Chapter 2: The Glass Mask
1158 Words
ARIELLE'S POV
"You’re hired."
The woman from the Jobhack agency didn't even look up from her tablet. "The final interview is a formality, Arielle. With a Harvard HBS degree and your specific background, the CEO just wants to see if you can handle the... pace."
"The pace?" I laughed, the sound bright and airy, fueled by the lingering hum of last night’s champagne and that kiss. "I’ve survived four years of Ivy League sharks. I think I can handle a CEO."
"Good. Because this one is particular. Meet at ‘The Alibi’ at 10:00 AM. He prefers neutral ground for his first impressions."
I walked out of the agency office with a spring in my step that felt almost alien. I was twenty-four, brilliant, and finally, the world was opening its doors.
~
•10:05 AM: The Alibi Lounge•
I smoothed the skirt of my charcoal blazer, taking a steadying breath. I was five minutes late. This was only an intentional move to show I wasn’t desperate, though my heart was hammering against my ribs for an entirely different reason. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the phantom pressure of the stranger’s lips against mine.
I scanned the dimly lit lounge. It was empty, save for a single man sitting in a corner booth, his face obscured by a broadsheet newspaper.
"I hope the steak was better than the service," I said, sliding into the booth opposite him without waiting for an invitation.
The newspaper dropped.
My heart didn't just skip a beat; it hit a wall.
Grey eyes. Turbulent, dark, and currently widening in a mirror of my own shock.
"You," he breathed. The rich, silk-over-gravel voice was unmistakable.
"The 'bum' from the rain," I whispered, my brain scrambling to reconcile the man who couldn't pay a fifty-dollar tab with the man sitting in a thousand-dollar suit. "You’re... you’re the CEO?"
"Alexander," he said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He leaned back, the effortless charisma of a king reclaiming his throne. "And you’re my new Personal Assistant. Talk about a small world, Arielle."
"You lied to me," I snapped, the playful bubbly energy of the morning vanishing, replaced by a sharp, defensive heat. "You let me pay for you. You let those waiters—"
"I told you I could have handled it," he interrupted, his eyes dancing with amusement. "It’s a birthday tradition. I go out without my security, without my black cards. I see the world as it is. It keeps me grounded."
"Grounded?" I scoffed, leaning forward. "You were playing a game. People were being cruel to you, and you were just... social distancing from your bank account for the night?"
"I was seeing who had a soul," Alexander said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached across the table, his fingers grazing the back of my hand. "And I found one. A girl who believes in humanity enough to spend her fifty dollars on a stranger."
The touch was a spark. My skin sizzled where he touched me, and for a second, the chemistry from the rain-slicked sidewalk threatened to swallow my common sense.
Flashes of our kiss and his hands grabbing my butt flooded my thoughts. I daydreamed of his thrust while he pinned me to a wall. I shook my head quickly, struggling to bring myself back to reality.
"I didn't do it for you," I lied, pulling my hand away. "I did it because I hate bullies."
"Even better," he murmured. "I need someone who isn't afraid to tell me when I’m being one."
"Well, you’re doing a great job so far," I countered. "But don't think for a second that last night changes anything. This is a professional—"
"Wait." Alexander’s smile faded. He picked up my resume, which was sitting on the table between us. He flipped to the back page, his thumb tracing the 'Work History' section. "I was so focused on the face, I didn't look closely at the details."
"Is there a problem with my credentials?" I asked, my chin lifting. "I think 'Summa c*m Laude' speaks for itself."
"It’s not the school," he said, his voice suddenly cold, all the playfulness drained from his features. "Your father. Garrick Lorre."
The name hit the air like a gunshot. My blood turned to ice.
"What about him?"
"He was a floor supervisor at VIG," Alexander said, his gaze pinning me to the seat. "Voss Industries Group. My father’s company."
The room began to spin. ‘VIG.’ I looked at the gold-embossed folder on the table that I hadn't noticed before. The logo… a stylized gear and a mountain. The same logo that was on the TV the night my father died. The same logo that was on the factory that had turned his lungs to ash.
"Voss," I whispered, the name tasting like poison in my mouth. "Your last name... it’s Voss."
"Alexander Voss," he confirmed, his eyes searching mine, his expression unreadable. "I didn't make the connection until I saw the name Garrick. I remember the filing. A... workplace illness? A long time ago."
‘Workplace illness.’ The sanitized, corporate term for murder.
I stood up so fast the table rattled. My chair screeched against the floor, drawing the attention of the lone bartender.
"Arielle? What's wrong?" Alexander started to rise, reaching out to steady me.
"Don't touch me," I hissed.
"We were just getting to the salary," he said, stepping out of the booth. "Thirty thousand a month, Arielle. The benefits are—"
"I have to go."
"Wait! The interview isn't over. You have the job, I just told you—"
I didn't hear the rest. I turned and bolted for the door, the air in the lounge suddenly too thin to breathe. I burst out onto the sidewalk, the bright morning sun feeling like a spotlight on my shame.
I had kissed him.
I had defended him.
I had felt attraction for the man whose family name was written in the blood of my father’s final moments.
I ran three blocks before I stopped, leaning against a cold brick wall, gasping for air. My heart was a frantic drum, but beneath the panic, a new, darker heat was beginning to rise.
He didn't know.
He knew the name Garrick Lorre as a 'filing,' but he didn't know the girl in the rain was the girl who watched his father laugh while her own father died. He was enamored. He was trusting. He was giving me the keys to his world.
I looked back in the direction of the lounge, my eyes narrowing until they were sharp as scalpels.
"You want to know who has a soul, Alexander?" I whispered to the wind. "I’ll show you mine. But first, I’m going to take yours."
I wiped a stray, angry
tear from my cheek and straightened my blazer. The celebration was over.
The war had begun.
- Writer
