CHAPTER TWO: Smoke, Scars & Secrets
1248 Words
Claire Jordan walked her little sister, Anne, to school, clutching her hand like it was her lifeline. The morning air bit at her skin, but she barely noticed. Anne chattered about a school project she was excited for, blissfully unaware of the storm raging in her sister’s mind.
Claire managed a smile, brushing a stray curl from the little girl’s forehead. “Be good, okay?”
“I’m always good,” Anne beamed, then ran toward the school gates with her backpack bouncing behind her.
Claire stood there for a moment, watching. That tiny girl was her world. Her purpose. The reason she hadn’t broken yet.
As she turned back toward the bus stop, her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Elsa Peters.
She answered with a tired groan. “Don’t say it.”
Elsa’s laugh was loud, crackling through the speaker. “Oh, come on. Just wanted to check on my favorite unemployed friend.”
Claire rolled her eyes, chuckling. “Your concern is touching.”
“Seriously though, are you okay?”
“I’m breathing. That’s a start.”
Elsa hummed on the other end. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had three clients cancel on me this week. At this rate, I’ll be giving free makeovers at the shelter.”
Claire smiled softly. “You’re still the best makeup artist in town. They’ll come running eventually.”
Elsa’s voice dropped with warmth. “You know Mom asked about you and Anne this morning. She’s making stew tonight. You guys should come by.”
“Tell her we’ll be there,” Claire said, her voice quieter now. “Thanks, El.”
The bond between them went beyond friendship. After Claire’s mother died in that tragic car accident, Mrs. Peters stepped in. No blood relation. Just love. Pure, unwavering love. And Claire had clung to it like a drowning girl to driftwood.
After hanging up, she made her way to a small café with free Wi-Fi and a nearly dead heater. She settled into a corner seat, pulled out her phone, and opened the job board websites.
Barista? No.
Bartender? No way.
Receptionist at a sketchy-looking law firm? Desperate… but not that desperate.
She applied anyway.
One click. Another. Dozens of them. Her fingers moved like clockwork, each resume submission a silent prayer.
Please, just one. Just one chance.
Across the city, in a boardroom that smelled of wealth and tension, Luke Morningstar sat at the head of a long glass table. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.
In front of him, a man in a tailored navy-blue suit was mid-pitch, animatedly pointing at charts and rambling about “unparalleled growth potential.”
“…with your investment, Mr. Morningstar, we can increase profits by at least thirty percent within the first quarter—”
Luke raised a hand. Just a flick of his fingers. Silence fell instantly.
“You think I’m stupid?” he asked calmly.
The man blinked. “—I beg your pardon?”
Luke stood slowly. “You’re a fraud. You siphoned funds from your last three partners. You were sued twice. Quietly settled both.”
The man’s mouth opened, then closed again.
“I run a billion-dollar empire. Did you think I wouldn’t dig?”
Silence. The temperature in the room dropped.
Luke’s voice sharpened like ice. “Get out of my building. Now. Before I call security to drag you out.”
The man snatched up his briefcase and scurried out, pale as a ghost.
Luke tugged his tie loose as he stepped into his private office. He pulled open a drawer, lit a cigarette, and exhaled smoke like a stormcloud unraveling.
The click of heels pulled him from his thoughts.
Cassandra, his secretary, entered like a scene from a bad movie—tight skirt, blouse undone far too low, perfume thick and sugary.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Morningstar?” she asked, voice laced with faux sweetness as she leaned over the desk.
He stared. Blank. Unmoved.
She’d been testing his patience for weeks. Crossing boundaries. And today, he’d had enough.
Luke stood, circled the desk, and pressed her back against it. He said nothing as he tore open her blouse, ignoring the flicker of surprise that morphed into a smirk.
She thought she’d won.
Afterward, as she adjusted her skirt with a smug smile, he handed her a sealed envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Your termination letter,” he said flatly. “Security will escort you out. Your things will be mailed. Your salary has been wired.”
Cassandra’s eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
Luke didn’t blink. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
She stormed out in disbelief, her heels echoing down the hall.
Moments later, the door opened again.
Mark Morningstar strolled in, slow-clapping, grinning ear to ear.
“Well, well. You are the devil.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “I needed an excuse.”
“You didn’t need to enjoy it,” Mark teased, dropping into the leather couch.
Luke ignored him and blew another puff of smoke. “Put out a vacancy for a new secretary.”
“Got it,” Mark said. “Someone who doesn’t try to sleep her way to the top?”
“That would be ideal.”
They shared a knowing smirk. Mark had been his shadow since childhood. After Mark’s parents died in a crash when they were little, Luke’s parents raised them both. Twins in everything but blood.
Born the same year. Baptized together. Mark and Luke—straight out of the Bible.
Business partners. Best friends. Co-conspirators in chaos.
After a pause, Mark asked, “So… where are we drinking tonight?”
Luke’s lips curved. “A friend is opening a new club. It’s going to be wild. Let’s go raise some hell.”
As Mark got up to leave, Luke’s phone buzzed.
MOM.
He sighed before answering. “Hey, Mother.”
“Luke, my son,” came her warm voice. “When are you coming home? Your father and I miss you.”
Luke pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew where this was going.
“I’ve been busy, Mother. You know I would’ve come if I could.”
“You’re avoiding us.”
“How could I avoid the two people who brought me into this world?”
She chuckled. “Please come this weekend. We’re having a family dinner. Everyone will be there.”
Luke went still. Everyone.
His charming uncles. His polished aunts. The family vipers in designer suits. Always smiling. Always scheming.
But he couldn’t say no.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll come.”
“I love you, darling.”
“Love you too. Pass the phone to Dad, will you?”
When the call ended, Luke leaned against the window, staring down at the city that worshipped him.
There was a storm coming.
And across town, Claire Jordan sat in the café, scrolling through a final list of job openings. One ad caught her eye:
“Executive Secretary – Morningstar Holdings. Competitive Pay. Discretion required.”
Her thumb hovered. Then clicked.
Submit.
Her resume joined a digital pile Mark Morningstar would sift through within the hour.
She had no idea whose desk her application had landed on.
And he had no idea the woman who’d bring his empire to its knees had just applied to work for him.
The storm had a name.
Claire Jordan.
- Writer
