CHAPTER TWO
1432 Words
Chapter 2
I enter the elevator on the thirty-eighth floor and already know that something is off.
It is not a sound. It is not anything that can be pinpointed.
It is the way Damien's assistant, Patricia, who is fifty-three years old and has worked with this family for twenty years, gives me a glance from behind her desk before looking away, just a little bit too quickly.
And that is it. That is all.
Just a split-second and a single pair of eyes glancing away too quickly.
My stomach does something I refuse to pay any attention to.
"He is waiting for you," Patricia says without looking at me.
I walk past her without breaking stride.
Damien is standing by the window when I enter his office.
He is not facing me. Outside of the window—Midtown Manhattan, spreading forty stories below him—yellow cabs, lunchtime, and the entire bustling indifference of the city moving on like always.
And Damien is watching it with his arms crossed and his shoulders perfectly still.
He could be watching anything.
But he is not.
"Close the door," Damien says.
I close it.
The click of the latch echoes loudly in the dead silence of his office.
I cross the room and sit in my designated chair across from his desk, without being invited to do so. I put my bag on my lap, and I keep my hands perfectly flat on top of it.
And I wait for him for about two minutes.
Eventually Damien turns from the window.
That is how Damien is – he always makes you wait just long enough that you feel relief when he finally faces you.
And it is not an accident. Nothing he does is an accident.
He sits on the edge of his desk instead of sitting behind it. His arms are crossed, looking at me with that look—that controlled expression that gives you just enough warmth to lean, only to find out that it was not there at all.
"How was the meeting?" he asks.
"Fine," I say. "There was a data error on slide four, but I flagged it."
"I know,” he says
"Then why ask?"
Something shifts in Damien's jaw. It is not a smile. It is something quieter and more calculated than a smile.
"Because I wanted to hear what you have to say," he says.
The room feels smaller than it did ten seconds ago.
I do not move a single muscle.
This is a skill I spent twenty-two years developing here in the office—feeling the ground shifting beneath my feet and showing nothing on my face.
"Is there something you want to talk about?" I ask. "Or is this the part when we will just sit here, and you will tell me the things you already know?"
Damien stands up.
He moves towards the window again—not turning his back to me this time, but still moving the way he always moves through space. As if the room decided to rearrange itself in anticipation of him entering.
"The new intern," Damien says.
"Marketing department."
And here it is.
I do not move a single muscle.
"Marcus Reid," he continues. "Twenty-three. NYU, business degree. Good grades. Nothing outstanding."
He pronounces the last two words like a verdict.
"He flagged a data error that three senior executives did not catch," I say. "So I would say that it is fairly outstanding."
Damien looks at me over his shoulder.
"You spoke to him," he says.
"He spoke to the room, and I was there."
"Elara."
My name in his mouth – two syllables, no inflection – leaves the same impression as always. Like a hand on my shoulder. Like a door closing.
"I glanced up when he said something worth listening to," I say
holding his gaze. "That is not a conversation. That is basic awareness."
Damien is silent for a moment.
Outside the window, Manhattan goes on. Somewhere below is the siren. The steady hum of the city that never sleeps.
"I just want you to be focused," Damien says finally. His voice is calm and careful. The particular softness he uses when he says one thing and means another.
"You have an important position here. People watch you carrying the Voss name."
"I know what I carry," I say quietly.
I ride the elevator sixteen stories down, sit at my desk, and spend three full minutes staring blankly at it.
Behind the glass partition I see the marketing department—the open-plan office, the coffee station near the back wall, and the cluster of interns on the far side.
Marcus Reid is still there.
His jacket is slung on his chair now. The sleeves are rolled up. He is doing actual work – I can see it because I can distinguish working from pretending to work, and he was definitely working.
He has been here four hours and already corrected a mistake of three senior executives without making it political.
No one in this building did that. No one even knew that.
I watch him for exactly seven seconds. Then I check my emails.
The phone buzzes on the desk.
The reminder on the calendar is set in my schedule without my consent, which happens often enough.
Family dinner. Tonight by 8 pm. Attendance expected.
Not requested, not suggested. Expected.
The evening Voss mansion feels differently cold.
The heating is always on. The lighting is always warm.
But there is something in the atmosphere of this house in the evening hours—something that cannot be covered with the chandelier light and fresh flowers and the entire expensive luxury of it—that lives in the walls.
I can sense it better on nights like this.
Dinner for two.
My parents are in Geneva. It is just Damien and me opposite each other in the dining room that is designed to accommodate fourteen people.
The staff serves the first food in silence. Damien pours the wine. I unfold my napkin and remind myself that I do this every week. This is normal.
"You are quiet tonight," he says.
"I am always quiet during dinner," I say
"Not this quiet."
I look up.
He is looking at me as he always does, fully, unapologetically, with the sort of attention that someone devotes himself to studying with.
"I am tired," I say. "It was a long day."
"The intern bothered you."
It is not a question.
"Nothing bothered me," I say. "It was a long day. People have long days. It is not complicated."
Damien sets down his wine glass.
He leans back in his chair and looks at me across the length of the enormous table, and suddenly the distance between us feels shorter than usual.
"Elara," he says quietly. "You are the most important thing in this family.
Everything I do – every decision, every structure, every choice – is made with the intention of protecting you."
The fork rests against the edge of my plate.
"I know," I say.
"Do you?"
I look at him.
The chandelier throws the light on his eyes and does something to them – makes them look colder and warmer at the same time, which should not be possible.
"Yes," I say. "I know."
He holds my gaze for a split second.
Then he picks up his wine glass and looks back at his plate.
"Good," he says.
I am already halfway up the stairs when my phone rings.
I look at the screen. An unknown number with a New York area code.
I almost ignore it and continue climbing.
But I pick up the call anyway.
The line goes silent for two seconds—and then a voice. Young, Male. Somewhat out of breath, like someone who has just made a decision and has not quite caught up with it yet.
"Miss Voss. This is Marcus Reid. I know this is—I know you did not give me this number. I got it from the company directory, and I am very aware that this is probably not—"
He stops and exhales.
"They just informed me that my contract has been terminated," he says. "Effective immediately. Without a reason stated. And I just – I need you to know that whatever I did, it was not what they said it was."
The staircase is very still around me.
The chandelier light falls across the marble floor of the foyer below.
"What did they say it was?" I ask.
But the line is already dead.
- Writer
