I believed in rules.
Not the kind written in employee handbooks or announced during orientation. Those were obvious. Easy. Anyone could follow them.
The real rules were quieter.
They were learned by watching who got interrupted in meetings. Who got credit. Who got blamed. Who disappeared without a goodbye email.
At Hale Industries, the most important rule was simple.
Don't be noticed.
I arrived on the executive floor just before nine, the way I always did—early enough to be useful, late enough not to be questioned. The hallway smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive cologne. Low voices carried easily here, confident voices, voices that belonged.
I adjusted the strap of my handbag on my shoulder and walked faster.
The bag was old. Thrifted. The leather softened with time and use. I liked it because it didn't draw attention. Because it didn't announce anything about me other than practicality.
Practical mattered.
Rent mattered.
Groceries mattered.
Keeping this job mattered more than anything else.
The elevator doors opened.
And the floor seemed to hold its breath.
I felt it before I saw him—the subtle shift, the way people straightened without being told, the way movement reorganized itself instinctively. Conversations dipped. A laugh cut off mid-sentence.
Alexander Hale stepped out of his office.
He was tall. Taller than most men on the floor, broad-shouldered without looking heavy, the kind of presence that didn't need exaggeration. His suit fit him perfectly—tailored, dark, understated. No unnecessary flair. No wasted detail.
His eyes were green.
Not the soft kind. Sharp. Assessing. The kind that made you feel measured even when they weren't on you.
I stopped walking.
I had seen him every weekday for months. That didn't stop the reaction. It never did.
I didn't want to notice him. I really didn't. Not his height, not the way his voice carried without effort, not the way his gaze could still a room without rising in volume.
I was here to work.
I didn't have the luxury of distraction.
"Ms. Moore."
My spine straightened automatically. "Yes, Mr. Hale?"
"Conference room," he said. "You're taking notes."
"Yes, sir."
I fell into step behind him, notebook pressed lightly to my chest, careful to keep the correct distance. Close enough to hear. Far enough not to intrude.
I reminded myself to breathe.
People like him existed in a different category. Not unreachable—just irrelevant to my life. I wasn't here to impress him. I wasn't here to be seen by him.
I was here to do my job.
Inside the conference room, I took my seat slightly behind and to the side of him. Out of the way. Safe. The place no one argued over.
The meeting started the way they always did—with confidence.
Projected revenue.
Market expansion.
Partnerships framed as inevitabilities rather than negotiations.
I wrote everything down, my handwriting neat, efficient. I didn't miss numbers. I didn't miss phrasing. I didn't miss the subtle shifts in tone when risk was glossed over with certainty.
Then the slide changed.
Margin stability: 15%.
My pen slowed.
I flipped back through the printed documents once. Then again. My fingers traced the numbers carefully, as if touching them might make them behave differently.
They didn't.
Two contracts listed under confirmed revenue were still pending. Not signed. Not finalized. One hadn't even cleared legal review.
My stomach tightened.
Assistants didn't speak.
That was another rule. An unspoken one. Assistants observed. Recorded. Corrected quietly, later, if correction was needed at all.
I told myself someone else would catch it. Someone whose voice carried weight. Someone who could afford to be wrong once and recover.
"I don't like assumptions," Mr. Hale said calmly. "Explain the margin again."
Vivienne Clarke leaned forward. Confident. Composed. Impeccably dressed. "We calculated risk into the projections. Fifteen percent accounts for volatility."
My fingers curled around my pen.
That number was wrong.
My heart began to race, loud enough that I was certain someone would hear it. I kept my eyes on my notebook. I wrote another line. Then another.
Ignore it.
Let it go.
This isn't your place.
Then his gaze shifted.
Not to Vivienne.
To me.
"What do you have?" he asked.
The question landed like a weight.
I looked up before I could stop myself. His eyes were on mine, sharp and unreadable, waiting. Not impatient. Expectant.
I swallowed. "I—" My voice caught. I forced myself to continue. "If we remove the two unsigned contracts from confirmed revenue, the margin drops by another three percent."
The room went quiet.
Someone checked the screen. Someone else flipped a page. The silence stretched just long enough for regret to bloom in my chest.
"That's correct," the finance director said slowly. "It should be closer to eighteen percent."
Heat rushed to my face. I lowered my eyes immediately, pulse hammering.
Mr. Hale nodded once.
"Eighteen percent," he said. "Renegotiate."
Just like that.
The meeting moved on. The mistake corrected. The moment passed.
No one looked at me again.
I kept writing, hands steady only because I forced them to be. My heart didn't slow until several minutes later, and even then, the tightness lingered.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped softly against the floor as people filed out. Conversations resumed. Laughter returned.
"Ms. Moore."
I looked up.
"Yes, sir?"
"Clear my afternoon."
"Yes," I said quickly.
He turned and walked away, already done with the exchange.
I stayed seated for a moment longer, notebook open, breathing carefully.
I hadn't meant to speak.
But numbers didn't care about rules.