WALKING INTO THE LION’S DEN
1317 Words
I don’t rush.
That’s the first decision I make.
The building rises in front of me like it doesn’t need to prove anything — no flashy logo, no aggressive branding. Just height, glass, and quiet confidence. The kind that doesn’t explain itself because it never has to.
This is different from Apex.
Apex felt like teeth. This feels like a hand around your wrist — not tight, not loose. Just enough to remind you who’s stronger.
I park, sit for half a second, then step out.
My phone buzzes before I even lock the car.
Bella: You alive?
Me: Unfortunately.
Bella: Hate that for you. Text me when you’re inside. And remember — if he starts acting weird, scream.
I snort quietly and slip my phone into my bag.
The lobby is silent in a way that feels expensive. No chatter. No rushing. Just marble floors and a receptionist who looks up like she already knows my name.
“I’m here to see Eric Dusine,” I say.
She smiles politely. “He’s expecting you.”
Of course, he is.
She gestures toward the elevators. No badge check. No paperwork. No waiting.
Expectation hums under my skin as I step inside.
The elevator ride is smooth, quiet, and way too short. The numbers climb, my reflection staring back at me in the mirrored walls. I look composed. I feel… alert.
The doors open directly onto a private floor.
That’s when it hits me.
This isn’t an evaluation room.
This is his space.
The hallway is wide, minimalist, almost bare — art that looks intentional instead of decorative, lighting that’s warm instead of corporate. The quiet here isn’t empty. It’s controlled.
I walked toward the only door at the end.
Before I can knock, it opens.
Eric stands there like he’s been waiting on the other side the entire time.
No suit jacket. Just a fitted button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Calm posture. That same unreadable expression that feels like he’s already three steps ahead.
“Ms. Hefling,” he says.
“Mr. Dusine.”
He tilts his head. “Eric.”
I pause. “Janyia.”
That’s the first thing he smiles at.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.
I do.
The door closes behind me with a quiet finality that makes my spine straighten.
His office is large, but not flashy. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Clean desk. One leather chair across from it — singular. Intentional.
This isn’t where people negotiate.
This is where they’re measured.
“You’re late,” he says casually.
“I told you why.”
“I know,” he replies. “I said take your time.”
That shouldn’t feel considerate.
It does.
I stand there, suddenly aware of the space between us — not far, not close. Neutral. Charged.
“You can sit,” he says.
“I’m fine standing.”
Another small smile. “Of course you are.”
He doesn’t move behind the desk right away. Instead, he circles it slowly, unhurried, like he’s not trying to intimidate me — which somehow he does.
“This isn’t an evaluation,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
“Then what is it?”
He stops across from me, hands resting lightly on the edge of the desk. Close enough now that I can see the faint crease between his brows when he thinks.
“It’s a conversation,” he says. “One we don’t usually offer.”
“Why offer it to me?”
His eyes lifted to mine. Hold.
“Because you don’t flinch,” he says. “And people who don’t flinch are either dangerous… or necessary.”
My heartbeat ticks louder.
“I haven’t decided which you are yet.”
I don’t look away. “That makes two of us.”
Something shifts.
Not soft. Not safe.
Interested.
Eric doesn’t tell me to sit again. He moves toward the windows instead, giving me his back like that’s not a calculated choice. The city stretches below us, glass and movement and distance.
“You don’t like being cornered,” he says.
“I don’t like being underestimated,” I reply.
He turns slightly, considering that. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They are when you’re a woman,” I say. “Especially in rooms like this.”
His mouth curves—not amused. Thoughtful.
“Sit,” he says again. This time it’s not a suggestion.
I do.
The chair across from his desk is too comfortable. I don’t trust it. Comfort makes people careless.
Eric finally takes his place behind the desk, folding his hands loosely like this is a casual conversation instead of a quiet test.
“You understand why I called you,” he says.
“I understand you noticed me,” I reply. “I don’t understand why that required privacy.”
“Because public attention creates performance,” he says. “Private attention creates truth.”
My pulse ticks up.
“That sounds manipulative.”
“It’s observant,” he counters. “You don’t perform well for applause. You perform well under pressure.”
I lean back slightly. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I recognize patterns.”
He reaches for a tablet on his desk, wakes up the screen, then doesn’t look at it.
“You’re the eldest,” he says instead.
That lands harder than I expected.
“Yes.”
“Six siblings.”
My jaw tightens. “Did you pull my file or stalk me.”
He lifts a brow. “Both would be effective.”
I fight a smile. “Answer the question.”
“Your file,” he says. “Though it doesn’t say how much weight you actually carry.”
“You called me here to talk about my family?”
“I called you here because your family explains you,” he replies. “Responsibility before ambition. Discipline before desire.”
I stiffen. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me.”
“Then stop confirming my observations,” he says calmly.
I open my mouth. Close it.
He watches me like he’s learning a language.
“Most people want this program for prestige,” he continues. “You want it for leverage.”
“Is that a problem.”
“No,” he says. “It’s rare.”
Silence stretches between us. Thick. Not awkward.
He stands suddenly, rounding the desk. My attention snaps to him before I can stop it. He doesn’t come closer than necessary. Stops just short of invading my space.
But the proximity does something anyway.
“You keep strict boundaries,” he says quietly. “Even now.”
“I don’t mix emotions with opportunity,” I reply.
His gaze holds mine. “You think this is emotional.”
I don’t answer.
Because if I do, I’ll have to admit that something about the way he looks at me—like I’m not small, not fragile, not temporary—has already shifted something under my skin.
“That restraint,” he says softly, “is why this conversation ends here.”
Relief and disappointment hit at the same time. I hate that combination.
“You’ll receive your assessment results tomorrow,” he adds. “You’ll continue in the program.”
I stand. “That’s it?”
“For now.”
I turn toward the door.
“Janyia.”
I pause. Look back.
He doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t lower his voice. Doesn’t do anything obvious.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“Be careful,” he says. “With me.”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
“I was going to say the same thing,” I reply.
His smile is slow this time. Controlled.
“I know,” he says.
The door opens.
I leave without looking back.
But the quiet follows me.
- Writer
