Chapter3
1215 Words
Theme: Strategically, Not Emotionally.
The conference room was quiet, bathed in soft morning light that filtered through the tall glass windows. Arielle Devereux stood alone at the whiteboard, her marker tapping gently against her palm as she studied the rough campaign draft she'd laid out.
Bullet points in blue. Metrics in green. Two bold red circles around the core message: trust and transparency.
The irony lingered at the edges of her thoughts like a shadow.
She didn’t trust this company yet. She definitely didn’t trust Damien Locke.
But the campaign? The vision of reshaping a public narrative through authentic storytelling and outreach—that, she believed in. She could get behind the work, even if she wasn’t sure about the man at the helm.
She took a sip from her water bottle, the coolness grounding her, just as a quiet voice echoed from behind.
“You came early.”
Arielle turned, not startled, but alert. Damien stood just outside the glass doors, his hand in his pocket, his silhouette cut clean against the morning light. He wore black as usual, but without the severity it might convey on someone else. It was calculated. Intentional.
“I thought CEOs arrived before everyone else,” she replied evenly.
“I do,” he said, stepping inside. “You just beat me.”
Her brow arched slightly. “Is that… praise?”
“Observation.”
Naturally. Emotions weren’t Damien Locke’s currency. He dealt in precision. In control. In words that cut with the efficiency of a scalpel.
He moved closer to the board, studying her layout in silence. She watched him, trying not to analyze the slight tilt of his head, the furrow of his brow as he read. But it was impossible not to wonder what was going on behind those steel-blue eyes.
“You circled trust,” he said finally. “Twice.”
“It’s the only thing that sells when people stop believing in a brand,” she answered, lifting her chin. “Especially one that’s made headlines for firing half its eco team while announcing its new green initiative.”
His head turned, slowly, deliberately. “That initiative doubled our shareholder confidence.”
“At the cost of public credibility.”
For a split second, his mouth twitched—something between a smirk and surprise. “You’re not afraid to push back.”
“No,” she said. “But I know when to pick my battles.”
“And you think this is one?”
“I think people buy from companies they feel seen by. Right now, no one sees Ashe & Locke. They see a mirror that only reflects itself.”
He said nothing. But the air between them shifted—subtle, charged. A current neither of them acknowledged.
“You sound like someone who’s been watching from the outside,” he said finally.
“I’ve spent most of my life on the outside,” she replied, a softness sneaking into her tone she hadn’t intended.
Damien’s gaze lingered on her longer than necessary.
Then, with a breath of movement, the moment passed.
“I’ve scheduled a one-on-one this afternoon,” he said, turning toward the door. “I want you to walk me through your campaign structure. Strategically, not emotionally.”
Her jaw tightened. “Strategy without empathy is just ego.”
He paused at the door, glanced back. “Then impress me.”
The door shut behind him with that familiar whisper. Arielle stood still, the sound of her heartbeat somehow louder than his departure. She looked back at the board, but her thoughts had already drifted.
It wasn’t just ego with him. That would’ve been easier. Ego, she could navigate. But this? This was something more complicated.
It was the way he moved with controlled stillness. The way he listened without reacting. And the way he looked at her—as if trying to solve a puzzle he hadn’t decided whether he wanted to understand or destroy.
She didn’t like him.
She didn’t trust him.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would take to crack the ice around his expression—and whether she even wanted to.
---
Later that afternoon, Arielle walked into his office, laptop in hand, posture straight despite the nerves that coiled beneath her skin. The space was darkened by the overcast sky outside, shadows stretching across sleek surfaces. Damien sat behind his desk, his jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
It was disarming, that small undoing of his armor.
He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Sit.”
She did, opening her laptop, her notes organized with surgical clarity. “I prepared a strategy walkthrough, with data visualization and projected audience response modeling.”
“Show me.”
She clicked through each slide, explaining her decisions with precision. Clean logic. Structured insights. But beneath it all—beneath the numbers and trend lines—was a story. A thread of human connection she didn’t speak aloud but wove in nonetheless.
Damien didn’t interrupt.
When she finished, he leaned back, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. “It’s good,” he said. “Better than good. It’s intentional.”
“Thank you,” she said, cautiously. “But?”
“No *but*. Just one question.”
She hesitated. “Okay.”
“Why are you really here?”
The question landed with more weight than she expected.
“You have the qualifications for something bigger,” he said. “A leadership role somewhere else. So why take a mid-level position in a company rebuilding its reputation?”
She stiffened, pulse quickening. That wasn’t just a professional query. That was personal.
“I needed the job,” she said.
“That’s the simple answer.”
“And maybe the true one.”
Damien studied her for a moment. He didn’t look away, didn’t blink. It was like being caught in a storm that didn’t move—calm on the surface, but powerful underneath.
“It’s rare,” he said quietly, “to meet someone who hasn’t learned how to play the game. You speak like someone who still believes integrity will get you where ambition can’t.”
Arielle closed her laptop and stood. “Maybe it can,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “Maybe not everyone in this company is hiding behind glass.”
She turned toward the door, her heart pounding—not from fear, but from the strange tension that clung to every word exchanged between them.
And just as she reached the threshold, his voice broke the silence again—so soft she almost missed it.
“I wasn’t always like this.”
She froze, her hand on the doorknob. Slowly, she looked over her shoulder.
“I didn’t ask,” she said. But her voice wasn’t cold. Not quite.
And when she walked out, she didn’t see the flicker of something—regret, maybe, or memory—cross his face. Something old and buried that had no place in the present, but lived there anyway.
Damien sat back in his chair, alone again.
And for the first time in a long time, he wondered what it might’ve felt like to be seen by someone... without having to perform.
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- Writer
