Next Day
1365 Words
Caelia's POV
The sun had just begun to rise when Caelia stirred, her body waking with the practiced ease of someone who rarely allowed herself the luxury of oversleeping.
Her room was cloaked in the soft tones of early morning, pale gold light filtering through beige curtains and casting warm shadows across the walls. The faint hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound. The room was modest in size, with polished wood floors, a tidy writing desk, and a bookshelf stacked with old paperbacks and legal journals. At the center, a queen-sized bed dressed in a cool gray duvet and neatly fluffed pillows.
She sat up slowly, stretching before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Her toes touched the familiar softness of a small rug beneath her feet. Her phone vibrated once on the nightstand. 6:12 AM.
She stood, tying her hair up in a quick bun, then padded out into the hallway. The apartment she shared with her brother was comfortably well-off—not luxurious, but organized and thoughtfully kept. Light drifted through the kitchen window as she stepped into the space. The tiled counters gleamed faintly. Fridge humming. Mugs stacked in perfect rows.
Auren’s door was ajar, and she peeked in. He was sprawled across the bed, one leg dangling off the side, headphones in, the faint buzz of some podcast still running. A summer visitor from his university in the U.S., Auren had been crashing with her for the past few weeks during his break. Their bond was unshakable. And despite his teasing and sarcasm, he cared more deeply than he admitted.
She smiled faintly and pulled the door shut.
In the kitchen, she began preparing breakfast—boiled eggs, warm toast with a light smear of butter, and two steaming mugs of cardamom tea. She plated his food and scribbled a note on the corner of a napkin.
“Eat. Don’t fake sleep. – C”
---
By 7:30, she was dressed. A steel-grey silk blouse, tailored black trousers, nude heels. Her silver locket, as always, rested below her collarbone. Subtle makeup. Her perfume was light—vanilla with a hint of sandalwood.
She slipped into her beige trench coat, grabbed her keys, and stepped out.
Her sedan purred to life as she pulled away from the curb. The drive to the Volkov tower was short—maybe fifteen minutes through mid-city traffic. She passed rows of cafes waking up, sleepy faces in crowded buses, joggers trailing behind their morning playlists. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel as the skyline crept closer.
Her thoughts drifted. Yesterday’s meeting. That cold silence from Luca. The way Dmitri had stared at her—not just gratitude, but interest. Calculation. She wasn’t naïve. This job was more than just a title. It was exposure. Stakes. She was in their world now, with all its polished edges and undercurrents.
The Volkov tower came into view, all sharp angles and shimmering black glass. As she drove into the underground parking, her fingers tightened slightly around the wheel.
Time to wear the mask again.
---
The valet took her car with a nod. “Ms. Morozova.”
She returned it politely. “Thank you.”
The marble lobby echoed with footsteps and murmurs. Her heels tapped against polished floors as she crossed to the elevators. Whispers followed her.Some were good but some were bad.
all that could be heqrd was “Is that her?” “She’s the one who sat next to Luca yesterday, right?” “She’s new. Pretty, too.” or "she must've seduced him to get to that position directly" "there must be something going on between the boss and her which is why she was recruited directly" "she must be his family! they had lunch together in bosses cabin yesterday"
She stood in the elevator, head high, lips calm, pulse quiet. Let them whisper. Let them wonder.
The elevator dinged. She stepped out.
More eyes. Tighter smiles. Some polite. Some patronizing.
She passed a group of executives who fell unnaturally silent as she walked by.
A woman in deep maroon heels muttered, “Overnight success is always suspicious.”
Caelia didn’t flinch. She walked straight to her office, entered without a word, and closed the door behind her.
---
Her office was spotless. Neutral. Efficient.
Her desk sat square under a frosted panel of light. Black matte surface, dual monitors, a notebook with her initials embossed on the cover. The small attached washroom was sleek, clean, all grey marble and brass accents. A rimless mirror ran across the vanity, lit with a soft white halo glow. She stood in front of it now, adjusting her earrings, tucking a strand of hair back into her bun.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she murmured to herself. “Just do what you’ve always done.”
---
A soft knock. Viktor.
“Mr. Volkov wants you in Conference Room B. Ten minutes.”
She nodded and followed him silently.
---
The boardroom was colder today. Maybe it was the rain beginning to whisper outside the windows. Maybe it was Luca’s expression—stone, sharp, unreadable.
He sat at the head of the table, dressed in black. As always. Charcoal jacket, black turtleneck, silver watch glinting under his cuff. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. His cologne drifted—something dark and spiced, laced with quiet dominance.
She took her seat beside him. Quiet. Alert.
The meeting began.
Numbers. Contracts. Shipping schedules.
She tracked every detail. Watched how people leaned forward when Luca spoke, how others flinched when Dmitri raised an eyebrow.
When it came time to discuss the Milan accounts, she leaned in slightly.
“There’s a discrepancy in the freight report,” she said. “Weight in the clearance form doesn’t match final invoice.”
Silence.
A middle-aged executive shuffled his papers nervously.
“She’s right,” he admitted.
Luca didn’t look at her. Just said, “Fix it.”
No praise. But that wasn’t what she came for.
---
After the meeting, she lingered near her office, sorting notes.
That’s when the woman from earlier returned.
Tight maroon dress. Sky-high heels. Expensive perfume. She carried a folder and a fake smile. She looked like she was here to seduce someone and we already know who. her breasts were popped out of the dress while her voice was high pitched like metal being dragged against floor.
“I need to run something by Mr. Volkov. Cairo shipment numbers. Urgent.”
Viktor barely looked up. “He’s in his cabin.”
The woman walked confidently toward Luca’s office.
Ninety seconds later, she came back out, face flushed.
“He said to talk to his secretary,” she hissed.
Her eyes met Caelia’s for a moment—blazing.
Caelia blinked slowly. Then looked away.
---
Back at her desk, she was halfway through an email when a ping lit her screen.
From: Viktor
Subject: Dinner Tonight
Le Miroir Noir. 8 PM. You’re expected. Arrive by 6.
She stared at it.
Family dinner.
With the Volkovs.
She stood up, walked to the washroom, and looked at herself in the mirror.
“You’re going to have to get used to this,” she whispered.
---
She left the office at 5:00 sharp. On her way down, she texted Auren:
C: Dinner. Tonight. With me. 6 PM. Suit up.
A: ...Am I gonna get shot?
C: Not if you behave.
She pulled into the driveway at 5:25. Auren was already halfway into his grey suit.
“Do I look like I own a yacht or a shady Russian gun deal?” he asked, adjusting his tie.
She snorted. “More like the yacht’s butler.”
---
She dressed carefully. A black gown. Clean lines. Fitted waist. Modest neckline. A slit on one side. Small diamond studs. Hair in a low bun. Mauve lipstick.
No shimmer. No seduction. Just power in silence.
They drove out at 5:50.
And her pulse didn’t calm until she saw the soft gold glow of Le Miroir Noir in the distance.
Whatever this dinner held—she’d meet it head-on.
---
To be continued...
- Writer
