Beneath The Gold.

Chapter 2. - "The Building That Eats People"

Aria Cole pov;

As if he’d just dreamed up hinges, he told me shut the door.

Now I was standing here, past the door, within his office instead of beyond it - so clearly I’d shut it - and doubt crept in fast. This place stretched wide like so many spaces do when someone holds too much sway. It wasn’t about needing air or floor. More about proving a point silently. Space talks. Here, it says victory went my way, not yours.

Still seated, Damien Cross kept his eyes on the desk. Never once did he lift his gaze back toward anything beyond it.

Water fell slow, hitting a surface that probably cost plenty.

"You can stand there or you can sit," he said, still not looking at me. "I don't actually care which."

"You told me not to sit until you said so."

His eyes lifted. Who gave you that idea?

"Maya."

A shadow passed over his features. Quick. Hard to name. With just the tips of two fingers, he indicated the seat opposite him - such a small gesture it almost meant nothing.

I sat.

That glance felt familiar, like how numbers get scanned before decisions are made. Not harsh, just focused in a way that left little room for warmth. What caught his sight next shifted slowly downward - damp fabric near the collar. Then up again, to meet my gaze. Nothing changed in his expression through any of it.

Aria Cole, he stated. Not asking. Just saying what he knew was true.

"Yes."

"Twenty-three."

"Yes."

"No degree."

I kept my expression neutral. "Night school certification in business administration. Two years. I also have - "

"I have your file." He said it without looking at the file. "Mediocre employment history. Three jobs in four years. None lasting longer than fourteen months."

Mediocre hit the air like a stone dropped down a well. That silence after made me think someone had aimed it just right.

"The positions were mediocre," I said. "I wasn't."

Silence.

That look came back - slow, pulling something out of me - lasting so long I almost blinked first. Not like the pictures showed. Deeper somehow, harder to follow, though his expression stayed still. The photos got the outside right, sure, smooth enough, yet beneath sat storms the camera missed entirely.

"Why Cross Empire?" he said.

"The salary."

A pause. "Most candidates give me a more flattering answer."

"Most candidates probably need the job less than I do," I said. "I figured honesty was more efficient."

Stillness again. This one stretched out more than before.

Water soaked through my shirt while I sat across from Damien Cross, his billion-dollar office glowing behind him. A moment passed where I remembered calling him efficient - like this were some job interview instead of whatever mess it actually was. The fabric clung cold against my skin, proof the spill hadn’t helped things. My mind flipped backward, scanning old decisions like dropped coins on pavement. That one word hung there, awkward and stiff between us.

"What do you know about this company?" he said.

"Global luxury conglomerate. Four point seven billion last quarter, depending on who you ask. You rebuilt it from your father's collapsed holdings - took seven years, started with one subsidiary, expanded through acquisition and rebranding. Current portfolio includes hospitality, real estate, fashion, and private aviation." I paused. "Your last three assistants left within six months each. The official reason given was always personal. I assume it wasn't."

This quiet felt unfamiliar. It carried weight unlike before.

A shift in posture, barely there - Damien Cross eased backward just slightly, yet my attention had caught every still moment before that. Only now did he break form.

"You researched me," he said.

"You had my file before I walked in. It seemed fair."

A twitch tugged at one side of his lips. Not quite a grin. More as if humor had crossed his mind, paused, then got tucked into a mental drawer. The moment passed.

"The role is executive assistant," he said. "The hours are non-standard. The work is demanding. The confidentiality requirements are absolute." He looked at me with an expression I couldn't decode. "There are additional terms."

"What kind of additional terms?"

"The kind that are outlined in the contract." He pressed something on his desk. "Maya will bring it in. You'll review it and sign today if you're proceeding or leave if you're not."

Here. Can’t carry it back. Won’t ask another person. Right now, inside these walls, within this room, soaked through, twelve singles in hand, no place due apart from this spot since this spot answered when none others did.

"That's not a lot of time to review a contract," I said.

"It's a straightforward document."

Later, I’d realize it wasn’t clear at all. That moment, though, I just noted the statement - tucked it away among thoughts that sound right but mislead - and stayed silent.

Folder tucked under her arm, Maya stepped into the room. The desk took the weight of the file with a soft tap, no glance exchanged. Out she went, swift like clockwork. Practice shaped those movements - this wasn’t new. Counted three prior visits myself.

The folder was opened by me.

That first number sat right there on page one. Fifteen sheets of paper made it official. Same digits I’d checked thrice before breakfast, thinking my eyes were off. Not a glitch though. Shelter money came next, spelled out after the signature line. Perks followed close behind, tucked into paragraph form down lower. Secrets filled the middle stretch - four full pages thick with rules about silence.

Speed came early. Always moved through words like that - foster life slipped me sharp edges without warning, so grabbing meaning became reflex, since knowing meant staying upright when the ground kept shifting.

Seven comes next. Then eight follows after.

Page eight came around, yet the pay figure stayed tucked inside my ribs, glowing faint. Twelve bucks in my pocket, shirt stained by a hot iron, while Damien Cross sat opposite, eyes fixed, face giving nothing away.

My signature appeared on the eighth page.

I did not read page nine.

Later, I kept returning to it - those few seconds when everything shifted without warning. Not until much later did I see how thin the line had been between what came next. Exhaustion blurred my vision, desperation narrowed it further, plus all attention locked onto the figure at the top of the page. Only once alone in silence did memory pull back far enough to show the threshold crossed just moments before.

Back across the table went the folder, sliding under his fingers.

His eyes moved to the object first. After that, they settled on me.

"You start Monday," he said.

"I start tomorrow," I said. "I need the salary to begin accruing."

A flicker of a smile again. Vanished too fast to be sure.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Eight o'clock. Don't be late."

On my feet now. The bag came into my hands. Toward the exit I moved, damp fabric clinging, paper in hand, that weight settling - the kind that follows choices locked in place.

"Miss Cole."

I stopped. Turned.

Facing me from far behind the oversized desk, his face showed nothing. His eyes stayed fixed, impossible to read.

"The water," he said. "My apologies."

One thought at a time. Stillness between each. Spoken without rise or fall.

Yet they came out of his mouth.

That sat there, heavy. A single nod came out of me before walking away.

Down in the elevator, clutching the unmarked contract to my chest, I whispered it was okay. Just work, nothing more. Survival - that’s what this was. Something I knew well. Always had.

That glance of his passed right by me when the words came out. It wasn’t until later I saw how long that look had stayed.

Down I went, my mind stuck on that one thing.