Beneath The Gold.

Aria Cole pov; A splash of pink stood out on the paper taped to the door. Strange how memory works. That pink shade clung to my thoughts. Out of every moment that awful day, I remember the paper's hue. As if brightness could cushion what came next. Someone probably chose it hoping cheer would help. Didn’t work. That early, just past seven till six, I waited by the door with a single sack slung across one shoulder. A cardboard container tucked beneath my elbow weighed nothing much. Twelve bucks and change sat loose in my coat lining. The lock refused my old key. Tried it anyway - once, twice, three times, then once again. Enough turns to know it meant nothing now. He swapped out the lock without meeting my eyes. Almost a quiet act of decency there. Breathing out, I adjusted the box on my hip. Right then, Aria. Start figuring it out. What I did best was think. Not much else came easily, though - yet here it was, the one thing always available, even if it couldn’t cover monthly bills. By February, when landlords started refusing split payments, thoughts offered zero leverage. Still, those same quiet hours of sorting ideas pulled me out of group homes, sat beside me during late classes, carried me across shifts in jobs that kept me fed but never excited. Barely enough light reached my leaves to call it growth. Surprisingly, thinking hadn’t stopped it from happening. Down the stairs then into the street, I gave myself exactly ten seconds to fall apart. Each number slipped through my mouth like a coin dropped one by one. One. Two - cold air slapped my face, carrying fumes, frying onions, that hollowness you only feel standing on pavement while others stay tucked behind closed doors. Three. Four. Five - tears started but I shut them off fast. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Done. Out came my phone, then I tapped on those job posts bookmarked last evening. Walking began after that. What happens when you have absolutely nothing? It cuts through the noise, sharp and fast. Not searching for meaning in labor. Not chasing promotions or team-building nonsense or fancy phrases spoken by those who can afford choices. A position. One that covers cost of shelter - just space, enclosed, with barrier against outside, somewhere secure - within one month's reach. A walk-in application started it, for a front desk spot at a dentist's place downtown. That one came through on foot. Next up, typing work with an insurer. Sent in my details there too. Then something odd: admin help needed at a business named Cross Empire - never heard of it, pay listed so high I checked again twice thinking typo, duties described in words that left gaps where sense should be. Stillness felt impossible. That number on the paycheck wiped out any chance of hesitation. After I applied, my feet stayed moving. It was nearly eleven when I sent off the tenth application, bought a small pretzel for a dollar fifty from a vendor on the corner, then found a library with open power sockets so I could stay put. One reply came through by then, just a single one. Cross Empire. Appreciation goes out for sending in your details. Reviewing each person is something Mr. Cross handles himself. Show up at Cross Tower, make it to the 47th floor, timing matters - be there by 2pm sharp. Slowness won’t work here. Just that. Nameless. Not a person in sight, not even someone from personnel. The kindness feels programmed, hollow. Cold efficiency sits there, quiet. A presence so strong it presses down, though nothing is said, nothing claimed - power showing itself by simply being still. On the library computer, I looked up Cross Empire. He went by Damien Cross. Age thirty-two. Led the company as chief executive. After his father’s firm fell apart, he started again - turned what remained into an international brand dealing in high-end goods, now valued at roughly four point seven billion. Pictures captured a look too striking to ignore, as if attractiveness served a purpose. Hair black. Jawline cut clean. Even in still images from news outlets, those eyes gave off the sense of planning far beyond the moment. Every article used the same three adjectives: ruthless, brilliant, private. Still, nobody brought up how warm they were, how patient, or whether it felt good to work under them. Still, I went. With twelve dollars in my pocket, plus a crumpled pretzel receipt. Strength in bargaining? Not exactly on my side. Seventy-two stories tall, Cross Tower loomed into view long before you reached it. Glass and steel made up its skin, cold and uninviting. It spoke without words, this building, announcing power through sheer size alone. Two blocks out, the message hit: you do not matter here. The entrance spun at a crawl, deliberate in its pace. As if hesitation were part of the experience. For a moment, I thought again. Still moved forward on foot. That chill wasn’t just cool air. It sat heavy, like money keeping its distance through perfect temperature. Marble floors gave back nothing but echoes. Then came that tap-tap of shoes breaking stillness. Her glance landed slow, practiced - measuring my presence before her lips moved. Judgment passed without words. Two seconds stretched. Categorized neatly where I wouldn’t ask. My name came out of my mouth first. Her eyes moved to the screen next. A tiny change showed up on her face then. "You're early," she said. "Forty-seventh floor. Someone will meet you." Up in the mirrored lift, my reflection stayed still - just me, a single bag at my side. That blouse, the finest I owned, showed a tiny burn near the wrist where I turned it out of sight. My features held only what I allowed. Nothing more came through. Staring back at me, the mirror heard me say I’d faced tougher moments before. Staring back at me, the face wore doubt yet moved along. Out of the lift came silence - thicker here, deliberate. She stood there already. Hair black like ink, clothed in something tailored too well, lips bent into shape but not meaning it. "Aria Cole?" "Yes." "I'm Maya. Mr. Cross's assistant." Her gaze dropped briefly to my box. "Leave that here." Out of her mouth came words that sounded kind, yet carried weight I hadn’t asked for. A pause hung between us, thick with unearned gratitude. The way she spoke made smallness feel expected. Silence stretched after, louder than what was said. Her tone landed like a gift I never requested. The box landed on the floor. It stopped moving after I let go. Off she went, motioning behind her shoulder. "Keep up," was all she offered. Down a hallway lined with glass, I walked behind her. Offices slid by on either side, filled with workers bent into their tasks like they felt eyes even when none were there. Not one face turned our way. Maybe they’d learned silence keeps you unseen. Just past the hallway, Maya came to a halt by one last door. A touch on the panel - then inside, no knock needed. "He'll be with you shortly," she said. "Don't sit until he tells you to." She left. There he wasn’t - Damien Cross - though the room was massive, wide enough to hold more than just silence. Tall glass walls framed the city beneath, stretched flat like a secret spread open but never meant for me. The space swallowed sound, even my breath. A desk sat centered, large enough for strangers to share wine, untouched. My feet stayed rooted at the entrance, empty hands hanging. I didn't sit. Three minutes passed. Footsteps now, quick ones, moving down the hall right behind me. That is when I shifted sideways, leaving the frame just as it happened. He wasn't looking. Out of nowhere, it hit hard. A chill exploded across my shirt - liquid flying from the plastic in his grip - sending my file sliding sideways, pages leaping free in every direction, one arm slamming into the doorway just to stay upright. Dripping now, documents scattered like dropped secrets, pride vanished somewhere beneath the mess - his eyes stayed locked on mine. Damien Cross. Up close, the images didn’t come near showing how bad it really was. Water marked your blouse. The scattered pages caught his eye next. Then back to you - sharp, fast, like counting inventory instead of meeting a person. He said nothing. Footsteps crunched across the scattered pages. Dust rose where he passed. Down he went into the chair, as if whatever just took place didn’t register at all. As though I were rain that fell and now moved on. The smallest act of recognition - eye contact, nod, anything - weighed briefly, then dropped away untouched. Water dripped from my clothes onto the floor as I stood in the hallway, staring at him. From the desk came my papers, gathered one by one. Then silence returned as they left their place. My fingers tugged at the fabric still hanging on me. Inside his office, I stepped. The door closed behind me. "You didn't apologize," I said. The room went very still. A pause. Damien Cross lifted his gaze from the desk. Not fast. As if something inside him needed time to adjust. He saw me - steady eyes, shadowed, sharp, way too calm for someone who’d soaked a person and kept walking. For a full minute, he just stared. His eyes stayed fixed on mine without moving. A flicker passed over his face. In a blink, already vanished. Still, it had shown up. There. "Close the door," he said. Quiet. Still. Absolute confidence in compliance. The latch clicked shut behind me. A quiet moment passed before I turned away. Something restless tapped inside my chest. I asked it nicely to quit. Still going. Not listening. Pocket holds twelve dollars. Blouse feels cool from water. Edges of papers turn soft with dampness. Still waiting for the interview to start. Already in trouble.