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The receptionist gave her a tight smile after scanning her ID.
"You're expected. Take the express lift to the executive floor—sixty-ninth. Your orientation will begin there."
Isla nodded, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her bag.
Sixty-ninth floor. That high up?
She swallowed, but said nothing. Just thanked the woman softly and headed toward the mirrored elevator at the far end of the lobby.
It was silent inside the lift. She watched the numbers rise: 10, 23, 41…
Breathe. Just breathe.
By the time the doors slid open, her expression was perfectly calm. Professional. She stepped out onto a floor that looked nothing like the lower levels.
It was... silent.
Not empty. But silent in a deliberate way. The lighting was warm but crisp, floors pristine, glass walls framed with matte black and brushed steel. Every desk was minimal. Every assistant dressed with precision.
Isla stepped forward, unsure where to go—until one of the women behind a sleek curved desk looked up.
"You must be Isla Quinn?" the woman asked, standing. Her voice was polite but clipped.
"Yes. I was told to report here."
"Right. I'm Dana. One of Mr. Moreau's secretaries." Dana gave a brisk smile and motioned for her to follow. "I'll get you set up with your access and desk placement. You'll be working under Legal and Executive Logistics—closely aligned with Mr. Moreau's personal assistant."
Isla nodded silently, taking it all in. The floor was busier now that she was moving, but still oddly restrained. Everyone walked with purpose. No one spoke louder than necessary.
"Just remember," Dana added as they walked, "This floor runs on precision. Mr. Moreau notices everything."
Isla opened her mouth to respond—when the elevator behind her chimed.
Dana paused mid-step. Her posture straightened.
Isla turned her head.
And saw him.
Two men stepped out. One in a slate suit, tablet in hand. The other…
Her breath caught.
The second man wasn't tall in the exaggerated way novels described, but he carried himself like someone who never needed to speak to be heard. His suit was midnight black, perfectly cut. His hair was dark and slightly tousled, like it hadn't been styled but still looked deliberate. His expression?
Blank.
Dead calm.
Like marble carved from shadow.
Storm-grey eyes scanned the hallway once. Then dismissed it.
He didn't look at her.
But she couldn't stop looking at him.
"That's Mr. Moreau," Dana said quietly, nodding toward the man now walking down the corridor. "And beside him, his personal assistant—Elijah Grant. You won't be working under them directly, but you'll need to stay out of the way unless called."
"I understand," Isla said softly.
But she didn't look away.
There was something about him. Something that wasn't in his stride or clothes or sharp jawline.
It was in his silence.
Like the world moved out of his way.
Not out of respect.
But out of instinct.
She didn't feel fear. Just… stillness.
As though, for a second, the building forgot how to breathe.
Then he disappeared behind glass doors.
And life resumed.
Dana was already walking again. "Come along, Miss Quinn. You've got a long day ahead."
Isla followed.
But her mind remained one step behind.
On the man who hadn't looked at her.
On the feeling that lingered long after he was gone.
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