CHAPTER 2: Office Politics, Raccoons, and Ice Queens
1098 Words
There were three things Ethan Kael knew for certain by 9:00 a.m. the next day.
The coffee on the executive floor tasted like roasted betrayal, his new desk was technically a window ledge with a Wi-Fi signal and Sophia Valente hated him just enough to keep him around.
He leaned back in his borrowed chair and stared across the glass expanse of Montgomery Holdings’ top floor. No cubicles here. Just sleek, terrifying minimalism and a constant hum of ambition. The floor plan was open—because privacy was for people without anything to hide.
He, of course, had everything to hide.
Mostly the fact that he had no idea what he was doing.
“I thought consultants got real offices,” he muttered, sipping his crime-against-coffee.
“You’re not a consultant,” said a voice behind him. “You’re a glorified intern with sarcasm issues.”
Ethan turned. Sophia stood there, heels clicking like judgment on marble.
“You know,” he said, “that almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Still, I’ll take it. At this point, praise from you is rarer than an HR-approved happy hour.”
She sighed. “Follow me. You’re sitting in the Wi-Fi dead zone.”
“I thought that was symbolic.”
“It is. Move.”
She led him through a glass corridor, past hushed meetings and doors with names plated in chrome.
People moved out of her way. Even the plants seemed intimidated.
Ethan, naturally, trailed a step behind like an off-brand duckling.
“You always walk like you’re negotiating with gravity,” he said.
She didn’t look back. “I always walk like I’m on a deadline.”
“Even God rested on the seventh day.”
“I’m not God.”
“Pity. I had some things I wanted to file complaints about.”
***
They stopped at a sleek, black-walled room with low lighting and no windows. A projector screen covered one wall. A long table stretched like a runway, with chairs so ergonomically perfect they probably had social media accounts.
“This is the war room,” Sophia said.
Ethan dropped his bag into a chair. “Wow. Do we launch missiles from here or just weaponized spreadsheets?”
She crossed her arms. “Your job today is to audit the acquisition files from the Valcor merger. We’re missing 3.2 million in unaccounted supplier costs. Find it.”
“Right. Find the missing millions. No pressure.”
“You said you were brilliant. Prove it.”
He flashed her a grin. “You just like giving me homework.”
Sophia stared him down. “I don’t like giving you anything.”
He didn’t reply. Just sat, opened his laptop, and began to work.
Two hours passed.
Ethan dove into a digital jungle of files, contracts, and accounting trails that seemed designed by sadists. Whoever handled Valcor’s books before the merger had used more shell companies than a smuggler.
He muttered to himself the whole time.
“Who uses a Belize-registered holding company to buy printer ink?”
He cracked his knuckles and cross-checked vendor IDs. Half were fake. One was a shell feeding funds into a private security firm owned by someone named... Xavier D. Montgomery.
Xander.
Of course.
He leaned back and muttered, “You beautiful dumb bastard. You’ve been laundering through logistics, isn't that smart and dumb of you at the same time. Well, raised in riches denies you of being a genius”
A voice behind him replied, “Pardon?”
Ethan turned—too fast.
Sophia stood in the doorway with two cups of coffee and a look that said I don’t bring these often, so don’t make me regret it.
He blinked. “Am I hallucinating or did you just bring me caffeine?”
“I need your brain functioning. Don’t let it go to your head.”
He accepted the cup, took a cautious sip.
“Better than the floor sludge. Slightly.”
“It’s hand-poured Ethiopian.”
“I take it back. This is God’s own brew, did He do this on the Eighth day?”
She didn’t sit. Just hovered near the door, eyes watching him like a hawk with a quarterly report.
“You’re not just sarcastic,” she said finally. “You’re surgical. Fast.”
Ethan shrugged. “Growing up broke teaches you two things: how to hustle, and how to spot when someone’s stealing from the snack fund.”
Her expression shifted—slightly.
“Where did you grow up?”
He hesitated.
“Nowhere impressive. Concrete, corner stores, and the kind of neighbors who always borrowed sugar and never gave it back.”
She nodded. “And yet here you are. On the executive floor.”
Ethan met her gaze.
“Yeah. Funny how life works.”
There was a pause. The kind that tugged at something beneath the sarcasm. For a second, they weren’t consultant and boss. Not adversaries.
Just two people who had fought different battles to get to the same room.
Sophia looked away first.
“I’ll review your findings later. For now, you’ll join me in the 4 p.m. strategy meeting.”
“Do I get to wear a tie?”
“You get to speak.”
“Even worse.”
She turned to leave. Then paused. “Next time, don’t mock the coffee in public. The barista’s Alistair’s nephew.”
Ethan winced. “Seriously?”
She smirked. “He cried last time someone said it tasted like regret.”
After she left, Ethan leaned back and exhaled.
What the hell was he doing here?
He wasn’t corporate. He wasn’t rich. He didn’t belong in a building that polished its air.
And yet... Sophia had looked at him like she almost—almost—saw something useful. Something more.
That was dangerous.
Because Ethan was already starting to see her.
Not just the jawline that could cut glass or the voice that could silence armies.
But the woman beneath the armor. The way her hands clenched when no one watched. The tiny furrow in her brow when she was solving ten problems at once.
And when she wasn’t looking?
He watched her breathe.
***
Far below, in a private surveillance suite, Matteo Grayson rewound the security feed. Paused on the frame where Sophia handed Ethan coffee.
Then played it again.
And again.
He flicked ashes into a crystal dish.
“She’s beginning to like hi
m.”
He didn’t say it with curiosity. Or jealousy.
He said it like a man preparing for war.
- Writer
