CHAPTER 1
1113 Words
The boardroom fell silent before Tristan Moore spoke.
Not because he demanded it but because men and women who controlled millions learned quickly to read the warning signs. The stillness. The unreadable expression. The way Tristan’s fingers rested loosely on the table as if he were bored by the very existence of everyone else in the room.
“Cut the Chicago division.”
A sharp inhale rippled around the table.
One of the senior directors cleared his throat. “If we shut it down this quarter, we’ll be laying off—”
“I’m aware,” Tristan said calmly, eyes never lifting from the tablet in front of him. “Next.”
No hesitation. No explanation. No apology.
The Chicago division was bleeding money, and Tristan Moore did not tolerate inefficiency—whether it came from technology, systems, or people.
He rose from his chair, suit immaculate, posture controlled, the very image of a man who had never lost a night’s sleep over a decision. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city behind him, glass and steel and endless ambition stretching beneath his feet. This was his kingdom. Numbers bent to him. Markets obeyed.
People learned not to ask for mercy.
As he exited the room, conversations resumed in hushed tones behind him. Tristan didn’t slow. He never did. Pausing implied doubt, and doubt was a luxury he’d buried years ago.
His office door closed with a soft click.
Tristan loosened his tie by a fraction and exhaled—not in relief, but in routine. He moved to the window, hands sliding into his pockets as he stared down at the city. Somewhere below, lives continued at a pace he no longer recognized. Love. Family. Chaos. Useless distractions.
His phone buzzed.
HR: We’ve narrowed the EA candidates to three. Final interviews scheduled today.
Tristan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Executive assistants never lasted long with him. They came in confident, eager, convinced they could handle him. They left exhausted, intimidated, or quietly reassigned. He didn’t care. He needed precision, not comfort.
Proceed, he typed back.
He turned from the window and sat behind his desk, fingers steepled as memories crept in uninvited.
A different desk. A cluttered apartment. Scribbled notes in neat handwriting he’d once mocked and later memorized. The smell of coffee and late nights and something dangerously close to hope. He crushed the thought before it could take shape. That life no longer existed.
A knock interrupted the silence. “Sir, the first candidate is here.” “Send her in.”
The door opened. And the world tilted.
She stepped inside hesitantly, clutching a slim folder to her chest. Brown hair pulled back neatly. Simple blouse. No jewelry beyond a thin silver necklace that glinted briefly in the light.
Victoria Blair.
Tristan’s breath stopped. For one unforgivable second, he forgot how to breathe.
She looked older—not in a way that dulled her beauty, but in a way that carved depth into it. Her eyes were the same shade of determined brown he remembered, but now shadowed by something heavier. Experience. Pain. Survival.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Moore,” she said politely, voice steady, professional.
Mr. Moore. The name landed like a blade. Tristan rose slowly, every movement deliberate, controlled, even as something violent roared to life in his chest.
“Ms. Blair,” he said coolly. “Have a seat.”
Her gaze lifted. Recognition struck like a physical blow. Color drained from her face.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at each other—two ghosts from a past that had never stayed buried. Victoria recovered first. She had always been better at that.
“Sir,” she said softly, lowering herself into the chair opposite him. Her hands trembled, just slightly, before she folded them together. “I wasn’t aware—”
“Of course you weren’t,” Tristan interrupted. His tone was flat, unreadable. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
Her lips parted, then pressed together. Whatever apology hovered there, she swallowed it whole. Good, he thought bitterly. Don’t start now.
He studied her like a stranger, not allowing himself the luxury of memory. This was not the girl who argued with him over textbooks or laughed when he failed at making instant noodles. This was a woman who had walked away without explanation and shattered something in him he never managed to rebuild.
“You’re overqualified for this role,” he said at last.
Victoria’s fingers tightened around her folder. “I’m capable.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
Silence stretched.
“I need the job,” she added quietly. Something in her voice—controlled, restrained—made his chest ache in a way he refused to examine. “Why?” he asked sharply. “With your academic record, you could be anywhere.” Her eyes flickered away for half a second. “Because I’m here,” she said simply.
Tristan leaned back, gaze never leaving her face. He searched for signs of guilt. Regret. Anything resembling the woman who once promised him forever in whispered voices and broken dreams. He found none. Only exhaustion.
Good, he thought again, the bitterness settling deeper. Let her feel uncomfortable. Let her sit across from the man she left behind.
“Do you know what this job entails?” he asked. “Yes.”
“You’ll be on call constantly.” “Yes.”
“You will not be accommodated.” “Yes.”
“I am not easy to work for.” “I know.”
That, finally, earned a reaction. His brow lifted slightly. “Do you?” Her gaze met his—steady now, unflinching. “I knew you once.”
Something dangerous sparked between them. Tristan stood abruptly. “You’re hired.” Her eyes widened. “Sir?”
“You start tomorrow. Seven a.m. Sharp.” “But—”
“Ms. Blair,” he said, voice cold as steel. “If you can’t handle this, walk out now. I won’t stop you.”
Victoria hesitated. For a moment—just one—Tristan wondered if she would leave again.
She stood. “I’ll be here,” she said quietly. Then she turned and walked out. The door closed.
Tristan remained standing long after she was gone, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. The man looking back was polished, powerful, untouched. A lie he’d perfected.
He reached for his desk, fingers curling into the wood as the past surged forward—unwanted, unrelenting.
Victoria Blair was back. And this time, Tristan Moore had no intention of letting her escape unscathed.
- Writer
