I scrambled to my feet like a malfunctioning baby giraffe, heat flooding my cheeks. "Mr. Wolfe—I—sir—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—well, obviously I didn't mean to faceplant in the lobby, that would be ridiculous, I just—"
My words tumbled out like a broken vending machine spewing soda cans.
Damien Wolfe didn't respond. He just looked at me, expression carved from the ice in my wonky refrigerator, then inclined his head ever so slightly toward the elevators.
"Follow me."
Two words. No inflection. No anger. No mercy. Just… instructions.
I swallowed so hard I was ninety percent sure everyone in the lobby heard it. My palms stung from where they'd kissed marble, my knees ached, and my pride was already rotting in the corner like roadkill. But I gathered my scattered things, yes, including the tragic granola bar that had almost made physical contact with his Italian leather, and scurried after him.
The lobby security guards looked at me like they were already drafting my obituary. One receptionist winced sympathetically, like she'd just witnessed a toddler run headfirst into a wall.
I didn't dare meet anyone's gaze as I hurried into the elevator behind Damien Wolfe.
The doors slid shut.
And suddenly it was just the two of us.
Trapped.
In a chrome coffin of silence.
My chest tightened. The air in the elevator felt thin, like he had sucked out all the oxygen with his aura of doom. I fiddled with the strap of my bag, trying not to fidget, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to exist too loudly.
He stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward, posture so perfect it could've been used to balance fine china. Not a wrinkle in sight. Meanwhile, I was sweating like a guilty raccoon sneaking into a dumpster.
"Sir, I—" I began weakly.
"I wasn't talking yet."
I snapped my mouth shut so fast my teeth clicked. Lowering my head, I studied the floor buttons like they were suddenly fascinating. Level 72 glowed ominously. His floor. His lair. The place careers went to die.
The elevator dinged.
When the doors opened, the top floor of Wolfe Tower sprawled before us, sleek and expensive in every detail. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed everything in blinding morning light. The kind of light that exposed every wrinkle in my skirt and every sweat patch under my blazer.
Employees scattered through the open office space looked up as we passed. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Fingers froze on keyboards.
Eyes widened.
Their gazes flicked from Wolfe to me, and I could practically hear their collective thought: Uh oh.
I swallowed again. At this rate, I was going to dehydrate from sheer terror.
Wolfe didn't slow, didn't look at anyone, didn't even acknowledge the atmosphere of dread he carried with him. He simply opened the glass door to his office and walked inside.
I followed like a condemned prisoner.
The door clicked shut behind me, and the silence inside his office was suffocating. The city skyline stretched endlessly outside his window, skyscrapers glittering in the sun. His desk was a minimalist war zone of organization, no clutter, no mess, no personality. Just like him.
I stood in front of it, clutching my bag like a shield, my throat dry.
"Mr. Wolfe, about this morning, I really am sorry—"
"I said," his voice was cold steel, "I wasn't talking yet. Don't speak unless I tell you to."
I froze again, cheeks burning, my apology shriveling to ash in my mouth. I lowered my head, focusing on the grain of the polished floor.
The silence stretched.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His eyes, sharp and gray, pinned me like a butterfly in a display case.
"Tell me, Miss Emery," he said softly, which somehow was more terrifying than shouting, "are you tired of being a personal assistant?"
My heart stopped.
Am I tired? Oh, absolutely. This job was eating my soul like Pac-Man on steroids. But if he wanted honesty, then honesty was a fast track to unemployment, homelessness, and possibly living under a bridge with beavers as my only friends.
So I said nothing.
I bit my tongue and stared at the floor, praying silence would be safer than truth.
He studied me, face unreadable. Then, with a sigh that sounded almost like disappointment, he murmured, "Pitiful."
The word burned. I swallowed the lump in my throat, lowering my head further.
"You will book a flight," he continued, already turning his attention to a file on his desk, "Cluj-Napoca, Romania. Today."
Romania? My head jerked up before I could stop myself.
Of course he noticed. His gaze flicked to mine, cold as arctic wind. "Is there a problem?"
"N-no, sir," I stammered, my brain scrambling. "Of course not sir. Cluj-Napoca, Romania. Right away."
"Good. Flight, hotel, itinerary. I want confirmation within the hour."
"Yes, sir."
"Then leave."
Dismissed. Like a servant. Like an insect.
I scurried out of his office so fast I nearly tripped over the doorframe. Outside, a few employees peeked at me with that same oh no, she's dead expression. I avoided their eyes, clutching my bag like it contained the last shreds of my dignity, and hurried to my desk.
I collapsed into my chair, heart pounding, fingers trembling.
Romania.
Why Romania?
Of all the places in the world, Cancún, Paris, literally anywhere with cocktails and tiny umbrellas, he had to pick Romania. Land of… Dracula? Spooky forests? Creepy castles? Yeah, that didn't sound suspicious at all. Totally fine. Nothing ominous here.
I opened my laptop, still trying to remember how to breathe, when a familiar figure suddenly slid into the chair beside mine.
"Darling," Luke whispered dramatically, clutching his iced latte like it was a goblet of wine. "Are you alive, or is this your ghost haunting us?"
I blinked at him, still dazed. "Barely alive. Ghost-adjacent."
Luke leaned in, his perfectly styled hair catching the light in a way that screamed effortless but actually took forty-five minutes.
His eyes glittered with gossip-hungry glee. "Because from where I was sitting, which was, incidentally, across the office pretending to 'work', you just walked into Wolfe's lair looking like a sacrificial lamb. And now you've come back pale, sweaty, and shaking."
I groaned, dropping my face into my hands. "Don't remind me. I tripped. In front of him. My granola bar made a bid for freedom and nearly touched his shoe."
Luke gasped, clutching his chest like I'd confessed to murder. "Not the granola bar. Darling, no. Shoes that expensive have diplomatic immunity."
"Tell me about it," I muttered.
He tilted his head. "And?"
"And what?"
"What did he say?" Luke's voice dropped to a scandalized whisper. "Did he fire you?"
"Not yet." I peeked at him through my fingers. "But he called me pitiful. Then told me to book him a flight to Romania. Cluj-Napoca."
Luke's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Cluj-Napoca? What even is a Cluj-Napoca? Sounds like a spell from Harry Potter."
I let out a strangled laugh that was half hysteria, half despair. "It's a real place. In Romania. I Googled it once because I thought it was a sneeze."
Luke pursed his lips, thoughtful. "Interesting. Romania. Castles. Forests. Vampires. Werewolves."
"Don't." I pointed a trembling finger at him. "Do not bring supernatural horror tropes into this right now. I'm fragile."
He smirked, sipping his latte. "Fine. But mark my words, Emery, this is how people in movies end up in cults."
"I wish it were a cult," I muttered, dragging my laptop toward me. "At least cults usually offer robes. Or Kool-Aid. This is just hell with Wi-Fi."
Luke chuckled, but then his gaze flicked nervously toward Wolfe's closed office. His posture shifted, suddenly less flamboyant, more wary. "Careful, though. You know how he is."
My stomach twisted. "Yeah. I know."
Then Luke slapped my arm lightly, his tone back to its usual theatrics. "Anyway! You'll survive. You always do. Now, I must flee before he sees me loitering near you and decides to add me to his execution list."
Before I could respond, he popped up from the chair. With one last wink, he strutted back to his desk, leaving me with my open laptop, trembling hands, and the faint smell of vanilla latte in the air.
I exhaled shakily.
Okay.
Focus.