monument. It's a conversation.
Alexander's pulse stuttered.
He had commissioned that logo himself, ten years ago, from a firm in Zurich that charged more per hour than most people made in a week. It had been untouchable. Sacred.
And she had just set it on fire and made it sing.
"You hate it," she said, reading his silence.
"I haven't said anything."
"You didn't have to. Your left eyebrow just filed for emancipation."
A laugh—short, startled, real—escaped him before he could lock it down. He cleared his throat. "It's… bold."
"Boring is bold's evil twin," Elena said, sliding the next print forward. "This is for your quantum encryption campaign. I know you're launching next quarter. I hacked the spec sheet from a very drunk engineer at a bar in Bushwick. Don't ask."
He should have been furious. Instead, he leaned in.
The image was a double exposure: a child's hand pressing against a pane of glass, fingerprints smudging the surface, while behind it, lines of code cascaded like rain. The tagline: Some doors only open from the inside.
Alexander's mouth went dry again.
He had spent three years and $200 million making sure no one could touch VossTech's encryption. And here was this woman—this intruder—turning his fortress into a child's plea.
"You're proposing we market unbreakable security… with vulnerability?" His voice was rougher than he intended.
"I'm proposing you stop selling fear and start selling trust," she said. "People don't want a vault. They want to know the vault cares who's inside it."
She flipped to the next page. A storyboard for an AR experience: users scanning a VossTech chip with their phone to reveal a hidden garden growing inside their device—flowers blooming in real time based on their data usage. Your world, protected. Your world, alive.
Alexander's fingers twitched toward the print, then stopped. He hadn't touched a piece of art since Liam's finger paintings in preschool. He forced his hand back to his lap.
"You've done your homework," he said.
"I've done more than that." Elena reached into her bag and pulled out a small, battered tin. Inside was a single USB drive shaped like a tiny copper key. "This is the prototype. I built it last night after the train finally moved. It's rough, but it works. Plug it into any VossTech router, and it projects the garden onto whatever surface is closest. I tested it on my subway pole. Commuters lost their minds."
She tossed it to him. He caught it reflexively. The metal was warm from her pocket.
For the first time in years, Alexander Voss felt off-balance. Not the controlled tilt of a negotiation, but the vertigo of standing on a rooftop in a storm. He set the key on the table like it might bite him.
"Why VossTech?" he asked. "You could've gone to any agency. Google. Meta. Hell, you could've started your own shop."
Elena leaned back, studying him with those unsettling green eyes. "Because you're scared."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Not of failure," she said. "You've failed plenty and turned it into fuel. You're scared of feeling. Your brand is a fortress, Mr. Voss. Beautiful. Impenetrable. And completely sterile. I want to crack it open and let the light in. Not for the board. Not for the stock price. For the kid who's going to use your tech to call his mom from a war zone. For the grandmother who'll store her recipes in your cloud and never lose them. For you."
The room went very quiet. Outside, a helicopter thudded past the windows, its shadow slicing across the glass like a blade.
Alexander's voice was low. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you keep a soccer ball in your bottom drawer," she said. "Size 3. Scuffed to hell. I saw it when you bent down to pick up my pen. I know you have a son, because the Post-it on your monitor says Liam—dentist @ 3, don't forget!!! in purple marker. And I know you're about to offer me the job, but you're terrified I'll say yes."
He stared at her. The air between them crackled, not with tension, but with recognition. As if she'd reached into his chest and plucked a string he'd forgotten was there.
He stood abruptly. "The position starts Monday. 7 a.m. Creative floor. Priya will send the contract."
Elena didn't move. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"No negotiation? No 'we'll be in touch'?"
"I don't waste time." He paused at the door, his back to her. "And Ms. Reyes?"
"Elena."
"Elena. The subway pole garden. I want it on my desk by Friday. Fully functional. No excuses."
She grinned, and it was the first time he noticed the dimple in her left cheek. "Yes, sir."
He left before she could see him smile.
That night, Alexander stood in Liam's bedroom, watching the boy sleep. The soccer ball was tucked under his arm like a teddy bear. Alexander sat on the edge of the bed and gently pried it free, replacing it with the actual stuffed dinosaur Liam pretended not to love anymore.
His phone buzzed. An email from Priya:
Contract sent. Ms. Reyes signed without changes. Also, she left this on your desk.
Attached was a photo: the copper key USB, now attached to a tiny note in Elena's looping script:
For the kid who builds spaceships. Tell him the garden's waiting. —E
Alexander stared at the screen until it blurred. Then he opened his laptop, plugged in the drive, and watched as his dark office bloomed with impossible flowers—petals unfurling in slow motion, dew catching light that wasn't there. A single line of text hovered in the air:
Some doors only open from the inside.
He closed the laptop before the ache in his chest could spill over.
Monday, he told himself. Monday, she'd be just another employee.
Monday, he'd have his armor back.
But as he crawled into bed, the scent of rain and copper lingered in his memory, and for the first time in years, Alexander Voss fell asleep wanting the morning to come.
To be continued in Chapter 3…