CHAPTER ELEVENTHE COST OF EXCELLENCE
1154 Words
The presentation room at Ashe and Locke was silent, a sharp contrast to the furious energy that had built over the last two weeks.
Everyone had felt the pressure—the late nights, the redrafts, the whispered predictions about whose concept would be chosen. This campaign was more than just another pitch. It was prestige. Visibility. A chance to stand out.
The final campaign concepts had just been presented.
Julianne’s team had gone first—flashy, bold, bursting with high-gloss visuals, celebrity tie-ins, and polished influencer scripts that looked ripped from a fashion runway. Her style was always the same: go big or go home.
Arielle’s team followed.
Hers was quiet. Human. Grounded. It didn’t shout for attention; it earned it. The stories her team had collected weren’t wrapped in glitter—they were raw, real moments with real people, tapping into emotion without exploiting it. It was storytelling, not spectacle.
Damien had sat in silence through both. Not a single note taken. His hands were steepled beneath his chin, his gaze locked somewhere between the screen and the presenters—so still that it was almost impossible to read him.
But when Arielle finished, there was a flicker of something in his expression. Not warmth. But approval.
Now, he stood.
“We’ll go with Arielle’s concept.”
The room reacted exactly as expected. A ripple of murmurs spread like wildfire, heads turned, eyes darted. A few people exchanged pointed glances.
And then came the scoff—too loud, too deliberate—from Julianne. It barely pretended to be professional.
Damien didn’t flinch. His tone didn’t rise. He simply said, “Her campaign speaks to the people the brand wants to reach. It understands emotion. Longevity. Depth. This is business, not theatre. Make it happen.”
And just like that, he turned on his heel and walked out.
The sound of his footsteps echoed, sealing the verdict.
---
**Later That Day**
The tension in the office hadn’t died down. It had just shifted form—morphing from anxiety to bitterness. Speculation bloomed like weeds in corners and hallways. Words like *favoritism*, *bias*, and *sleeping her way up* swirled behind closed doors.
Arielle felt every glance. Heard every whisper—though no one said anything to her face.
She just wanted five minutes of quiet. A place to breathe.
Stepping into the break room, she hoped for stillness. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with Julianne.
The woman was perched by the coffee machine, arms crossed like she’d been waiting.
“You must be thrilled,” Julianne said, her voice coated in venomous calm. “Another gold star for the CEO’s favorite.”
Arielle blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
Julianne stepped forward. Her expression was tight, stretched into something too sharp to be anything but resentment. “Come on. It’s not talent, honey. It’s your legs. Your face. The fact that you bat your lashes at him like you’re auditioning for a role that’s not on your job description.”
The insult landed like a slap.
For a moment, Arielle felt her breath catch. But then… something hardened inside her.
She stepped forward, meeting Julianne’s eyes. “You’re insecure, Julianne. And it’s easier to accuse a woman of sleeping her way to the top than admit she outworked you.”
Julianne’s jaw twitched. “You think you’re better than everyone else.”
“No,” Arielle said coolly. “But if you think that way, then it means I am better than you.”
She turned to leave—only to stop short.
Because standing just beyond the doorway was Damien.
His expression was unreadable. Cold. Calculating. Dangerous in its stillness.
Behind her, the air shifted. Footsteps stilled. A few employees who’d been pretending not to listen straightened suddenly, caught in the tension like deer in headlights.
Julianne went pale.
Damien stepped forward. His voice was like steel wrapped in ice.
“I should fire you for that,” he said to Julianne. “But I’ll give you a choice—take a week off without pay, reflect, and come back with a new attitude. Or hand in your resignation.”
Julianne opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
He didn’t wait for a response. “I don’t reward drama. I reward excellence,” he said, his words landing sharp and deliberate. “Respect is earned by work. Not by rumors.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Then, just as calmly, he turned and walked away.
His silence was more terrifying than any shouting could’ve been.
---
Later that evening, Arielle found him by the elevators as the office began to thin.
“I appreciate what you did,” she said, her voice low.
“You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” Damien replied simply, without hesitation.
“I can handle myself.”
“I know.”
“But if you keep stepping in like that,” she continued, “people will think she’s right.”
That made him pause.
“You care about that?”
“I care about my reputation,” she said. “About being respected because I’m good at what I do—not because people think the CEO is interested in me.”
Damien studied her for a long moment.
This woman. Always surprising him. Always challenging.
“I understand,” he said finally. “It won’t happen again.”
She nodded, stepping into the elevator.
But just before the doors slid shut, she looked back and added softly, “Still… thank you.”
The elevator closed between them, but her words lingered.
---
That Evening
The phone buzzed like a wasp in her palm, breaking through the calm she’d let herself feel for just a moment.
Arielle glanced at it absentmindedly, expecting a message from her sister about dinner. But the name on the screen—**Airyana**—flashed urgently. Her gut twisted before she even answered.
She picked up.
“Ari—” her sister’s voice cracked, panicked. “It’s Jace. He—he fell. There’s blood everywhere. We’re at St. Vincent’s. Please hurry!”
Arielle’s entire body locked.
Her chest tightened. Her breath hitched.
Her blood ran cold.
She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t wait.
She grabbed her coat, keys, bag—her hands trembling uncontrollably—and ran.
Thoughts spiraled in disjointed fragments.
Jace. Her baby brother. The softest, kindest part of her life. The one who still called her Ari-bear. Her tether.
He wasn’t supposed to collapse. He was supposed to laugh, to read comic books, to beg for one more bedtime story even though he was twelve.
Not bleeding. Not scaring her like this.
Making her way out of the company, her heels clicked frantically against the marble floor. She barely registered the confused looks from coworkers as she rushed past.
Tears blurred her vision.
Jace had to be okay. He had to be.
---
- Writer
