Elara's POV
The alarm goes off at six thirty sharp, the same soft chime I chose because anything louder feels like violence this early in the morning. I let it ring for exactly three seconds before reaching out to silence it. Discipline, even in waking. Especially in waking.
For a moment, I lie still.
My apartment in Brooklyn Heights is quiet in the way only early mornings know how to be. Pale light filters through sheer curtains, brushing the edges of the room without asking permission. The ceiling above me carries a faint crack I never bothered to fix. It reminds me that this place is temporary. That everything is.
Today is my first day at Aurellian Global Consortium.
I sit up slowly, feet finding the cool hardwood floor, and breathe once before standing. Nerves try to surface. I press them down. I have learned how to do that. I shower, the water hot enough to ground me, and move through my routine with practiced calm. Cleanser. Moisturizer. Light makeup. Nothing dramatic. I do not believe in arriving loudly. I believe in being remembered quietly.
My wardrobe choice had been decided days ago. A soft ivory blouse tucked into tailored charcoal trousers. Neutral heels. Structured blazer. Hair pulled back neatly, not severe, not loose. Professional without apology. I look at myself in the mirror and tilt my head, assessing. Not for beauty. For readiness.
In the kitchen, my coffee machine hums as if it understands the gravity of the morning. I pour myself a mug, black with a splash of milk, and stand by the window as I take the first sip. The bitterness settles me. Five minutes. That is all it takes to walk from here to the building that has already begun to change the trajectory of my life.
I think briefly of my mother, of how her voice shook when I told her I got the job. Of Naomi, who warned me that companies like Aurellian Global did not hire talent without expecting blood in return. I think of how neither of them live this life. And how I do.
By seven forty five, I am out the door.
The walk is short but deliberate. The city is waking up, polished shoes passing sneakers, ambition crossing paths with routine. When Aurellian Global finally comes into view, it looks exactly as it did in the photos. Tall. Immaculate. Untouchable. Glass reflecting the sky so cleanly it feels unreal.
Inside, the reception area is a study in restraint. White marble floors. Minimalist seating. A quiet hum of efficiency. The receptionist greets me with a polite smile that does not reach her eyes.
"Elara Whitmore. Senior Brand Strategist," I say.
She checks her screen, nods once, and hands me a visitor badge that feels heavier than it should. "Welcome to Aurellian Global."
The elevator ride is silent. No music. No chatter. Just the soft ascent and my own reflection staring back at me in polished steel. I straighten my blazer and remind myself that I belong here because I earned it.
My desk is waiting on the forty second floor. Clean. Organized. A nameplate already in place. I run my fingers over the edge once before settling in. The strategist unit gathers shortly after, a mix of sharp eyes and sharper minds. Introductions are brisk. No wasted words. I am welcomed with nods, a few assessing smiles, and one genuine handshake from a woman named Clara who whispers, "You will do fine," like it is a secret.
At nine sharp, we are summoned to the boardroom.
The space is expansive, all glass walls and long polished table, city stretching endlessly beyond it. Board members file in one by one, each carrying the quiet authority of someone used to being listened to. I take a seat near the middle, posture straight, notebook open.
Then he walks in.
The room does not announce him. It reacts to him.
Julian Alexander Moreau does not rush. He does not look around. He simply takes his place at the head of the table, dark suit perfectly tailored, expression unreadable. The air shifts, subtle but undeniable. Conversations die without being asked to. He does not smile. He does not greet. He sits.
The meeting begins.
Projections. Market expansions. Luxury real estate acquisitions in Milan. A technology merger in Paris. Each board member speaks with confidence, numbers rolling off their tongues like currency. I listen. I observe. I wait.
When it is my turn, I stand.
I outline my proposal clearly. Brand recalibration for the European expansion. A narrative shift from dominance to discretion. Luxury without excess. Power without spectacle. I speak evenly, referencing data, anticipating objections before they surface. I feel his eyes on me midway through, sharp and assessing. I do not falter.
There is a pause.
Julian tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing not in anger but curiosity. A silent question hangs in the air. Who is this.
His secretary leans in, murmurs something near his ear. I hear my name softly carried across the table. Elara Whitmore. Senior Brand Strategist.
He nods once.
There is something like a smirk. Barely there. I see it. I do not react.
I continue.
When I finish, the room is quiet for half a second longer than necessary. Then discussion resumes. My ideas are dissected, debated, built upon. No one dismisses them. No one challenges my credibility. And Julian watches the entire time without interruption.
Three hours later, the meeting concludes.
Human Resources stands and formally introduces me to the board. Names are exchanged. Hands are shaken. Polite welcomes offered. Everyone meets my eyes except Julian Moreau. He does not stand. His secretary does not move. Their attention is already elsewhere.
I sit back down.
As we file out, a few younger board members fall into step beside me. Friendly. Curious. Careful.
"You did well in there," one of them says.
"Just be cautious," another adds, lowering his voice. "Around him."
They exchange looks, as if deciding how much to say. "He does not like contact," someone whispers. "Especially with women."
I nod. I say nothing.
By the time it sinks in, we are already halfway down the corridor. The absence of scandal. The lack of rumors. The pristine silence around his private life. Understanding settles uncomfortably in my chest.
So that is it.
The mighty CEO of Aurellian Global Consortium is not interested in women. I file the thought away, not with judgment, but with a strange sense of relief. Distance suddenly feels safer. Boundaries clearer. I will not be noticed. I will not be complicated.
The rest of the day passes in measured productivity. Orientation. Systems access. Strategy briefs. Quiet observations. No interruptions. No surprises. When five thirty arrives, I pack my things and leave with the others.
The walk home is just as short.
Inside my apartment, I set my bag down, loosen my blazer, and exhale for what feels like the first time all day. I tell myself I survived. That I did well. That tomorrow will be easier.
I do not notice the unfamiliar envelope slipped under my door until I turn to pour myself a glass of water and see my name written across it in precise, unmistakable handwriting.
And before I can convince myself it means nothing, I open it and read the first line, realizing that whatever I thought I understood about Julian Moreau and the quiet safety of distance was already beginning to unravel because it says...