Unmade By You

Chapter3

CHAPTER 3

Alya West’s morning began before dawn. An exhausted Brooklyn sky spilled its first hints of light across her cluttered desk, a desktop scattered with half-scribbled story outlines, university bills, and her father’s old press clipping that had ignited her fear and resolve two years earlier. She flexed her fingers, tasted last night’s coffee still bitter on her tongue, and decided today she would be unstoppable.

She dressed quickly, choosing a soft gray sweater that complemented her rose-streaked braid. She grabbed her tote, stuffed with notebooks, snacks, and a backup phone charger, and slipped out into the early quiet of her street. By the time she reached the subway station, the air pulsed with the city’s first stirrings: the rumble of trains, the shuffle of commuters, the hiss of coffee carts beginning to open.

In the underground tunnel, she paused before a graffiti-tagged wall, a place where street artists spilled color onto concrete. She traced her finger over a vibrant mural of a phoenix rising. That’s me, she thought. Reborn, every day. She inhaled, let it stick.

The train arrived just as she rehearsed her line: “Alya West, reporting to the CEO’s office.” She slipped into a seat by the door and closed her eyes, letting the motion of the train calm her. She thought of Marcus, now sixteen, who believed she could fix anything. She wanted to make him proud.

At Union Square, she emerged into the chill morning light. Kane Technologies towered above its glass façade, reflecting the pale sky like a fortress. She checked her badge: Temp Assistant—Alya West. Two weeks to prove herself. Two weeks to rewrite her story.

Inside, security beeped her through. The elevator smelled faintly of oil and ambition as she pressed 39. The doors slid shut, revealing a wall of polished steel. She caught her reflection: composed, determined, eyes bright.

When the elevator passed floor 35, she sensed movement beside her. She opened her eyes. There he stood, Damion Kane, leaning against the wall, coat slung casually over one arm. He wore his suit like a second skin, exactly tailored, dark, lethal in its perfection. His gaze met hers for a heartbeat, and she saw something: curiosity, maybe a flicker of surprise.

She swallowed, looked away, pretending to study her phone.

But she felt his stare burn into her.

The doors dinged on 39. When she stepped out, he followed.

Alya’s first task was simple: pick up the confidential folder she’d delivered yesterday from Damion’s desk and bring it to the boardroom after 10 a.m. By the time she reached his office, the doors were open, and he stood before her, no chair, no desk, just him.

“Morning,” she said, voice steady.

“Morning,” he echoed. His eyes flicked to the folder. “Bring it to Room C, floor 38, after your meeting.”

She nodded, heart pounding. “Yes, sir.”

He stepped aside. She passed, fingers brushing the edge of his suit jacket. Electricity jolted through her, and she forced herself to keep moving.

Back at her temp desk, Tara waved at her. “Ready for the 9:30 check-in?”

Alya nodded, settling her laptop and coffee mug. “Just about.”

They clicked through their morning checklist: update travel plans, confirm yesterday’s notes, send interpretation of next week’s board schedule. The routines felt strangely comforting, like familiar lines in a script she was finally mastering.

At 9:25 a.m., Tara gestured at a joint request form. “Your first real test: he’s asking you to juggle two conflicting appointments. Legal wants him at 11; PR needs him at 11:05. How do you handle it?”

Alya thought. “Offer a five-minute buffer room. Reschedule PR for 11:10, ask legal to start early, then shuttle him straight from one to the other. And tell both it’s at his request.”

Tara laughed. “You’re not templating; you’re king-leading.”

Alya smiled, warmth spreading in her chest. She liked feeling competent.

At precisely 9:30, Alya checked her phone, ten minutes before her unscheduled elevator moment. She closed her laptop, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the elevator bank.

He was already there. Again. Coat in hand, gaze forward.

“Good morning,” she said.

He didn’t answer. Just watched her step in confidently, no flinching, no hesitation.

She pressed 38 and turned to face him. The elevator hummed to life.

They rode in silence, two strangers bound by closed doors. After a moment, she turned, meeting his eyes. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze lingered.

“About yesterday,” he said quietly.

She closed her mouth, pulse spiking. “Yes?”

He hovered, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

Her pulse thundered. He was going to say something.

At 37, a man in a crisp uniform stepped in, clutching a security badge. He nodded at Damion, bowed to Alya.

As the doors slid shut again on floor 39, she realized the moment had slipped away—unclaimed, unanswered.

In the boardroom, she delivered the folder with practiced grace. Legal and IT representatives gathered, flashing polite smiles. Damion breezed in moments later, nodding at her just enough to acknowledge her presence.

She arranged the materials, slid into the corner seat, and watched him shift between men in expensive ties. He spoke softly, rearranged his glasses, tapped a pen, a conductor orchestrating a meeting. She scribbled notes but kept watching him. She wondered if he noticed her watching.

After the meeting, she escorted them back to the elevator. Damion gave her a brief nod of thanks, then turned to board. She stepped aside but someone else stepped in: Serena Voss.

Serena’s heels clicked. She leaned close to Damion, whispered something, and for an instant, Damion’s eyes darkened.

Alya clenched her fists. She didn’t know what they said, but she knew any mention of her name would be whispered through gritted teeth. Serena’s silver gaze flashed at Alya. Stay away, it said.

The doors closed. Serena was gone, like a silent threat.

Alya spent the next hour in a daze, mind replaying elevator moments and whispered words. Tara poked her head in. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“You have no idea,” Alya said with a crooked smile. “But I’m fine.”

Tara patted her shoulder. “Just don’t let the ice king frostbite you.”

Alya laughed.

That afternoon, her mother called. Alya sank onto a stool in the empty kitchen.

“How was the first day, baby?” her mother asked.

Alya hesitated. “Intense.”

“Tell me everything.”

Alya shared what she could: new friends, scheduling triumphs, the cold looks, the richer-than-rich environment. She didn’t mention the moments in the elevator or Serena’s warning glare. She didn’t mention the way Damion’s eyes found hers.

After she hung up, she stared at her reflection in the dark phone screen. She wondered if her mother would worry about her stepping into a lion’s den. She would. But Alya also felt a fierce spark; this was her chance to write a story no one expected.

At 6 p.m., Alya slipped last-minute notes under Damion’s door: changes to tomorrow’s schedule and a reminder about his dinner with investors. The hallway was deserted, dimly lit. She paused, pressing her ear to the door, out of habit.

Inside, she heard his low voice. Something about the evening. A guest was asking about her.

She backed away, heart hammering. She didn’t know who asked, but the question felt loaded.

She breathed out slowly, deliberately, then continued down the corridor.

On the elevator down, she swiped her badge and descended alone. The floors slid by until she was back in Brooklyn, surrounded by graffiti and convenience-store lights.

At her apartment, Marcus was waiting, a sandwich in his hand. “How was your day?” he asked, eyes bright.

She grinned, relief flooding her. “You’ll never believe it.”

He listened as she retold the day’s events, except the elevator glances and Serena’s glare. That part she kept private.

But as she drifted to sleep later, she dreamed of mirrored doors, two people trapped inside a small box, no words but a promise in their eyes. Tomorrow, she’d meet Damion Kane again. And this time, she’d be ready to break the silence.