Chapter 1 --- The Trigger
Nina's POV
My hand wouldn't stop shaking.
I gripped the strap of my bag tighter, as if that could fix it. The coffee shop was packed—too loud, too warm, smelling like burnt espresso and someone's overly sweet vanilla latte. Normally, I liked it here. Normally, the chaos felt safe.
Not today.
I'd been fine five minutes ago—answering emails on my phone, half-listening to the indie playlist bleeding through the speakers. Fine. Totally fine.
Then someone laughed.
Just a guy. Two tables over, scrolling through his phone, chuckling at whatever dumb meme someone sent him. Nothing. It was nothing.
Except my stomach dropped like I'd missed a step in the dark.
That laugh. Sharp. Dismissive. The kind that said, You're not worth taking seriously.
And just like that, I wasn't in the coffee shop anymore.
Five years ago.
I was twenty-three, sitting in an office that probably cost more than my entire college tuition. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A desk so polished I could see my nervous reflection in it. Everything about that room was designed to make you feel small.
Adrian Voss sat across from me.
I'd seen his picture online—everyone had. Forbes cover model. Sharp jaw, dark hair, eyes so blue they didn't seem real. In person, though? He was worse. Colder. Like someone had carved him out of ice and forgotten to add the part that made him human.
He didn't even glance at my resume. Just leaned back in his chair, fingers laced, watching me like I was a science experiment.
"So." His voice was smooth. Bored. Almost casual. "Why should I hire you?"
I'd practiced this. A hundred times. In front of my bathroom mirror.
"I believe I can bring a fresh perspective to—"
"Fresh perspective." He repeated it slowly, like he was tasting the words. Then he smiled—not a nice smile. One that made my skin crawl. "You're twenty-three. You have no real experience. No portfolio worth mentioning. What you have is... enthusiasm. Is that what you're selling me? Enthusiasm?"
My face went hot. "I—I have skills. I've worked on projects that—"
"Projects." He tilted his head, amused, like this was fun for him. "Tell me, Miss Hale. Do you actually know what this job requires? Or did you just apply because you saw the salary and thought you'd give it a shot?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. My throat felt tight, like someone was squeezing.
He didn't wait for an answer.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on mine. "Potential. Maybe. But potential doesn't pay bills. It doesn't close deals. And it sure as hell doesn't cover inexperience."
I tried to say something—anything—but the words tangled in my chest.
"You've got fire," he said, sitting back again. "I'll give you that. But fire without discipline? That's just chaos. And chaos?" He shook his head slowly. "Chaos has no place in my company."
The room felt too small. Too bright. I dug my nails into my palms under the table, focusing on the pain because it was better than crying. I would not cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
When he finally stood, I knew it was over.
He held out his hand. I shook it because what else was I supposed to do?
"Good luck, Miss Hale." His grip was firm. Professional. Like he hadn't just ripped me apart. "You're going to need it."
I made it to the elevator before my vision blurred. Made it to the street before the tears came. I sat on a bench two blocks away and cried so hard a stranger asked if I was okay.
I wasn't.
But I got up anyway. Went home. Stared at my ceiling for three hours.
And then I got angry.
Angry at him. Angry at myself for letting him see me crumble. Angry at the naive part of me that thought wanting something badly enough was enough.
I swore that day I'd never feel that powerless again.
The coffee shop came back into focus.
My latte was cold. A weird stain on the table I hadn't noticed before. I flexed my fingers. They ached.
Five years. Five years of working my ass off, building a career, becoming someone people actually took seriously. I wasn't that trembling kid in the too-big blazer anymore.
So why did one stupid laugh make me feel like I was right back in that office?
I shoved my phone in my pocket and stood up, maybe a little too fast. A couple at the next table glanced over. I ignored them.
I wasn't that girl anymore. I wasn't.
But as I pushed through the door into the cold January air, a quiet, stubborn thought crept in.
He's still out there.
And the truth—the part I didn't want to admit even to myself—was that some small, angry piece of me wanted to see him again.
Just to prove I wasn't that girl anymore.
Just to prove he was wrong.
And maybe... just maybe, to see if I could finally beat him at his own game.
