Unmade By You

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Alya woke before her alarm. The sky outside her little Brooklyn window was still pale and soft, the kind of morning that felt like it belonged to quiet people. For a breath, she stayed under the blanket, holding that dream of the elevator like a secret. Then her phone buzzed twice.

Board meeting at 9. You’re on the invite list. Don’t faint. And remember: breathe.

Tara’s texts slammed reality into her chest. Board meeting? She hadn’t seen it on yesterday’s schedule. She sat up fast, hair falling across her face. Her stomach did a small flip, fear mixed with something that felt a lot like a thrill.

She moved through her apartment on autopilot: coffee, quick shower, a navy dress that fit right. She braided her hair and tucked the pink streak so it looked neat, but still her. On the fridge, Marcus’s laughing face looked out from a worn photo. “I got this,” she told him. Saying it out loud steadied her.

On the subway, she tried to skim emails, but the screen blurred. What if she said the wrong name? What if she misheard something and typed the opposite? What if she spilled coffee all over Damion….Kane, she reminded herself. She wasn’t here to impress anyone. She was here to survive, save money, and maybe leave the city in one piece.

The tower waited when she surfaced at Union Square; glass, steel, unapologetic. Security waved her through like she belonged now. The elevator ride up was smooth as a held breath. Thirty‑nine blinked, and the doors opened onto that hush she was starting to recognize. Other floors had noise. This one had pressure.

Tara met her halfway to the boardroom with a tablet and a worried smile. “You’ll take notes,” she whispered. “Don’t speak unless asked. They like invisible.”

“Does Damion….”

“He knows you’re here.” Tara’s eyes darted toward the tall double doors. “Good luck.”

Inside was colder than the hall. Long table. Thick chairs. Windows are bleeding pale morning light over everything. Executives lined the table, Roland Finch with silver hair, Miranda from marketing, lawyers, and finance. Serena Voss sat near the head in a white blazer that probably cost more than Alya’s rent. Her eyes lifted when Alya entered. A slow smile; not friendly.

At the head sat Damion. Crisp suit. Hands folded. Face unreadable. His gaze flicked toward her, then away like she was just another line on the agenda.

A seat waited at the far end with a slim screen and a legal pad. Alya took it and set her pen down before her fingers betrayed a tremor. Tara sat two chairs down and wiggled her brows, an attempt at comfort.

Damion spoke, and the room clicked into focus. “We’ll keep this tight. Cybersecurity. Titan merger status. Global campaign.”

Roland began. “Latest penetration test uncovered three exploitable points in the legacy payment API.” He rattled off phrases like “attack surface,” “patch window,” and “exposure.” Alya wrote as fast as she could, shrinking his thick sentences into small hooks she’d understand later. Halfway through, Roland turned his head. “Miss West, you’ll distribute the technician’s full report to my inbox by noon?”

Every face turned. Her heart climbed into her throat. “Yes,” she said. “You’ll have it by noon.”

He nodded like she was a service elevator arriving on time. Still, a tiny glow warmed inside her. She’d handled it.

The merger discussion was dull in a dangerous way. Legal words slid across marble: antitrust review, due diligence, disclosure schedules. Serena traced a circle on her notepad with a thin silver pen. Once, Alya looked up and found Damion already watching her. That same quick, cutting look from the elevator, curious. Measuring. It did something low in her stomach she didn’t want to examine.

Then Miranda clicked on the marketing deck. Slides flicked across the screen, stock photos of people pointing at screens, generic smiles. Miranda’s tone carried annoyance. “Engagement is flat. We are burning money on noise. We need a pivot.”

Alya kept writing, but her writer brain was awake now. All she could see were empty frames where real people should be. A grandmother watching her grandson’s first recital on a tablet. Two sisters running a bakery with the software tracking orders. A boy calling his father overseas with a single tap. They played in her head like finished ads.

Someone asked Miranda if they could salvage the assets. She shrugged. “We can reposition. Or start over.”

Alya’s pulse quickened. Before she could stop herself, her hand lifted.

Silence fell like a sheet.

Miranda’s eyes sliced toward her. “Yes?”

Alya felt heat climb her neck. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not…It’s just… maybe we show people, not products? Real users. Their moments. Why the tech matters. Short stories instead of ads.” Her voice steadied as she went. “Release a series. Once a week. Different angles. Don’t list features; put those in the overlay if they care. Make them feel first.”

She finished and wanted to sink through the carpet. She had broken the “invisible” rule. She braced for a cutting remark.

Miranda’s mouth pressed thin. Before she could speak, Serena let out a soft laugh. “Cute,” Serena said. “We’re not running a college media club.”

Heat burned behind Alya’s eyes. She almost apologized.

Damion’s voice cut through. “Let her finish.”

The words snapped everyone straight. Serena’s lashes flickered.

Alya swallowed. “That’s all,” she said quietly. “People remember stories.”

Silence stretched. Somewhere, a vent clicked.

Damion tapped his pen once. “Miranda, pull a feasibility outline. I want numbers by Friday. If it works, we pilot next quarter.”

Miranda stiffened but nodded. “Yes.”

Serena’s jaw tightened. Alya lowered her gaze to the pad, pulse banging in her ears. She forced her pen to move, writing something—anything—to look busy.

The meeting lurched forward like nothing had happened. But people glanced at her now. Measuring. Filing away. When it finally adjourned—chairs scraping, voices rising—Alya gathered her pages, hands still buzzing.

Tara brushed her arm on the way out. “You either just got promoted or exiled,” she whispered.

Alya tried to smile. “Maybe both.”

She stayed to tidy coffee cups, buying herself a minute to calm the shaking in her knees. When she finally stepped into the hall, Serena was waiting just past the doorway like a scene that hadn’t finished yet.

Serena’s eyes glittered. “That was brave,” she said. “And messy. Next time, maybe wait until the grown‑ups are done.”

“Customer stories aren’t childish,” Alya said before she could stop herself.

Serena stepped close enough for Alya to catch the soft perfume. “This floor is knives,” she said softly. “You don’t even know where they’re kept yet.” She turned and walked away as if she hadn’t just promised a future cut.

Alya’s legs felt shaky as she walked back to her desk. Celia glanced up from her monitor with a look that was almost pity. An hour later, an email arrived: Reassignment Effective Immediately – Report to CEO’s Office..

The office of the CEO looked more like a boutique hotel lobby, midcentury chairs, matte-black fixtures, floor-to-ceiling glass with a skyline view so wide it made her feel small. Her new desk sat outside the double doors of smoked glass. A slim brass nameplate already read Alya West. Someone had planned this overnight.

Tara pinged her within minutes.

Tara: They moved you to the clouds! Send pics!

Alya: One wrong step and I plummet. Pray for me.

She meant it mostly as a joke. Mostly.

At nine sharp, Damion’s doors opened. He stood framed in the doorway, suit charcoal, shirt open at the collar. No tie, rare. He nodded once. “My office. Now.”

Her pulse jumped. She grabbed a notepad and stepped inside.

He motioned to the chair opposite his desk. “You know why you’re here?”

“Because I said something stupid?”

“Because you were right.” He sat, fingers intertwined. “And because this company needs people who aren’t afraid to say so.”

She blinked.

“Your job is simple,” he continued. “Keep my schedule straight, filter noise, tell the truth, even when it’s ugly. Especially then.” He slid a leather folder across the desk. “Non-disclosure. Sign.”

Her hand trembled only a little. She signed.

He watched her. “Any questions?”

“One.” She lifted her chin. “Is this a promotion, or am I supposed to learn a lesson?”

A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. “That depends on what you learn.”

She exhaled through her nose. “I learn fast.”

“I know,” he said, and the words felt heavier than they should.

By noon, she was buried in calendar conflicts and flagged emails. One needed a location change for the Middle East investors’ call; another, a quiet heads-up that Brenner’s team still hadn’t patched the release bug. Alya flagged it red and forwarded it straight to Damion. Five minutes later, Brenner sent a terse thank-you peppered with exclamation points that felt like curses.

Serena drifted by mid-afternoon, clutching a tablet. “Running with the wolves, are we?”

Alya didn’t glance up. “Busy. What do you need?”

“An audience with the king.”

“He’s on a call.”

Serena leaned in. “Sweetheart, I’ve known him since prep school. I don’t knock.”

Alya met her gaze, steady. “Everyone knocks. Even you.”

For a beat, Serena’s smile dipped, then returned brighter. “We’ll see.” She breezed into the office unannounced. Two minutes later, she breezed back out, eyes narrowed. Small victory, Alya decided.

Six-thirty p.m. The floor had emptied to faint echoes. Alya drafted tomorrow’s brief, shut her laptop, and finally exhaled. She texted Tara a good-night emoji, slung her bag over her shoulder, and rode the elevator down in silence.

Rain speckled the Brooklyn sidewalk by the time she reached home. Inside her tiny apartment, Marcus lounged on the couch, headphones on, controller in hand. “Sis! Dinner?”

“Thai on the counter.” She ruffled his hair. “I saw your geometry grade.”

He winced. “Working on it.”

She poured herself a glass of grocery-store sauvignon blanc and FaceTimed her best friend Elena, who’d moved to L.A. last year.

Elena answered with a sheet mask. “Tell me everything.”

Alya sank onto her bed. “I got promoted s***h punished. Same thing here.”

They giggled, and Alya spilled the day: Miranda, Serena’s passive-aggressive runway strut, Damion’s unreadable eyes.

“So is he hot or just terrifying?” Elena asked.

“Both. In a marble statue, might-come-alive-and-eat-you way.”

“That’s a romance novel waiting to happen.”

“Or a disaster.”

“Or both. Those sell better.” Elena winked.

They talked until Alya’s wine was gone, and Marcus hollered goodnight. After the call, Alya opened her journal.

Day 3—New position. Same storm. But somewhere beneath the ice, there’s a heartbeat. I swear I heard it when he said I was right.

She closed the notebook, and the room fell quiet, too quiet. She noticed then the red light blinking on her phone: one unread text.

Unknown number.

Damion Kane: Need a fresh draft of the keynote. Send it in by eight.

Her heart thudded. She typed back: On it.

Why does that message feel like thunder? she wondered.

Damion

Housekeeper Marta found him in the penthouse study, lights low, city spread like circuitry below the glass.

“You haven’t eaten,” she said in Spanish, setting a covered plate on the end table.

“Later.”

Marta eyed the scotch bottle but said nothing. She’d worked for the Kanes since Damion was ten, which meant she understood his moods better than he did. Tonight she left quietly, closing the door with a soft click.

He opened his notebook, thick paper, leather-bound, the only place he permitted hesitation.

Entry #67

She cut through Miranda like daylight through fog. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look to me for approval. She just told the truth. The room felt alive for the first time in months.

He paused, staring at the words until the ink seemed to pulse.

Why does that matter? Why does anything she does feel like a door opening?

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, stood, and walked to the window. Far below, headlights wove patterns down Eighth Avenue, tiny, predictable, safe. Nothing like today.

A memory surfaced: his father’s mantra; Control or be controlled. Damion had lived by it. But control was a quiet death. Alya West didn’t obey the rulebook, and watching her felt like breathing fresh air in winter.

His phone buzzed. Her reply: On it.

He exhaled. She’s still working. Of course she was.

A knock. Security chief Mason stepped in. “We traced the security breaches to the Product department.”

Damion’s blood cooled. “Handle it.”

Mason nodded. “There’s more. A background pull on Ms. West’s family. Permission to escalate?”

He seemed unbothered and brushed it off. “No. I’ll handle that personally.”

When Mason left, Damion turned back to the city. Somewhere in all that light, Alya was drafting words for him, unaware someone was already digging into her past.

Below, the night kept shining, unaware the storm had already been set in motion, one that might bury every secret he’d worked so hard to keep frozen.

And for the first time in years, Damion felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with fear.

Tomorrow, he thought, the ice starts to c***k.