Chapter Six
1132 Words
ELENA POV
Monday shows up ugly.
Rain hammers the window of my tiny apartment like it’s personally offended. I’m up at five-thirty, standing in front of my closet in mismatched socks and the same ratty college T-shirt I’ve owned since sophomore year, having a full-on panic attack over fabric.
Nothing feels safe.
The black dress says, “Remember me on your hotel desk?”
The red blazer screams, “I’m trying too hard.”
Everything else looks like it belongs to someone who definitely did not ride the CEO like a mechanical bull three nights ago.
I end up in the charcoal suit I wore to my abuela’s cousin’s funeral. If it was somber enough for that, it can handle today.
The subway is a wet, miserable sardine can. I stand the whole ride, one arm hooked around a pole, the other clutching my umbrella like a weapon. Every jolt of the train feels like a countdown.
Soph texts:
already here. coffee before you face the firing squad?
Tempting. But she’ll take one look at me and know. She always knows.
raincheck. need to find my office first. lunch tho?
deal. pro tip: do NOT be late to the 8am exec meeting. he will end you.
Perfect. First day and I get to watch Damien pretend I’m just another warm body in a chair.
I walk into Blackwood Tower at 7:43. Early enough to look competent, not early enough to look desperate. Frank at security grins when he hands me my brand-new badge.
“First day?”
“That obvious?”
“You’ve got the deer-in-headlights glow. You’ll be fine, kid. Building’s scarier than the people.” He winks. “Mostly.”
Ninth floor smells like fresh coffee and anxiety. Rachel spots me, ends her call with a quick “gotta go, new girl’s here,” and bounces over.
“Your office is ready. Third door on the left. The succulent is real—don’t murder it, the last hire cried when hers died.”
The office is small but mine. Real window. Real chair that doesn’t squeak. Little green plant on the sill like someone thought, “Let’s give her something alive to be responsible for.” I drop my bag and just sit for ten seconds, letting it land.
I did it. I’m actually here.
“Settling in?”
Marcus Vale leans in the doorway, coffee in one hand, skepticism in the other.
“Trying.”
He steps in without asking. “Full disclosure: I voted no on you.”
Jesus. Good morning to you too.
“Nothing personal,” he says. “I don’t like unknowns. And you, Martinez, are the walking definition. Damien doesn’t do impulsive. Ever. So yeah, I’ll be watching.”
I smile the way Abuela taught me when the landlord knocked too hard—sweet enough to disarm, sharp enough to cut.
“Watch all you want. My numbers don’t lie.”
He almost smiles. “Meeting in eight. Don’t be late. He eats tardiness for breakfast.”
He leaves. I exhale like I’ve been underwater.
Conference room is already half full. I pick a seat in the middle—close enough to matter, far enough to breathe. Damien is at the head, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the rain, staring at his laptop like it insulted his mother.
He doesn’t look up when I sit.
Eight o’clock sharp he snaps the laptop shut.
“Q3 is a dumpster fire. Marketing down twelve percent, conversions flat, competitor making us look like dinosaurs. Someone give me a reason today isn’t a complete waste of time.”
He tears through David’s social numbers like tissue paper. Lisa’s analytics get the same treatment. Every slide is a fresh wound. The room shrinks with every word.
Then his eyes land on me.
“Ms. Martinez. You’ve been quiet for someone I just handed fifty grand of my money to.”
Twenty heads swivel. My pulse is a drumline.
I stand, plug my tablet in before my knees remember they’re allowed to shake.
“Your problem isn’t the platforms. It’s that you’re selling products instead of feelings.”
I flip through the slides I built at 3 a.m. fueled by spite and leftover pizza. “This campaign? Gorgeous. Soulless. Customers don’t want another shiny thing. They want to feel seen.”
I show them the competitor’s campaign that’s killing them—raw, messy, human—and exactly why it works. Then I show them the fix: real employees, real customers, zero polish.
“People buy feelings. Give them something worth feeling.”
Dead silence.
Then Damien: “Do it.”
Two words. Flat. Final.
“Three weeks,” he says. “David, give her the keys. Lisa, full data access. Rachel, move fifty K into her budget. Go.”
Marcus makes a noise like a dying goose. “Fifty?”
“Unless you want to keep setting cash on fire with what we’ve been doing.”
Meeting ends. People file out whispering like I just pulled a sword out of a stone.
I’m packing up when he says, “Ms. Martinez. Stay.”
Door shuts. Just us and the rain.
He doesn’t turn from the window.
“You made me look weak in there.”
“I made you look right.”
He spins. “You shredded six months of work in six minutes.”
“Six months of work wasn’t working.”
He crosses the room slow, stops just outside the danger zone.
“You’re either the best hire I’ve ever made or the worst mistake.”
“Bet on the first one. I’m cheaper than a lawsuit.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile, gone before it lands.
“That night,” he says, voice low. “Were you celebrating or drowning?”
The question knocks the air out of me.
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
I swallow. “Both. Mostly drowning.”
He nods like that’s the answer he needed. Like it hurts him too.
“Then don’t drown here,” he says. “Three weeks. Don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t.”
He starts for the door, pauses with his hand on the handle.
“For what it’s worth… good luck, Elena.”
He’s gone before I can answer.
I sink into the nearest chair, heart doing stupid cartwheels.
Three weeks to prove I belong.
Three weeks of pretending Tuesday night never happened.
Three weeks sharing oxygen with the only man who’s ever looked at me like I was both salvation and ruin.
My phone buzzes.
Sophia:
lunch. NOW. you just broke the exec meeting and i need the tea before i combust.
I smile for the first time all morning.
On my way.
- Writer
