Beneath the Flames

Five

By the second week, I’d memorized the floor plan of Cole Industries, the coffee preferences of three different managers, and exactly how long it took for the office printer to jam every morning (seven minutes, without fail). I knew which vending machines gave the crunchiest chips and which supply closet had the last packet of post-its. I even knew that the elevator to the 12th floor had a weird rattle on Tuesdays. Knowledge was safety; knowledge was power. It kept the world predictable. It kept me in control.

Except when Adrian Cole walked into a room.

I hadn’t figured out how to breathe normally in his presence. Not in the hallways, not at the coffee station, not even across the conference table. Years of practice—years of building up emotional immunity—were supposed to make me resistant to charming men who wielded power like a weapon. But Adrian wasn’t just a man with power. He was a force that seemed to seep into your pores, and every encounter left me exposed, raw, like I had forgotten how to armor myself.

I hated that he noticed me. I hated that I noticed him back.

Which was why I threw myself into the Carson account like it was my personal salvation.

The Carson account wasn’t just big—it was colossal. Carson & Co. wasn’t the kind of client you approached casually. It was the kind of client that could make your career or erase it overnight. And somehow, Adrian had decided that the entire pitch strategy would fall onto my desk.

“Trial by fire,” he’d called it, that infuriating, self-assured smirk tugging at his lips.

I stayed late, poring over spreadsheets, highlighting market trends, sketching drafts, and endlessly revising my slides. My cubicle became a fortress of papers, coffee cups, and pens scattered like artillery. I drank my fourth cup of black coffee at 9 p.m., stared at my own reflection in the darkened glass of the office windows, and thought, I can do this. I have to do this.

I’d imagined moments like these countless times—triumphing at a critical pitch, earning recognition for my skills, proving that I didn’t need anyone’s approval. But in reality, the stakes felt more personal, more complicated, and infinitely more terrifying. Because Adrian was there. He always was. Somewhere in the back of my mind, his name was a static hum, distracting me, daring me, and somehow inspiring me all at once.

“Long night?”

The voice snapped me from my spreadsheets like a whip. I looked up to find Adrian leaning against the edge of my cubicle. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, like he’d stepped out of some high-powered ad campaign for overworked executives. He looked impossibly effortless. Even in casual slouch, he radiated command.

“Don’t you have a penthouse to haunt?” I asked, massaging my temples.

His lips curved into a lazy, crooked smile. “Penthouse is boring. This is more fun.”

I gave him a flat look, my professional mask intact, though my pulse betrayed me. “Hovering over me isn’t fun. It’s harassment.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “Relax, Bennett. Just checking on my star strategist.”

“I’m not your star anything.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, and I felt the heat crawl up the back of my neck.

I wanted to hate him, I told myself. I tried to hate him. But there was a thrill in his proximity, in the way his presence demanded attention without asking for it. I told myself it was professional—it had to be. Anything else was a dangerous distraction.

The next day, we presented to the Carson board.

The conference room gleamed with polished wood and glass, an arena of authority. Executives filed in, expressions sharp and expectant. My stomach churned, a low tide of anxiety, but I held my spine straight and my smile neutral. Slides queued, notes at the ready.

Adrian sat at the head of the table, exuding calm authority. His gaze flicked to me once, steady and unreadable, before he addressed the room.

“Today,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, “our junior strategist, Aria Bennett, will walk you through the proposal.”

Every head turned toward me.

My pulse spiked, adrenaline mingling with the familiar twinge of panic. I launched into the pitch, words spilling in a rhythm I didn’t know I had. Market analysis, consumer trends, innovative strategies to modernize Carson’s brand. I forced myself to ignore the weight of their eyes, the subtle smirks of skepticism, the whispering gestures of doubt.

The slides moved seamlessly, each graph, chart, and bullet point carefully designed to impress. My voice didn’t waver. I even caught Adrian glancing at me once, expression unreadable, but eyes sharp, like a hawk assessing a fledgling in flight.

By the time I finished, the room was still. Silent. The Carson CEO leaned back, fingers steepled, examining me with the precision of someone evaluating a rare gemstone.

“Impressive,” he said finally. “Ambitious, but I like it. Still—” His gaze locked onto mine. “How do we know you can execute this?”

The question cut deeper than any critique I had faced in my life. Before I could respond, Adrian spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“She can,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “I’d stake the company’s name on it.”

My breath caught, my ears ringing with the certainty of his statement. Not only had he defended me, but he had done so with absolute authority, with unwavering belief.

The room buzzed, murmurs rippling across the polished table. The Carson CEO leaned back, considering. Finally, he smiled. “Very well. We’ll give it a trial run.”

We had done it.

Relief washed over me in a tidal wave, adrenaline still thrumming through my veins. As the executives filtered out, I collected my notes, hands slightly trembling. I turned to Adrian, my voice betraying the grudging gratitude I felt.

“Thank you,” I said.

He arched a brow, deceptively casual. “For what?”

“For backing me up in there.”

His lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

I rolled my eyes, but my chest warmed despite myself. There was a weight in that room, a silent acknowledgment between us that neither of us would verbalize. I wanted to tell myself it was purely professional, but my body screamed otherwise.

Later, as I packed up my desk, the office buzzing with the low hum of post-meeting chatter, I overheard two senior associates whispering near the elevators.

“Did you see how Cole vouched for her?” one said.

“Yeah. Pretty bold. Makes you wonder what’s really going on there.”

My stomach sank, a familiar pit of frustration and dread forming. Of course. It wasn’t my hard work they noticed. It was the implication, the personal connection, the power dynamic. That was what would be gossiped about, dissected, and exaggerated.

By the time I got home, their voices echoed in my head, and I tossed my bag on the couch, collapsing onto the cushions, furious. Furious at the whispers, at Adrian for fueling them, at myself for caring. I closed my eyes and tried to let go, tried to remind myself that I had done the work, that I had succeeded. But the lingering heat of Adrian’s gaze made it impossible to focus on anything else.

And then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number: You were brilliant today.

I froze, staring at the screen. My gut told me exactly who it was, and I felt a surge of both irritation and something else I refused to name.

Me: Who is this?

The reply came almost instantly.

Adrian Cole: Your boss. Get some sleep, Bennett. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.

My pulse skittered. Anger. Pride. Irritation. Something dangerously close to curiosity. Because if there was one thing I knew about Adrian Cole, it was that when he said “interesting,” it never meant anything good.

I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, mind racing. What had he meant? The phrasing was deliberately vague, teasing, yet loaded with intent. I tried to dismiss it as professional forewarning, but deep down, I knew better. Adrian didn’t do vague. He did calculated, precise, and, sometimes, unnervingly personal.

The next morning, I arrived at the office early, clutching my coffee like a lifeline. The cubicles were quiet, the hum of computers filling the space like the breath of some sleeping giant. I went straight to my desk, trying to focus on the Carson account notes once more, reviewing slides, refining points, ensuring that everything was perfect.

A shadow fell across my workspace. I looked up. Adrian Cole, tie once again perfectly adjusted, hair perfectly tousled as if by accident, was standing there.

“You’re early,” he observed, voice casual but with an edge that made my pulse quicken.

“I like to be prepared,” I replied, attempting a neutral tone.

He leaned on my cubicle wall again, arms crossed, watching me like he owned the space—or perhaps just me. “Good. You’ll need to be. Today’s… going to test you.”