My first day as an associate at Laurent&Cie isn't anything different than what I used to do back in my previous job.
Just a slight difference.
Back as an investment banking analyst, I was romancing with numbers, and now I have to romance with an entire floor filled with vipers, vixens, and Casanovas.
And I have to say, people working in Laurent&Cie have more fragile egos than us survivors of Investment Banking.
Just a while ago, by mistake, I happened to stare at one male colleague's weird-looking tie with pineapples and oranges. He looked at me and went like, "It's not nice to stare at people, newbie."
I just blinked rapidly, gave a bright smile, and lied through my teeth: "Actually, I've never seen someone with such unique and colorful fashion sense, and it made me realize just how unique you are."
And his reaction…
It was picture worthy.
Red cheeks, dilated pupils, breathing stopped for a good twenty seconds, looking at me like I had just descended from the heavens simply because I praised his outfit.
And turns out—he's the Vice President of my department.
Filex Flinch Davenport.
Tall, athletic body—clearly not a gym rat type, though his fashion sense is questionable with panda socks and a fruit-printed tie. Shiny blonde hair, a little messy, like he just got a perm last week. Big round emerald eyes that give away an innocence that doesn't exactly fit someone who's been in corporate for six years. Even at 30, he has a boyish, soft charm.
And just like that, my compliment about his tie makes me a person with a "good sense of fashion," and suddenly, he likes me—not in a romantic way, but still.
As a result of this unprecedented friendship with my VP, during lunch break, I ended up sitting in the circle of five other VPs—three men, three women. All dressed… let's say questionable.
I won't go into detail, since the topic they're discussing right now is too spicy for my first day at work.
"Did you hear the girl from Marketing got kicked out yesterday?" It all started when VP of Tech in M&A, Maria, brought up some girl.
I thought it was going to be just another gossip session and was eating my hotdog peacefully.
"Hmm, she tried to get in VP Julian's pants," added VP of Energy, Thomas.
And that name—VP Julian—caught my ears.
After I got the offer from Laurent&Cie, I was sent a file to read and memorize the family tree of the Laurent family.
It was a huge tree dating back to 1810. What mattered most was the line of current succession.
Julian Alexander Laurent, Vice President of Global Sales and Client Relations. Youngest son of current Chairman Christophe Jean-Louise Laurent. The second youngest of four siblings, to be exact—the current youngest.
He's said to be a charmer. Someone who smiles so bright it disarms you, his beauty lethal enough to make even the most loyal married woman go crazy and beg him for one night of pleasure.
According to the family tree, he is noted as "The Treasure of Laurent."
Pretty bold statement to give to a 30-year-old when the Chairman is still alive.
Yet, no doubt, Julian is favored by the board of directors and employees. Otherwise, the official documents wouldn't dare call him Treasure.
"I think him taking that girl to his bed and then abandoning her would suit the narrative better," Filex's cold, hostile tone made me and the others look at him.
I wouldn't say he has the most likeable personality, but he doesn't come across as someone who goes around making bold statements about others.
VP Maria said with a nervous laugh, "Filex, you shouldn't be saying that out loud."
Filex stabbed his steak and rolled his eyes. "We all know Julian is a fucking snake."
Snake.
I took a careful bite of my hotdog, taking mental notes.
Filex doesn't like Julian. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say he hates Julian Laurent.
VP Thomas cleared his throat and looked at me with a welcoming smile. "So, Nova, how was it working in the largest investment bank in London? Must be better than here?"
What a sneaky bastard!
I wanted to scoff and be honest, but I didn't.
Remember the advice my sunshine friend once gave me:
"Always dodge any awkward question with a smile. I know your bold personality won't allow you, but survival demands being likeable."
I smiled softly, eased my shoulders, dabbed the napkin at my lips before setting it down. "It was surely an experience that shaped me into who I am today. But I like it here more."
Filex looked at me. "You haven't even spent a day here."
I chuckled softly, trying to keep it genuine—which I know I did.
"Just a few hours is enough for me to know I'll like it here, Mr. Davenport."
Filex rolled his eyes and kept eating his steak, but his eyes gave him away.
He liked my answer.
"You've been told under whom you'll be working? As you know, it's the rule here in Laurent&Cie that associates with two years' experience and performance will be put under one of the Senior Managers." Maria looked at me curiously, her finger tapping the rim of her wine glass.
So this is it.
Hmm, interesting.
It's a given what it means to be placed under senior managers.
Hierarchy exists everywhere—especially in a place like Laurent&Cie where everyone is chasing one thing:
A seat at the table of the board of directors at Laurent&Cie's main headquarters in Geneva.
Entry levels lick the boots of middle managers, who lick the boots of senior managers, who kiss the asses of directors, who in turn give blow jobs to Executive Directors.
So based on which Senior Manager you're placed under as an associate, it directly connects you to the Executive Director you're going to follow.
"Not yet. I've been told in a month I'll be doing a project with VP Alen. Based on my performance, I'll be placed under a senior manager."
I kept my tone calm and cheerful.
Thomas and Maria exchanged looks, frowning and shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
Filex narrowed his eyes. "Did you get here through recommendation of someone higher up?"
I blinked.
What does recommendation have to do with it? It already gives me a headache that I'm not placed under any senior manager yet when I was supposed to be—and now he's trying to find a connection between me and someone?
As if.
I got into this position after years of hard work, rejection, and pain.
But they don't need to know.
I smiled softly. "I do know a few people, but I doubt they helped me somehow."
They blinked rapidly, then laughed awkwardly. "Right, right," Maria said as she finished her wine.
Bastards.
Now they're trying to calculate if I have some hidden sugar daddy since my last name isn't a big one.
Yeah, think. Think that I got here by fucking some old man.
At least that'll make you hesitate before messing with me.
Filex's gaze remained tight and intense on me.
Air around me shifted back into familiar office gossip and chatter. I played my part just like an associate should—keeping the mood light, making VPs laugh, easing the earlier tension.
But my back felt sore. My cheeks hurt from faking smiles. My throat felt heavy from creaking jokes.
I wanted to stand and leave, not get too social. Not with people who had just tried to measure me by someone else's name.
Slowly, lunch break came to an end. We went back to work.
Numbers. People. Coffee. Chatter. Trying hard not to become a disaster on my first day.
And just like that, my first day at the office ended around 9PM.
Half of the 12th floor was empty. The rest of the building the same. Only the typing on computers, the hum of the air conditioner, the sound of printers, and the aroma of coffee remained with a countable few people.
I stood up, looking at the clock. Then at my phone.
My food delivery was here, waiting on the 9th floor. My heels clicked on the tiles as I stood before the elevator, meeting the delivery guy who looked more like a student doing part-time.
While from the 31st floor it's restricted for anyone unauthorized to enter, the 30th floor is a terrace left open for normal people like me.
And nothing can beat looking at the city of London on a spring night with a pizza and soda after surviving day one.
Taking my bag in one hand and my food bag in the other, I hopped on the elevator.
The silence of the building, which had been humming with people just two hours ago, gave me a strange sense of relief.
This is what happens.
After wearing the mask of brilliant, talented, young, friendly, and charming newbie, all I want is to retreat into myself and talk to no one.
I'm not an introvert. Not an extrovert either.
I like being around people, yet I hate when I have to tone down, put on a mask, and stand proud when my own life is a tale of misery.
People say they envy my confidence and strength to stand tall.
And I want to say:
It's neither strength nor confidence. It's survival.
I hate being mediocre, yet sometimes I wish I could stop this constant chase for glory and success—just rest for a moment without crashing down.
The curse of being good but never the best keeps me awake at nights, sometimes fear of failing freeze my body.
Work smarter. Network in the right places. Smile even when I'm breaking. Cry only when I'm truly alone. And never truly be me.
Sometimes I look at the sky and wonder:
Under heaven, will I ever be able to rest without being scared that if I let my guard down, the weight of the world won't crush me into pieces and scatter me?
But for the last 26 years, my question remains a question. I keep running and running, because at the end—only I can save myself.
The rest? Fate.
Then who am I kidding to? Deep down I have this strange belief,
Even if I'm a miserable, I'm the most beautiful miserable one will ever meet.
DING.
The elevator doors slid open and I stepped out onto the terrace, the air immediately cooler, touched with that crisp London edge the city always carries at dusk.
From the 30th floor, the skyline stretched out in steel and glass, the Shard cutting the horizon like a blade.
The outdoor space felt worlds away from the rush below—sleek sofas circling the pool, candles flickering in the reflection of skyscraper lights.
The Thames glimmered faintly in the distance, winding like a dark ribbon through the city. I took a breath, catching the faint scent of flowers arranged along the railing, and for a moment, it felt as though London itself had slowed, waiting, holding its breath with me.
It's not like I'm unfamiliar with what London looks like at night, or that I've never seen a luxurious outdoor setting before.
Yet something about this place feels both luxurious and comforting—detached from the typical corporate world of Laurent&Cie.
I took off my heels, rolled up the hem of my trousers, and dipped my feet into the cool pool water.
A smile softened my reflection. Other than the hum of the city, there was no other presence. It felt like a reward as I started eating my extra cheese pepperoni pizza with lemon soda.
The tension of the day started to ease out of my body. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through Spotify to play some music—to romanticize my cheesy pizza, sweet soda, and the cool water at my feet.
And the first song that popped up on my Daily Mix 1 was—Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swift.
My grin grew bigger as I hit play, humming along while wiggling my feet in the water, taking bites of pizza, and soaking in the view.
Suddenly, every tension, every subtle sadness that had squeezed my heart, began to vanish.
Everything would've been extra romantic if only—if only I were lucky enough to stumble upon a handsome guy.
Maybe I'd fantasize about him. Maybe I'd just find a crush to scribble about in my notebook and get excited again.
And suddenly—
"Can you turn down your music a bit?"
I stopped mid-bite.
A deep manly voice wrapped around me like silk rope. Low. A little rough around the edges. Not rude—just detached.
My stomach flipped. Yeah, it flipped.
I hadn't looked around the terrace, assuming I was the only crazy person in the building staying out late.
And fuck… the next song started.
So High School by Taylor Swift.
I turned my head toward the source of the voice—the man who had just sent an electric shock through my body.
And he was just as sexy as his voice.
Crisp white shirt, wrinkled from a long day. Black trousers, coat draped over his arm. Sleeves rolled up, showing strong, veiny forearms. The top three buttons undone, teasing glimpses of collarbone and chest. Black wavy hair, parted to the left, a little messy—like some woman had just run her fingers through it.
Sharp arctic blue eyes beneath soft arched brows. Stubble adding a rough, masculine edge.
And fuck—if my body didn't just betray me looking at him. Tall frame, easily over 6'5, waist probably smaller than mine…
My eyes drifted lower—to his long legs, solid build. Not a gym rat, not out of shape either. Just right.
He arched a brow, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Done staring?"
My eyes widened as I realized I'd basically been drooling over this stranger with his high cheekbones and sharp jawline.
I fixed my expression quickly and shut off the music.
"I didn't know there was someone else here. My bad."
I looked away. Fuck.
I hoped he hadn't noticed my red cheeks—or the way my breathing had given me away.
What do you expect me to do? You can't just drop probably the most handsome man in Britain in front of me—when I'd literally just been fantasizing about a handsome stranger to romanticize my night—and expect me to act normal.