The bathroom was bigger than most Manhattan apartments.
Marble everything—floors, walls, even the damn soap dispenser. The mirror stretched from floor to ceiling, showing me a version of myself I barely recognized. Silver hair hung in tangled waves, streaked with ash and something that glittered like crushed stars. The torn white dress clung to my body like wet tissue paper.
But my eyes made me stop breathing.
Still blue, but different now. Darker. Like looking into a lake and realizing you can't see the bottom anymore.
I touched my left shoulder blade, fingers tracing where my wings used to be. The skin felt normal—smooth, unmarked—but I swear I could feel phantom feathers brushing against my fingertips.
A soft knock made me jump.
"Clothes in the cabinet," Damien's voice came through the door. "Should fit."
I didn't bother asking how he knew my size. Damien Cross seemed to know lots of things he shouldn't.
The cabinet held an entire wardrobe—designer everything in blacks, grays, deep blues. All in my exact measurements. I picked a charcoal pencil skirt and white silk blouse, then stared at my reflection again.
I looked human. Professional. Normal.
I looked like a complete lie.
When I emerged, the office had been transformed. New windows where I'd crashed through. Clean Persian rug with no burn marks. Even the scattered papers were organized in neat stacks. Like magic. Or money. In Manhattan, they were pretty much the same thing.
Damien sat behind his desk like nothing had happened, though his coffee mug was different—white ceramic, no chips. He looked up when I entered, and something flickered across his face. Satisfaction? Approval?
"Better," he said, then went back to his papers. His silver pen moved with precise strokes, and I caught symbols etched along its surface that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. "Coffee shop's on forty-three. Get breakfast, walk around, learn the building. Be back at ten."
"For what?"
"Your interview." He didn't look up. "Personal assistant position. Posting goes live in an hour. You'll be first applicant."
"And you're sure I'll get it?"
Now he looked up, pen pausing mid-signature. His smile could've cut glass. "Let's just say I have a feeling about your qualifications."
The elevator down gave me twenty-four floors to think, which was probably a mistake. Every rational part of my brain screamed to run—walk out of Cross Industries and never look back. Hide until the ninety days were up and whatever cosmic chess game was happening around me ended.
But I couldn't stop thinking about Marcus. The way Damien had said his name like he was reading from a grocery list.
If Marcus really was in Hell...if I really had been played...
I needed answers. And Damien Cross was the only one who seemed to have them.
The forty-third floor coffee shop buzzed with morning energy—sharp suits and sharper ambitions. I ordered something called a caramel macchiato and grabbed a window table, watching the city wake up below.
That's when I spotted them.
Five other applicants, all clutching resumes and radiating nervous energy. A brunette in a red power suit muttered interview answers under her breath. Some kid with thick glasses kept adjusting his tie every ten seconds. An older woman sat ramrod straight, hands folded like she was in church.
They looked qualified. Professional. Human.
They were screwed.
At exactly ten, I stood outside Damien's office with the others. We sat in leather chairs like patients in a very expensive waiting room, each clutching our credentials.
"Sarah Laurent?" A woman with a clipboard emerged. Thirties, auburn hair in a severe bun, glasses that reflected the fluorescent lights. Her name tag read 'Jennifer Walsh - HR Director.'
"That's me."
"Mr. Cross will see you first."
The brunette's face flashed annoyance. The kid's shoulders sagged. They'd probably been waiting longer, but I was betting the interview order had been predetermined from the start.
Jennifer led me inside, where Damien sat looking like every successful CEO who'd ever graced a magazine cover. He'd changed into a navy suit that probably cost more than most people's yearly salary. That silver pen lay perfectly parallel to his desk pad.
"Ms. Laurent." He didn't look up from my fake resume. "Please, sit."
I settled into the chair across from him, hyper-aware of Jennifer taking notes in the corner. This was all theater—an elaborate show for an audience of one.
"Impressive resume," Damien continued, finally meeting my eyes. "Four years at Laurent & Associates?"
"Small consulting firm." The lies came easier than they should have. "I handled everything from scheduling to international clients."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Company closed." True enough—I'd made sure the fake business had zero online presence. "Looking for a new challenge."
Damien leaned back, studying me with those impossible green eyes. His fingers found his pen, twirling it in slow, deliberate circles. "How do you handle pressure, Ms. Laurent?"
Before I could answer, his coffee mug tipped over.
No one touched it. No one was even near it. The white ceramic just tilted sideways and dumped hot liquid across his desk, heading straight for the scattered documents.
I moved without thinking.
Time slowed like honey. I lunged forward, my body moving with inhuman speed and precision. My hands swept the papers to safety before the coffee could reach them, the movements so fluid they looked choreographed.
"Oh my God!" Jennifer jumped up, looking panicked. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Cross. I must have—"
"You didn't do anything," Damien said quietly, his eyes locked on mine. "Did you, Jennifer?"
"I... no, I don't think..." She looked confused, disoriented.
"Why don't you get some paper towels?" Damien suggested, still staring at me. "And maybe ask maintenance to check the desk. Seems like there's a balance issue."
After Jennifer left, silence stretched between us. I still held his papers, coffee still dripping onto the floor like a countdown timer.
"Hell of reflexes," he said finally.
"I, uh, played sports in college."
"Did you?" He reached across the desk. When his fingers brushed mine taking back the papers, electricity shot up my arm. "What sports?"
I hadn't thought the lie through. "Track. And field."
"Distance or sprints?"
"Both." Angels didn't run—we flew. But humans didn't need to know that.
Damien made a note, though I doubted it had anything to do with my fictional athletic career. His pen moved in those same precise strokes. "Languages?"
"Several." This wasn't a lie. Angels could communicate in any human tongue. "French, Italian, Spanish, German, Mandarin, Arabic..."
"Typing speed?"
I'd never typed in my life, but knew I could learn in seconds. Angels absorbed information like sponges. "One-twenty words per minute."
Jennifer returned with paper towels, still looking rattled about the mysterious mug incident. Damien watched me watch her, something like amusement playing across his features.
"Last question, Ms. Laurent." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, pen still spinning between his fingers. "Why do you want to work for Cross Industries?"
The honest answer: I need to figure out what game you're playing and how it connects to my fall from grace.
The expected answer: Something about career advancement and professional growth.
What came out: "Because you're not what you appear to be. And neither am I."
Jennifer's pen stopped moving. The silence felt deafening.
Damien's smile was genuine this time—not the calculated CEO expression he'd worn all morning. "Interesting answer."
"Good interesting or bad interesting?"
"That depends entirely on what you're not appearing to be."
We stared at each other while Jennifer pretended to write things down. The air felt charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
"I think that's all," Damien said finally, standing and extending his hand. "Thank you, Ms. Laurent."
I shook it, noting how cold his skin felt despite the office warmth. "Thank you for the opportunity."
"Jennifer will be in touch soon." His thumb brushed across my knuckles—a gesture that looked accidental but felt anything but. "Very soon."
In the elevator down to the lobby, my heart raced. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see more applicants arriving—more sharp suits, more nervous energy, more humans with no clue what they were walking into.
I almost felt sorry for them.
My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.
Congratulations. Start Monday. 8 AM sharp. - D
Five minutes. The other interviews were complete bullshit.
I was heading back to the elevator when Jennifer's voice stopped me.
"Ms. Laurent?"
She hurried across the lobby, looking frazzled and out of breath.
"Sorry to bother you, but..." She glanced around nervously, then lowered her voice. "That coffee mug. I've worked here three years, and I've never seen anything like that. It just... moved. By itself."
I kept my face neutral. "Maybe condensation? Or the desk wasn't level?"
"Maybe." But she didn't sound convinced. "It's just... weird stuff happens around Mr. Cross sometimes. Things that don't make sense."
"What kind of things?"
Jennifer looked like she regretted starting this conversation. "I shouldn't say. It's probably nothing. Just... be careful, okay? There's something about him that's not..."
She trailed off.
"Not what?"
Her face went pale. "Not entirely human."
The words hung between us like an accusation. Jennifer looked horrified at what she'd said.
"God, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. Please don't tell Mr. Cross. I need this job."
"I won't. But Jennifer—what makes you think that?"
Long pause. When she finally answered, her voice was barely a whisper.
"The coffee."
"What about it?"
"Same thing every morning. Black coffee, but he adds something to it. Something from a little silver bottle in his desk drawer." She shuddered. "Clear drops that make the coffee steam even when it's been sitting for hours."
My blood turned to ice water. "What do the drops smell like?"
"Sweet. Really sweet. Like..." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Like someone crying. Like actual tears."
The elevator chimed. Jennifer stepped back like she'd been caught stealing.
"I should go. Congratulations on the job. I hope you know what you're getting into."
As the doors closed between us, I couldn't shake the image of Damien adding mysterious drops to his coffee. Drops that smelled like tears.
Human tears.
The elevator hit the ground floor, and I walked out into Manhattan morning trying to process what I'd learned. Behind me, Cross Industries stretched toward the sky like some steel and glass monument to power, and somewhere on the forty-seventh floor, Damien Cross was conducting more fake interviews while drinking coffee seasoned with human misery.
I should've been horrified. Should've been planning my escape.
Instead, I was thinking about Monday morning. About what it would feel like to work beside him, learn his secrets, discover why I'd really fallen.
My phone buzzed again.
Welcome to Hell.
I stared at the message, then deleted it and walked into the crowd of anonymous New Yorkers.
Already counting down the hours until Monday.
End of Chapter 2