Harper leaned against the edge of the desk like they’d been friends for months. “So. Welcome to the chaos. You’re lucky-our wing’s the least soul-crushing. Strategic comms is stiff, but the PR folks are halfway human. Plus, we have the best snack drawer on this floor. And I have the passcode.”
“Thank you. Honestly, I was kind of bracing for, I don’t know… ice?”
“Oh, there’s ice,” Harper said, grinning. “But you get used to the cold. Or bring a flamethrower. Either way, you’re in now. That means you’ve earned the right to survive. Barely.”
Before Maya could respond, the door behind her opened again.
“Thompson,” a clipped voice called.
Maya turned to find Trina, one of the PR managers she’d briefly met during orientation.
“You’re tagging along for this morning’s internal pitch review. Bring your notes. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maya replied.
Harper gave her a wink and whispered, “Don’t trip. That’s how they weed out the weak.”
Maya grinned despite herself.
Then followed Trina through the long hallway and into a sleek glass conference room.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
People trickled in-power suits, expensive watches, silence.
Then-
He entered.
Damien Blackwood didn’t just walk. He commanded space.
He wore black, of course. His eyes were unreadable, his expression carved in something colder than stone. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clean lines, no warmth.
Maya didn’t look directly at him.
She didn’t have to.
He passed close enough that she could smell the faintest trace of something sharp-clean, expensive, dangerous. His hand brushed the table as he sat. A flick of his wrist. His voice when he spoke was low and smooth and utterly without hesitation.
Everything in the room bowed toward him. Even time.
And still-somehow-Maya felt the burn of his gaze settle on her for just a second too long.
Not by accident.
Not in passing.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
She just sat there, pretending not to notice.
But her pulse betrayed her.
And deep down, she knew-
This shift?
This move?
It wasn’t random.
It wasn’t protocol.
Damien Blackwood had noticed her.
And now?
She wasn’t just part of the building.
She was on his radar.
And she didn’t know yet if that was a blessing… or a curse.
Damien Blackwood never looked twice. Until now.
The conference room was already humming with tension when Damien entered.
He didn’t need to look to know the lineup-department heads, senior comms staff, strategy leads. All waiting. All curated. All afraid to breathe too loud before he sat.
He moved with deliberate precision. Black tailored suit. White shirt. No tie.
Calculated.
Everything he did-every cufflink, every silence, every damn step-was calculated.
The pitch meeting wasn’t about the pitch.
It was about control.
About reminding them who was in charge. Who built this empire from the ground up. Who could tear it down if he wanted to.
He passed the long glass table, eyes scanning without moving. Observing without appearing to. Calculating risk, performance, allegiance.
Then-he saw her.
Not directly. Just… enough.
Maya Thompson.
She sat near the end of the table, partially obscured by Trina’s shoulder. Her posture stiff, hands folded tightly over a leather-bound notebook. She wasn’t dressed differently from yesterday, not significantly-but here, in this room, with the sun streaming in behind her and the city sprawling like a battlefield below?
She didn’t look like an intern.
She looked like a variable.
Damien took his seat at the head of the table.
He didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Let the silence settle.
Let them sweat.
Trina cleared her throat first. “Today’s pitch focuses on our updated internal comms strategy for Q3, including revised language packages for the client-facing teams and streamlined messaging across global markets.”
Her voice faded into the background. Not because she was unimportant-Trina was razor-sharp-but because Maya shifted.
She was taking notes.
Small, precise strokes of her pen. Quick glances between slides and speakers. Attention like a weapon. No fidgeting. No side glances. Just pure, controlled focus.
Damien should’ve ignored it.
Should’ve turned his attention to the deck or the projections or the strategy breakdowns. But his eyes kept drifting back. Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to notice.
Except maybe her.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.