Sophia Reyes woke to the insistent buzz of her phone, sunlight slicing through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her new corporate apartment. The plush bed felt alien compared to her lumpy mattress back in Brooklyn, a stark reminder of the whirlwind that had upended her life in less than 24 hours. She rubbed her eyes, the bandage on her shoulder tugging slightly, and glanced at the screen: a text from an unknown number. "Voss isn't safe. Run while you can." Her stomach tightened, but she shoved the unease aside. Today was her first day at Voss Enterprises, and she couldn't afford to falter.
She dressed quickly—black slacks, a crisp white blouse, her one good pair of flats—and grabbed the keycard Alexander had given her. The elevator ride to the top floor was a silent ascent into a world she barely understood. The lobby of Voss Tower buzzed with suited executives, their clipped voices and polished shoes a far cry from the gritty streets she knew. Security waved her through with a nod, and soon she stood before the frosted glass doors of Alexander Voss's office.
He was already there, a commanding figure in a charcoal suit, his back to her as he stared out at the Manhattan skyline. The city sprawled beneath him like a kingdom, and for a moment, Sophia wondered what it cost him to rule it. He turned, his stormy eyes locking onto hers, and the air thickened.
"Miss Reyes," he said, his voice smooth but edged with authority. "Punctual. Good."
"Just Sophia," she corrected, stepping forward. "And thanks, I guess. Still not sure what I'm doing here."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "You saved my life. That earns you a place in my orbit, at least temporarily. Sit." He gestured to a sleek chair across from his desk, a fortress of glass and steel.
She complied, clutching her portfolio like a shield. "So, assistant work? Marketing? What's the deal?"
"Both," he replied, leaning back. "Voss Enterprises is launching an art-driven campaign to rebrand our tech image. Your eye for detail—proven last night—makes you an asset. You'll shadow me, handle schedules, and pitch ideas. Prove your worth, and I'll fund your art."
Sophia's pulse raced. A six-figure salary and a shot at her dreams? It sounded too good. "What's the catch?"
His gaze darkened. "Discretion. My world is a battlefield—corporate espionage, rival takeovers, personal vendettas. Last night's chandelier wasn't an accident. Someone wants me gone."
Her breath hitched. The text flashed in her mind, but she kept her face neutral. "And you think I can help with that?"
"You already have," he said, his tone softening. "But trust is earned. Start by meeting my team."
He led her to a conference room where a group of sharp-eyed professionals waited. There was Elena, the icy marketing director with a permanent scowl; Marcus, the tech genius with a nervous tic; and Victoria Langston, Alexander's ex-lover, whose beauty was a weapon. Victoria's green eyes narrowed as she sized Sophia up, her lips curling into a smile that didn't reach her gaze.
"New blood," Victoria purred, extending a manicured hand. "Alexander's savior, I presume? Careful, darling. This place chews up the naive."
Sophia shook her hand, feeling the subtle squeeze. "I'm tougher than I look."
"We'll see," Victoria replied, retreating to her seat.
The meeting was a blur of jargon—ROI projections, digital ad strategies, art integration. Sophia scribbled notes, her artist's mind racing with ideas: murals in tech hubs, interactive exhibits. But she couldn't shake Victoria's stare or the way Elena muttered about "outsiders." When Alexander assigned her to draft a proposal by day's end, the room's tension spiked.
Back at her desk—a sleek setup with a view—she dove in, sketching concepts and typing furiously. Her phone buzzed again: the same unknown number. "He's using you. Check his art collection." Curiosity gnawed at her. During a break, she slipped into the executive wing, finding a locked room labeled "Private Gallery." Using her keycard, she entered.
The space stole her breath. Canvases lined the walls—masterpieces by Van Gogh, Picasso, and unknowns with raw talent. But one painting caught her eye: a portrait of a woman with Sophia's eyes, dated decades ago. Her heart pounded. A coincidence? Before she could investigate, footsteps echoed. She ducked behind a sculpture as Alexander entered, his voice low on a call.
"...find who rigged it. No loose ends," he said, then paused. "Victoria's involved, I'm sure of it."
Sophia's mind reeled. Victoria? The ex? She held her breath as he left, then slipped out, the painting's image burned into her mind. Back at her desk, she finished the proposal, her hands trembling. She submitted it just as Alexander summoned her.
"Impressive," he said, scanning her work. "You've got vision. But tell me—why were you in my gallery?"
Caught. Her throat tightened. "I... wanted to understand your taste. For the campaign."
His eyes searched hers, unreadable. "Next time, ask. That room's off-limits." A beat passed. "You're dismissed. But stay sharp. This job isn't just art."
As she left, Victoria brushed past, whispering, "Curiosity kills, Sophia. Watch yourself." The threat lingered as Sophia returned to her apartment, the unknown texter's words echoing. She locked the door, peering out at the city. Shadows moved below—were they watching?
[Cliffhanger: A knock at her door jolts her. Who's there?]