Of Fire and Loss

Chapter 3: The Golden Trap

Angèle

Three days. Seventy-two hours of a silence that echoes like a suspended verdict. Every vibration of my phone makes me jump, every notification makes my heart beat faster. The waiting is torture, one more trial designed to wear down my nerves.

I'm at home, in the too-silent apartment that my father's debts haven't managed to swallow yet. The walls are bare, stripped of the paintings and souvenirs sold to cover a tiny fraction of the losses. I stand at the window, watching the rain draw black snakes on the glass. The city below is a living organism, indifferent to my personal drama. I feel the anger, still there, cold and hard in the pit of my stomach, but it's mixed with something else now. Apprehension. A sharp, almost exciting fear of plunging into the unknown.

My phone vibrates on the glass table. Not a ring, not an alert. A dull, insistent vibration. I freeze. My eyes land on the screen. An unknown number. The business district area code.

It's him. It's now.

I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs. I mustn't seem too anxious, or too eager. I have to be… professional. Grateful, even. I let it ring three times before answering.

— Hello?

— Mademoiselle Derval?

The voice is female, cold, impersonal. It's not him. A pang of ridiculous disappointment pierces me.

— Yes, it's me.

— This is Mr. Valesco's office. We wish to inform you that your application for the junior strategic advisor position has been successful. You are expected tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp, on the forty-eighth floor for your first day.

The world seems to stop spinning for a second. A mix of savage triumph and icy terror floods me. I did it. The first door is through.

— I… Very well. I'll be there. Thank you.

— Onboarding formalities will be communicated to you on site. Have a good day.

The call ends. I stand still, the phone pressed to my ear, the hum of the dead line like a single note of funeral music. Then, a slow smile, one I never thought I'd be capable of after my father's death, stretches my lips. It's a predator's smile. The game begins.

—

The next day, five to eight. I stand once more in the marble and glass lobby, but this time, I'm not a candidate. I'm a soldier who's infiltrated the fortress. My suit is armor, my briefcase a shield. The glacier-faced assistant, who tells me her name is Élise, leads me not to Néron's office, but to a vast open space, a floor where dozens of people, all dressed in shades of gray and black, are furiously typing on flat screens.

— Your station is here, she indicates, pointing to a minimalist desk facing a breathtaking bay window. Mr. Valesco insisted you have a view. He believes perspective helps with gaining insight.

The sentence is innocuous, but I perceive the subtext. He's putting me on display. He wants me to see the power, and to know who it belongs to.

— Your first task, Élise continues, handing me a USB key. Analyze this portfolio of assets. Mr. Valesco wants a report on vulnerabilities, aggressive yield opportunities, and… the breaking points of our main competitors. He wants it on his desk by noon.

She looks at me, a silent challenge in her eyes. It's an impossible mission, designed to break me, to make me fail in my very first hour. The smile doesn't leave my lips.

— It will be done.

As soon as she walks away, I sit down and dive into the data. Columns of numbers, complex graphs, the impenetrable jargon of high finance. It's an ocean of information I should drown in. But I swim. Every number, every line of code is a potential weapon. I look for the flaws, not to protect them, but to exploit them. For him. For the moment I'll turn this knowledge against its creator.