The voice struck again - deep, resonant, threaded with tension - not through air vibrations but directly inside her consciousness. She wrenched the faucet open, icy water shocking her wrists as she tried to drown the unnatural heat crawling up her spine. Hallucination? Too much red wine for last night's deadline? Or was this stress of Victoria's three frantic group messages this morning?
"Breathe, Brooks." She muttered to her mirror image, the words sharp in the sterile bathroom. "You're a senior editor, not some intern spooked by pranksters." She inhaled deeply, attachking her sleeve with paper towels until the stain spread furtherm mocking her efforts. Whatever. She reapplied lipstick with steady hands - the color masking both lip tremors and inner turbulence. Her green eyes sharpened with professional focus. Whether this was auditory distortion or something stranger, the summer project was her battlefidle now. Lucas Whitley? Iceberg or volcano, she'd find a way to coexist.
Approximately 15 minitues post meeting, Emma went back to the office. The open office hummed - keyboards clacking, phones ringing, murmured calls merging into a warm sonic cocoon as Emma stride toward her window-side cubicle. Piles of swatches, magazines, and mood boards claimed the space as hers. her phone buzzed:
Samantha: How's Iceberg Hottie up close? And your sleeve ... warzone vibes?
Emma: Even his breath feels five degrees pricier. Starbucks won that round. Project dropped on us - brace for impact.
Samantha: Survive, sister! Cover me during the shoot. P.S. He's criminally gorgeous IRL but could freeze penguins mid-waddle. You good?
Emma pocketed her phone, gaze drifting toward the new nameplate at the corridor's end - Lucas Whitley, Creative Director. Closed blinds guarded his domain like fortress walls. She wasn't sure. Not at all. Only certain she needed to rework the summer editorial proposal before his glacial gaze struck again.
Her document opened when the intercom jolted her heart:
"Emma Brooks."
"Speaking." She ansered, voice steady.
"Lucas here." That low, emotionless timbre through the receiver felt colder than meeting-room air. "Bring your summer editorial concpets to my office. Now, five minutes."
"Yes, immediately." Emma hung up, fingertips numb. Five minutes? Did he think she was a supercomputer? She snatched scattered mood boards - bold street-style snaps, naturalistic light experiments - inhaled sharply, spaured her shoulders, and marched toward the closed door.
Knock. Enter. The scent of pine and leather sliced through the space. Lucas's office - vast, minimalist. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan skylines; besides an angular desk, conference table, unpacked boxes, nothing softened the starkness. Lucas stood by the window, back rigid as a solitary peak. At her entrance, he turned slowly. Those glacial gray eyes swept over her, lingering half-second on the stain before moving on - no comment, yet Emma felt X-rayed.