The Girl on the Rooftop
1303 Words
Crossveil City, five years earlier.
At that time, she was Elara Quinn—young, ambitious, and still clinging to the last threads of innocence.
She worked as a junior reporter at Graham Sutter’s office. Intelligent, persistent, but forced to drop out of university after her scholarship was revoked. The reasons were never explained. No one had bothered to explain them to her.
That morning, Graham had summoned her to his office. Gruff, distracted, he barely looked up from his desk. The real briefing came from his personal assistant, Isla Marrin.
Elara could only hold her breath, watching Isla—elegant, composed, untouchable. Dressed in a white coat and matching skirt, Isla moved like a woman who had never once been told no. Without a flicker of emotion, she slid a dossier across the desk.
Elara read the name printed at the top.
Damon Virell.
Billionaire. Elusive. Untouchable.
The assignment was simple: get close, get a quote, get something scandalous.
“Get close to him. Make him talk. Make him want you.”
Isla’s voice was cool, almost bored.
“You’re not here to report. You’re here to be remembered.”
Elara said nothing. But inside, something twisted.
She knew what it was like to beg and be ignored. She remembered the orphanage. The woman who dropped her off. A face she could no longer picture. A name she never learned.
But now, she had something. A chance. A weapon.
All she had to do was play her cards right.
She hesitated.
Isla leaned in, her voice silk over steel.
“You want to stay in this business, Miss Quinn? Then learn how to play it.”
Elara nodded. She agreed. But her stomach knotted.
It’s just a job, she told herself. It’ll be fine.
She had debts to pay. Rent overdue. A little brother, not biological, but from the orphanage, who needed school fees. Kieran.
What she needed wasn’t glory. It was survival.
—
At half past six, Elara arrived at the Rooftop Bar of the Virell Corp tower—a place that felt sleek, exclusive, and humming with power.
She wore the soft blue dress Isla had chosen for her. Subtle. Vulnerable. Every detail was calculated.
She felt like an imposter. Everyone around her looked like they belonged in a magazine spread. Her chest tightened.
She clutched her purse, knowing exactly what lay inside.
A hidden recorder.
Part of Graham’s bigger, more insidious plan.
Her heart pounded. She rehearsed her lines, scanning the crowd for Damon Virell.
Inside her mind, Isla’s voice echoed like a warning bell:
“You’re not here to feel. You’re here to win.”
She waited.
An hour passed.
Then he arrived—like a storm in a tailored suit.
The dossier had described him well. But not well enough.
Unreadable. Magnetic.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t scan the room.
He moved like he owned it.
Because he did.
Elara watched him from across the bar, breath catching in her throat.
He wasn’t what she envisioned.
He was worse—beautiful, cold, unknowable.
His iciness pierced straight through her, impaling something soft and unguarded inside her chest.
She felt it then.
A shift.
A dangerous flutter.
He looked like every mistake she’d never had the courage to make.
It didn’t take him long to notice her.
His gaze found her—icy, unrelenting—and the world slowed as he approached.
She stood her ground, willing herself not to tremble.
With the same detached tone, he asked, “Who are you here with?”
She lied.
“Just a friend.”
He offered her a drink.
She declined.
He ordered one anyway.
Then he studied her.
Not like a man studied a woman, but like how a strategist studied a puzzle.
And Elara, for the first time, forgot which side she was supposed to be on.
“I read your recent acquisition of Virell East. Some say it’s a risky move.”
Without looking at her, Damon said, “Some say a lot of things. What do you say?”
Elara hesitated.
“I’m just here to understand your perspective.”
Damon finally met her gaze. “No. You’re here because someone sent you.”
Elara stiffened. She used her default line. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job to ask questions.”
Damon tilted his glass, still not looking at her.
“Then ask something real. Something you actually want to know.”
Elara asked quietly, “Why did you agree to come tonight?”
Damon smirked. “I didn’t. I just didn’t say no.”
He studied her, with his eyes narrowing slightly.
“You’re not like the others. You’re not polished. You’re… unfinished.”
She said in her defence, “I didn’t realize that was a flaw.”
He leaned in slightly. “It’s not. It’s just rare.”
Elara tried to redirect the conversation towards business. After all, that was what she was here for.
“Your company’s expansion into Crossveil—”
He interrupted, arrogantly, “Why do you care about my company?”
Elara was caught off guard by his response.
“I—I don’t. I mean, I do. Professionally.”
Damon’s voice dropped to a low murmur.
“Professionally. That’s a convenient word.”
He watched her squirm, then softened—just slightly.
“What’s your real name?”
Elara blinked.
“Elara Quinn.”
He tilted his glass.
“No. I mean the one you use when no one’s listening.”
She didn’t answer.
He finished his drink.
“Thought so.”
Her throat felt dry. The questions she’d rehearsed dissolved into static.
He’s redirecting everything. You’re losing control.
Stick to the plan, Elara. Stick to the damn plan.
She tried again.
“Your company’s expansion into Crossveil—”
Damon cut in, sharper this time.
“Why do you care about my company?”
Because Graham said I had to. Because Isla said I’d be remembered. Because I need this job. Because I need to survive.
But none of those answers came out.
“I guess I don’t,” she said quietly. “Not really.”
He leaned in, voice clipped.
“Then why are you here?”
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened around her purse.
The recorder. It’s still running. You’re here to get something. Anything.
But her heart was louder than her logic.
“I wanted to see for myself what kind of man you are.”
Damon smirked.
“And what did you find?”
She looked at him—sharp cheekbones, unreadable eyes, the way he never blinked unless it served a purpose.
You’re dangerous. You’re beautiful. You’re the kind of man who ruins women like me.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said.
He leaned in again, voice low.
“Good. That means you’re still thinking.”
She laughed—soft, involuntary.
And at that moment, she forgot the recorder was still running.
She forgot Isla’s warning.
She forgot Graham’s threats.
She even forgot the dossier.
All she saw was Damon.
All she felt was the flutter in her chest that refused to die.
She stepped back, pretending to take a call. She needed air.
Outside the bar, Elara drew a deep breath and stared up at the skyline.
The contrast between this rooftop world and her real life was brutal.
She pictured Kieran—curled on the floor mattress, sketching a house for them.
A kitchen. A dog.
“Only the quiet ones,” he’d said. “Like me.”
She’d called him careful, not quiet.
“Like you,” he had replied.
She smiled at the memory.
His sketchbook. His saved dinner portions.
His love had been her anchor.
This is what’s at stake, she reminded herself.
Then she remembered the recorder.
But she was no longer thinking about the story.
- Writer
