The Summon
1170 Words
Chapter Two: The Summon
Elara didn’t sleep.
The events of the gala replayed in her mind like a broken reel: the crash of glass, the splash of wine, the eyes of a roomful of billionaires zeroing in on her humiliation. But none of that haunted her as much as him.
Caspian Valerio.
His voice—calm, commanding—echoed through her skull. And that note.
“Nine sharp.”
The paper still sat on her nightstand, the ink dark as a threat. Or a promise. She couldn’t tell which.
By 6:00 a.m., she was up, dressed, and pacing in her small room in the servant’s quarters at the Valerio estate. The room was barely wider than a closet—single bed, wooden wardrobe, and a chipped mirror—but it was hers. At least for now.
She stared at her reflection. Pale. Petite. Too small for her oversized maid’s blouse and too ordinary to be called beautiful. Nothing about her said she belonged in the same world as Caspian Valerio.
But he summoned her.
Her shift didn’t start until noon, but by 8:45 a.m., she was outside the executive wing—where the family offices were located. She had only passed this corridor once before, and it felt like trespassing.
Marble walls, arched ceilings, and silence. Even the air smelled expensive.
The receptionist, a perfectly groomed brunette in a charcoal pencil skirt, barely looked up. “Name?”
“Elara Dawn,” she said, wiping her palms on her skirt.
The woman arched a brow and tapped something on her tablet. “You’re early.”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
The receptionist studied her a beat too long before pressing a button on her desk. “Mr. Valerio is expecting you.”
Just hearing his name sent a chill through her.
She stepped toward the double oak doors that loomed like something out of a gothic cathedral.
“Elara Dawn,” the receptionist called. “Try not to spill anything today.”
Elara swallowed her embarrassment and nodded.
Then she pushed the doors open.
The office was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, revealing a panoramic view of the city’s skyline. Mahogany shelves cradled rare books, and abstract art hung in elegant disarray. Everything was dark wood and clean metal, expensive in a quiet, terrifying way.
And there, behind a glass desk, sat Caspian Valerio.
No mask now. No crowd. Just him. Real. Sharp-edged.
He didn’t look up immediately, just tapped something on a sleek silver laptop.
“Close the door,” he said.
She obeyed.
When he finally lifted his eyes to her, they were even colder in daylight.
“Sit.”
She perched on the edge of the leather chair in front of his desk, heart thudding like a trapped bird.
“You’re here,” he said simply.
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “I reviewed the incident report.”
Her throat tightened. “Yes. I—I apologize again, sir. It was an accident. I—”
“I’m aware,” he cut in smoothly. “You weren’t supposed to be working the floor.”
“No, sir. I volunteered. We were short—”
“Do you always offer yourself up for roles you’re not trained for?”
His tone was unreadable, but her ears burned.
“I didn’t want anyone else to be blamed. I thought I could handle it.”
His eyes flicked over her again. Measuring. Calculating. “So you’re self-sacrificing?”
“I just... do my best.”
A long pause.
Then, to her surprise, he stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. His posture was effortless power. Controlled rage and elegance, like a lion who hadn’t decided whether or not to attack.
“You’re 22, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No college. No formal training. Grew up in the outer districts. Started working here at nineteen?”
She blinked. “How... do you know that?”
“I know everything about the people who work under my roof,” he said without turning.
Goosebumps bloomed down her arms.
“You’ve kept a clean record. Silent. Efficient. Invisible. And then you poured wine on me in front of the entire city elite.”
Elara’s stomach turned.
“So,” he said slowly, turning to face her. “Why didn’t I fire you?”
The question hit her like a slap. Her lips parted, but no sound came.
He stepped forward, the space between them narrowing.
“Do you know what I saw when you looked up at me, Miss Dawn?”
She shook her head.
“Not fear. Not tears. You didn’t grovel. You didn’t run.”
“I was frozen,” she whispered.
“No,” he said softly. “You faced me.”
She felt the heat rise up her neck.
He moved to his desk and picked up a slim folder. Tossed it in front of her.
“Effective immediately, you’re being reassigned. You’ll report directly to me as my personal assistant. I need someone quiet. Discreet. Uncomplicated.”
Her brows furrowed. “But I—I’ve never done that kind of work before. I’m not qualified—”
“Neither were you for serving wine. And yet you volunteered.”
His tone was dry.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said, rising halfway from her seat. “I appreciate the opportunity, but I—”
“Sit,” he said sharply.
She dropped back down like gravity itself had spoken.
“This isn’t a request,” he said, voice low now. Dangerous. “You’ll receive new clothing. You’ll accompany me to functions when required. And you’ll be present at my office by seven each morning. No delays. No excuses.”
Elara stared at him, overwhelmed. “Why are you doing this?”
He studied her for a beat, then gave her something that could almost be a smile—but it never reached his eyes.
“Let’s just say... I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Before she could ask what that meant, the phone on his desk buzzed.
He picked it up. “Yes.”
A pause.
“Send them in.”
He turned to her as the door opened behind them.
A tall man in a tailored suit stepped in, flanked by two silent guards. He carried a small box in one hand and a tablet in the other.
Caspian nodded at him. “This is Soren, head of my private staff. He’ll walk you through your new duties, dress code, and clearances. Everything starts tomorrow.”
Elara stood slowly, her heart still caught in her throat.
Soren handed her the box. Inside: a sleek black phone, a Valerio crest-engraved badge, and a small silver key.
“To what?” she asked, confused.
Caspian didn’t answer immediately.
Then, with a faint smirk, he said, “To the floor you’ve never seen.”
….
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