Vel's eyes darted nervously between me and Teron. I, in turn, looked back and forth with the same confusion. I knew exactly how valuable Teron's offer was—crazy valuable. No one would dare propose such terms. It was a living gold vein—guaranteed profit for at least five years.
― Forgive us, Mr. Veskari… — spoke the one responsible for this mess. — She was given a chance, but she couldn't handle it. We'll take care of it.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and tell her where to shove it. Honestly, I nearly slapped her.
― Fine, — Teron said coolly. His gaze slid from my face to Vel's. — I'll sign the contract only if she's fired.
The kind of moment that makes you want to laugh right in their faces—from the absurdity. Have these idiots even heard themselves? Money has fried their brains so thoroughly that logic died a while ago. But I stayed silent. I still hadn't received last month's pay—and I needed that for food and rent.
― Yes! Of course… yes… — Vel babbled, still trying to play it like he was in charge. — You're free to go. Head to HR—they'll settle your payout.
I didn't wait around. I left that room without slamming the door—what good would it do? It wouldn't return my job or my dignity.
Silently, I returned to my desk. There wasn't much to pack—just files, a few pens, my notebook, and my old pencil case. As I put everything in my bag, I typed a message with one hand:
11:42 AM — "Derek, you home? Let's have a drink—I got fired."
The office hummed with its usual rhythm—typing, low conversations. No one stopped me. No one said anything. Two years in that company, and on the way out—silence. As if I'd never existed.
I opened a job search app on my phone. My brain auto-scanned listings. My fingers scrolled. My eyes felt numb. Ironically, there was one near-perfect match for my salary range. Without thinking, I tapped "apply."
The elevator doors were open when I walked in—fully absorbed in my phone. Then the scent hit me—before I even looked up:
That perfume. Cold. Foreign. Stalking me.
"Shit," I cursed under my breath.
― Hmm... — came a low, lazy voice behind me.
― Must feel nice—getting fired because someone else screwed up? — he dropped calmly.
I exhaled. Perfect timing. Now I'm even a topic of amusement. Maybe he is mafia, as those whispers in the office claimed.
― Yeah, — I muttered, emotionless, pretending to scroll job offers. Praying silently for the elevator to move faster.
He didn't move. Just that scent and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
The doors opened. I stepped out first—deliberate, though tense. My phone gripped tight. I didn't read another word. My only thought: I will forever hate this perfume.
HR greeted me with a bewildered smile. The same Brittany who offered me the contract two years ago—shaking from caffeine nerves.
― Mirey... I don't believe it, — she said, voice trembling with sympathy. — Over something so minor. This...
― Don't, Brittany, — I interrupted firmly. — I just need my payout.
She blinked and nodded. As she typed into the system, she whispered:
― You were always so meticulous... I relied on your fiscal reports more times than I can count. This is... inhuman.
― I know, — I snapped, collecting the papers. — But when money comes into play—humanity goes outside and takes a break.
She looked at me with hurt, as if she wanted to say more but couldn't.
I signed, took my payment, and walked out—without looking back.
The office welcomed me with the same cold silence. A few nodded goodbye; others pretended to work. That's always the case. They notice you only when you're blocking the hallway.
I slung my gray bag over my shoulder. Home wasn't far—I decided not to pay for transport. I just needed to breathe. Something real.
The city, oddly enough, was glowing. The sun was high. For the first time in ages, I felt its warmth on my skin.
The office takes your light. Your air. Your life. But now—I was simply walking. Simply being.
Maybe this was a sign.
I liked my job—not for the salary. Not for the status. But for the mistakes I caught, the details I found. Every inaccuracy, every cent I snatched back from their calculations—that was my quiet triumph. That's where I felt alive.
― Relax, Mirey, — I whispered to myself. — You're just walking home now.
Derek was standing by my door when I arrived—on schedule—with a bottle of cheap wine and two glasses. My neighbor from down the hall, my only real person. Not the best choice—but better than emptiness.
― They fired you? — he asked before I could open the door.
― As if you're psychic, — I smirked, closing the door behind me.
We moved into my small but cozy apartment. Living room flowing into the kitchenette. Tiny table, two chairs, an old couch—everything minimal, everything real.
I threw my bag on the couch and headed to change. My office suit felt suffocating. I switched into an old oversized sweatshirt—finally felt like myself. No heels. No zippers. No pretense.
Derek's voice came from the living room:
― Vel's a jerk. He knew how much you fixed in their damn books.
― He knew, — I replied, joining him. — But the partner wanted a spectacle. The deal came with a condition: my firing = contract signature.
― What a petty bastard.
― Teron Veskari, — I said, taking the wine. — A great way to start over, right?
Derek laughed and grabbed something to snack on.
― Veskari… wait. That's the head of "VESC"… right?
I nodded.
He filled our glasses. I took a sip.
The wine—burnt bitter on the tongue—a perfect finish to the day.
― He's not just the head. His name is always in those ridiculous news stories. Scandals. Schemes. And that Korean princess—Amy Chon. Seen those photos? Rumor is he left crime for her. The love of his life.
I snorted.
― A romance of the century. No idea who to pity—him or her.
― Mirey, seriously. His family's deep in an old Italian-American mafia line. Very ruthless. Now he's playing businessman for a "clean" marriage. Pretty, huh?
― Pretty, — I said. — Too pretty. Not for me.
I leaned back on the couch, looking at the ceiling. Wine buzzing. Memories creeping uninvited.
First boyfriend stole my savings; the second used me until he found someone better. So, if someone wants to break into my heart—they can bring a blowtorch and crowbar. I tossed the key into the ocean years ago.
― Mirey...
― No, seriously. It's odd, right? Some men would tear themselves apart for certain women. For others—they don't even remember your name. Must be about looks. Or bloodline. Guess I'm the wrong breed.
He was silent.
I drained the glass. And a notification popped up:
"Your interview application has been approved. See you Wednesday."
― Derek— I lifted my phone. — What day is today?
― Monday. — He said. — You've got one day of grace.
He poured again. Then casually said:
― By the way… I might have found you a job. Interview tomorrow. Simple gig: assistant, odd jobs. Pays okay, like you like it.
I squinted.
― Perfect? Just like that?
― My friend owns a busy office. Said no diploma needed if you've got brains. I told him: "She does."
― Company name?
He smirked, staring into his glass:
― That doesn't matter… permission. As long as they pay.
Something tightened inside me.
I finished my glass and started searching for my resume.
The next morning was dull.
Inside and out. I got up mechanically—no thought, no mood.
Changed into another cheap black suit: skirt just below the knee, button-up shirt fully covered, cheap black jacket. Flat shoes. The image: gray. Blameless. Exactly what they look for in an assistant. No ambition, no character. Useful mouse.
Hair tied tight, makeup minimal—just enough not to be ghostly. I stared at myself and thought: Perfect toolkit for someone else's agenda.
I opted for a taxi to avoid sweating on the subway. On the ride, I didn't play any music. I looked out the window and tried convincing myself it was okay.
That lasted until the car pulled up.
I looked up—and froze.
Glass building. Minimalist sign: white letters on black:
VESC
Vescari Exclusive Collection
― ...shit, — I hissed stepping out.
I knew. Derek's a bastard. He knew where he was sending me.
That company belongs to Teron Veskari. The same man who fired me yesterday like I was trash.
And now—I'm standing at his office, like nothing happened.
At least I massaged my temples before detonating.
Calm, Mirey. He definitely won't conduct the interview. Maybe a manager or two. We are shadows, not worth his attention. Chance of meeting him: 7%.
I took a step forward.
Revenge. Or salary. Preferably both.
The lobby was state-of-the-art secure—better than any government building.
Keycards, turnstiles, scanners.
They checked my ID, gave me a purple badge, and a brief orientation.
― Proceed to the central elevator. Your card unlocks your floor access.
Many elevators—long lines. Except one.
Mine.
No one waiting.
I pressed my card. Doors opened. Empty.
― I hate surprises, — I murmured stepping inside.
Floor 36 activated. Not the top. It was something.
But inside me, something clenched.
This is too smooth. Too deliberate.
I gripped the folder and phone in my hands. Opened the messenger.
08:42 — "You're toast, Derek."
The elevator stopped. Doors opened.
A tall, austere woman stood before me. Around forty. Short cut, pencil skirt, cold eyes. She looked like an enforcer, not staff. Like the kind who selects survivors.
― Please follow me, — she said, no introduction.
I nodded.
We walked down a corridor of glass and steel. Nothing warm—only reflections. She stopped at two massive doors and gestured me in.
It hit me then:
No HR. No committee. No assistant role.
Not "assistant." Not "helper."
They were walking me straight to the f***ing king of this tower.
I swallowed. Took a breath.
And entered.