The worst kind of DEJA VU

Aliya was drowning in sleep when her phone screamed into the quiet of her apartment. She fumbled for it, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion, and pressed it to her ear without opening her eyes. “It’s your first day at work, and you’re late." Mark’s voice was sharp, laced with irritation. “Today is the one lucky day Mr. Greg is coming to the company. He’ll be here by 9:30. Pray he doesn’t ask to see the new recruits—if not, you’re going to be fired before you even start." Aliya’s eyes flew open. “No, no, no—I’ll be there before he arrives, I promise!" She scrambled out of bed, heart hammering. A glance at the clock confirmed her worst fear: **8:30 AM**. She was supposed to be at Vesper Group by **8:00**. She moved like a hurricane—throwing on her blazer, swiping on lipstick, shoving her feet into heels. One hour. One hour to make it across the city, slip into the office unnoticed, and blend in with the other new hires before Gregory Voss, the man who owned half the city, decided to inspect them. --- The cab ride was a blur of honking horns and her own ragged breaths. When the sleek glass tower of Vesper Group finally loomed into view, she nearly tripped rushing out of the car. “Thanks, keep the change!" she called over her shoulder, already sprinting toward the entrance. And then—impact She collided with a solid wall of muscle and expensive cologne, stumbling back as her bag slipped from her shoulder, spilling its contents onto the polished floor. “s**t," she muttered, dropping to her knees to gather her things. A polished leather shoe nudged her pepper spray toward her. “Don’t I deserve an apology?" The voice was smooth, amused. Deep. Aliya’s fingers stilled. Slowly, she looked up—past the tailored slacks, the crisp dress shirt, the silver cufflinks shaped like **a serpent eating its own tail**—and into a face that belonged on a billboard. Sharp jaw, storm-gray eyes, a mouth that quirked in faint amusement. “Oh, really? An apology?" She snatched up her pepper spray, shoving it back into her bag. “How about ‘watch where you’re standing’?" The man’s eyebrow lifted. “Bold words for someone who just ran into *me*." “Bold *placement* for a human wall." A smirk flickered across his lips. “You’re new." Not a question. A statement. Aliya’s stomach dropped. s**t. What if he’s management? But the elevator doors slid open just then, and she seized her chance, darting inside without another word. As the doors closed, she caught one last glimpse of him—still watching her, that same unsettling amusement in his gaze. --- Mark was waiting for her in the lobby, arms crossed. “You’re lucky," he hissed. “Mr. Greg just arrived. He hasn’t called for the new recruits yet." Aliya exhaled in relief. Then Mark’s phone rang. He listened for a second before his expression darkened. He looked at her. “Change of plans. Mr. Greg just summoned the new hires. You’re to go to the conference room *now*." Her stomach twisted, but she nodded. --- Aliya stood by the front of the elevator Then she heard them - two women in identical navy blazers lingering by a potted monstera, their voices carrying in the cavernous lobby. “fired his last assistant because she brought him Earl Grey instead of Darjeeling," the shorter one murmured, stirring her coffee with unnecessary force. “Claimed it showed 'inattention to detail.'" Her companion snorted. “That's nothing. Last quarter he axed an entire team because their PowerPoint margins were wrong." She leaned closer, dropping her voice. “Jason from accounting says he keeps a blacklist. Once you're on it..."She drew a finger across her throat. The elevator dinged. The women fell silent as Aliya stepped in their eyes raking over her with the clinical assessment of veteran survivors. The doors slid shut, trapping her with her thoughts and unspoken warnings. ——- The conference room was all glass and cold light. A dozen other new hires stood stiffly, their nervous energy thick in the air. Aliya slipped into the back, trying to make herself small. The door opened. Silence fell like a guillotine. Gregory Voss strode in, a file in his hands. He didn’t look up as he moved to the front of the room, flipping through pages. “Vesper Group isn’t a place for mediocrity," he said, voice low. “If you’re here to coast, walk out now." Aliya held her breath. Then—his footsteps stopped. She didn’t realize she’d been staring at the floor until she forced herself to look up. And there he was. The man from the lobby. Gregory Voss. Her pulse roared in her ears. He hadn’t recognized her yet—his gaze swept over the group, impersonal, assessing. But *she* recognized *him*. And suddenly, her knees were liquid. She ducked behind the person in front of her, fingers gripping the back of their blazer like a lifeline. *No. No, no, no And if *he* remembered *her*— She wasn’t sure she’d survive it.