Beneath the Surface

Chapter2

Theme: Keep An Eye On Her.

The elevator doors slid shut with a clean, mechanical whisper. Damien Locke didn’t look up from the tablet in his hand, even as the city’s skyline blurred past the windows, high above the noise and chaos below.

He didn’t need to look. He’d memorized the view years ago. Midtown's architectural sprawl, the distant glitter of the harbor, the edges of the city that never quite felt like home—he knew it all by heart. From this height, everything looked orderly. Manageable. Almost peaceful.

He preferred it that way.

He scrolled through the latest quarterly projections. There was a slight dip in consumer engagement—a soft trend, subtle, but there. Nothing catastrophic. But in his world, 'not catastrophic' was not the same as acceptable. He made a note to schedule a meeting with marketing. A firm one. No sugar coated recaps. Just data and answers.

Then he paused.

Devereux.

The name came back to him, unprompted, like a whisper buried under the hum of numbers and logistics.

He’d said it once, maybe twice. Meant it as a formality—a welcome nod to the new hire. Elena Devereux. But now her image was lodged in his thoughts. She’d stood there in that boardroom with the kind of poise that couldn’t be faked, not fresh out of onboarding. Eyes level. Shoulders back. A presence that didn’t beg to be noticed but demanded it anyway.

She hadn’t smiled much. That alone had distinguished her. No eager nodding, no subtle attempts to charm or curry favor. She hadn’t been disrespectful—just… unaffected. Most people bent beneath the weight of his name, even if they tried to hide it. But she hadn’t blinked. She'd held his gaze like they were equals.

She stood her ground. Questioned him. Openly.

Damien hadn’t decided if that made her bold or reckless.

But the fact that he was still thinking about it meant it mattered.

It had been a long time since anyone made an impression that lasted beyond a boardroom door.

The elevator slowed, then opened with a soft chime. He stepped off and into the executive wing, where the energy shifted immediately. Staff glanced up from behind their desks. Conversations quieted. Spines straightened. The invisible current of expectation—the pressure of performance—rippled in his wake.

Just the way he liked it.

Inside his office, the space was perfectly ordered. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the late afternoon light, casting long shadows over sleek furniture. Everything was monochromatic—steel, black, slate gray. He disliked clutter. Clarity required discipline, and emotional chaos was the most dangerous mess of all.

He sat behind his desk, the hum of the city muted beneath layers of glass. With a tap, he reopened the meeting notes. Names and contributions filtered back to him in an organized scroll. Arielle’s voice had been measured. Steady. She’d spoken about brand repair strategies—community initiatives, long-term trust building. A softer approach than the usual pitches.

Sentiment, he’d thought at first. Pretty ideas that didn’t scale.

But there had been substance in her delivery. Confidence, not arrogance. And something else, too—something he hadn’t quite placed.

He opened her file.

Arielle Devereux.

Twenty-four.

Transferred from the firm’s London division. Top of her class at Cambridge, fluent in three languages, with four successful campaigns under her belt. Fast-tracked through the analyst program. A note from HR flagged her as “high-potential with unconventional leadership instincts.”*

Unconventional. Damien arched an eyebrow. HR usually stayed in the lines. For them to label someone a future leader this early—without her kissing any rings—was unusual.

No mention of family. No extracurriculars. No digital trail beyond professional networks. Private. Careful. Intentional.

He respected that. The world was loud. People who kept to themselves were often the ones worth watching.

His phone buzzed once.

Cole.

“You asked to be updated on the rebranding task force progress. She’s been assigned.”

Damien typed a single-word response:

“Good.”

Then he paused and added:

“Keep an eye on her.”

---

That evening, Damien sat alone in the penthouse that crowned the Locke Building. The apartment was glass and silent, perched so high above the city it felt like another world. He’d designed it that way—disconnected, untouchable.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering skyline, yet he rarely looked at it. The view no longer impressed him. Below, millions of lives unfolded in chaos and noise. Up here, he could hear himself think.

Sometimes he wished he couldn’t.

He poured a glass of bourbon—two fingers, exact—and sat on the edge of a leather chair. Across from him, on a minimalist shelf, sat a single framed photo.

His mother.

Frozen in time. Smiling gently. Her hand resting on his shoulder. He was six in the picture. Maybe seven. Dressed in a blazer for some family event he barely remembered.

She left three months after that photo was taken.

Or rather—he was told she left.

There had been no explanations. No fights. Just her perfume fading from the hallway and her voice gone from the mornings. The silence that followed had spoken volumes. And in that silence, his father had taken up the reins with ruthless efficiency.

The “Locke Legacy,” he called it.

The Locke legacy was not a suggestion—it was an inheritance with sharp edges. His father had molded him like iron in fire. Cold, unyielding, exacting. Damien had learned to calculate before he could ride a bike. Learned how to argue boardroom strategy before he knew how to tie his shoes.

“Weakness is a luxury for people who don’t have empires to run.”

That’s what Gerard Locke had told him. Again and again. Until it was carved into his bones.

And Damien had believed it. Had lived by it. Still did.

But sometimes—rarely—he remembered what it had felt like to be a boy with softer needs. The kind of needs he was taught to erase.

Until someone like Arielle Devereux walked into his life. Quietly. Unintimidated. Not vying for approval. Not playing the game like everyone else.

He didn’t trust her.

He didn’t distrust her, either.

He simply didn’t know her.

And one thing Damien Locke didn't like was not knowing.