SOFIA
I wake to the persistent beep of my alarm, which feels more like a reprimand than a warning. My apartment is quiet, almost too quiet, the way silence presses down in small spaces. I glance at the clock: 6:17 a.m.
For a few moments, I lie there, letting the day creep in, hesitant to leave the cocoon of blankets. But the list of responsibilities—bills, overdue invoices, my parents' worried faces—won't allow me to linger.
Dragging myself out of bed, I head straight to the kitchen. Mom has left a note on the counter: "Don't forget your gala dress dry-cleaning. I've called them ahead." Her neat handwriting feels like a small anchor, a reminder that someone still cares.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
My phone buzzes. An email notification. Richards Construction: Urgent – Immediate Action Required.
I freeze. The subject line alone is enough to make my pulse spike.
I grab my laptop from the counter and open the email. It's from one of our few remaining clients: a curt note indicating pending projects won't be paid until certain deadlines are met, and some minor legal complications have emerged.
I close the laptop slowly.
We are bleeding money, and I feel it in my bones.
---
At Stoneleaf Design, my coworkers greet me with the usual mix of camaraderie and exhaustion. They don't know what's happening at home. They assume I'm just tired from late nights, balancing projects like everyone else.
"Morning, Sofia," Jenna says, her tone light but weary. "You okay? You look… off."
"Just a lot on my mind," I reply. Truthful, but not entirely.
She nods, accepting it at face value. I envy her ability to keep things simple.
I pour coffee and glance around the office. The soft hum of computers, the organized chaos of papers and sketches—it's a sanctuary, even if it barely pays the bills.
And yet, as my mind drifts back to Adrian Vale, I can't shake the memory of his eyes at the gala. The way he measured me—not like everyone else does, not like he was judging me for what I didn't have, but as though he wanted to understand me.
It should bother me less.
It doesn't.
---
By noon, I'm forced to check on Dad again. He's holed up in the office, muttering over spreadsheets and phone calls.
"Have you called our creditors?" I ask.
"Yes," he mutters, voice tired. "We're negotiating."
Negotiating. The word hangs hollow. Every day we're forced to maneuver, to stall, to patch cracks that deepen faster than our efforts can mend.
I rest my forehead on the desk. "I don't know how much longer we can do this."
He finally meets my gaze. His eyes are weary but stubborn. "We'll manage. Somehow."
I don't reply. Somehow isn't enough anymore.
---
Later that afternoon, my phone buzzes. An unknown number: "Ms. Richards, Mr. Vale requested I schedule a meeting with you."
I freeze. My first instinct is to delete it. Ignore it.
But curiosity—and maybe a touch of defiance—wins.
"When and where?" I reply.
A simple answer comes back: "Tomorrow, 10 a.m., Vale Enterprises, 53rd Floor. Bring yourself."
I stare at the screen, conflicted.
Vale Enterprises. Adrian Vale. I can almost feel the chill that follows him like a shadow.
I close my eyes. This isn't a social invitation. This isn't casual. This is calculated.
And the thought both terrifies and excites me.
---
The next morning, I stand before the monolithic glass tower of Vale Enterprises. The sun glints off the steel and glass like it's daring anyone to enter. Every reflection seems to magnify the height and cold perfection of the building.
Security checks my ID and escorts me to the elevator. The ride up is quiet, the metal doors humming around me. Each floor ticked off feels like a heartbeat, counting down to something inevitable.
At the top, the elevator doors open to reveal his domain. The office is vast, almost minimalist, every surface gleaming, every line precise. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the city sprawling below, a living grid of movement and noise. And in the middle, behind a desk polished to mirror perfection, he waits.
Adrian Vale.
Tall, composed, and lethal in his calm. His dark suit contrasts sharply with the pale marble floor, the subtle scent of expensive cologne lingering around him like armor.
"Ms. Richards," he says, voice even and measured. "Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Vale," I reply, careful. Neutral.
He gestures to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Every instinct tells me not to. But I obey. The room feels like a courtroom, every angle, every piece of furniture, deliberately designed to observe, to measure, to control.
He perches on the edge of his desk, elbows resting on the smooth surface, and studies me. "I reviewed some information about your family's business. You're aware it's in trouble."
"I'm aware," I admit, hands folded tightly in my lap. "We're doing our best."
"You?" he questions. "Or your parents?"
I bite the inside of my cheek. "We all are."
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze sweeps over me, meticulous and calculating. "You're proud."
I raise an eyebrow. "I try to be."
"Pride is dangerous when survival is at stake," he says. Then, almost casually: "I can help."
I blink. "You… can help?"
"Yes." His voice is calm, too calm. Sharp, like a knife hidden in silk. "But help isn't free. Not for me."
I tense. This is exactly what I feared. Deals made with strings attached, favors offered with silent debts.
"What do you want?" I ask, voice carefully measured.
His lips tilt—a fraction of a smile. "A partnership. On my terms."
"Terms?" I echo, wary.
He rises from his seat, moving with precise control, each step measured. The city lights from the windows cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw. "Your life is complicated," he says. "Mine is controlled. I can offer stability. Guidance. Access."
I stare at him. Part of me wants to laugh, the absurdity of it all. The other part wants to collapse in relief.
"And the catch?" I ask, voice low.
His eyes lock onto mine, unwavering. "Boundaries. Rules. One year. Nothing personal. Nothing emotional. Understand?"
I want to shake my head. To scream that I won't be controlled. But the thought of my family… of debts mounting faster than my paychecks… I swallow my pride.
"I understand," I whisper.
He studies me, expression unreadable, before nodding. "Good. Tomorrow, we finalize details. Until then, consider what you're willing to accept."
As I leave his office, heels clicking against the polished marble, my pulse races. My thoughts whirl with uncertainty and adrenaline.
This is bigger than I expected. Riskier than I imagined. And yet… strangely thrilling.
Because one year under his terms, on his schedule, could change everything.
And somewhere, deep down, I realize I have no idea if I'm ready.
Yet, some reckless part of me thinks I am.
Adrian Vale doesn't scare me—not entirely. Not the way he should.
He intrigues me.
And that… terrifies me more than anything else.