The elevator purred as it carried Elena Cross higher and higher into the gleaming spine of Voss Tower. Numbers lit up in neat, ascending order above the doors—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—each one a countdown she wasn't ready for.
She caught her reflection in the polished steel, her face doubled in the mirrored panels. Her expression was carefully schooled: calm, professional, unshaken. But the mask betrayed her. Behind her own eyes flickered the truth—nerves running wild, her stomach knotted like a fist.
This wasn't an ordinary interview. She knew that already. Voss Tower wasn't the sort of place you sent résumés to and hoped for a reply. It was the sort of place that called you. Summoned you.
Her phone buzzed from the depths of her handbag, a sharp vibration against leather. She ignored it, tightening both hands around the leather portfolio pressed against her ribs. The portfolio had been her constant companion since graduate school, its corners worn from years of use. Inside were her credentials, case studies, tidy printouts of forensic accounting successes. It had always made her feel grounded, prepared. Today it felt less like a tool and more like armor—armor that might not hold.
The elevator slowed. Her stomach lurched as though it had dropped ahead of her.
The doors whispered open.
For a moment, Elena thought she'd stepped into another world.
The top floor was silent, polished to perfection, every line and surface built to project order and power. A marble floor spread outward beneath walls of glass that caught the fading afternoon light. The air smelled faintly of cedar and leather, as if someone had distilled authority into a scent and fed it through the vents.
Behind a sleek reception desk sat a woman in a tailored charcoal suit. She looked up the moment Elena stepped out, her expression controlled, her movements seamless.
"Mr. Voss is waiting for you. This way, please."
No request for her name. No sign-in sheet. No verification. The woman simply rose, smoothing her skirt, and led the way.
Elena hesitated only for a second before following. She adjusted her grip on the portfolio, as though that could steady the rhythm of her pulse. The email she had received two nights ago had been vague, almost cryptic—an invitation to discuss a consulting role. No sender's name. No phone number. No details about pay or expectations. She had debated deleting it. But then she glanced at her dwindling bank account and told herself that curiosity wasn't always a curse.
Still, unease prickled along her skin as she walked.
The corridor stretched long and hushed, its walls paneled in dark wood that absorbed light rather than reflected it. No paintings, no company mission statements, no photographs of smiling employees. Only emptiness, deliberate and precise. The design told her everything: there were no distractions here. Nothing was supposed to matter except the man at the end of this hallway.
The receptionist stopped at a pair of tall glass doors. She opened them without a sound and inclined her head, inviting Elena to step inside alone.
Elena drew a breath and entered.
Damian Voss's office was not merely a room. It was a declaration.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the far wall, displaying the city as though it were no more than a detailed map spread beneath him. Buildings shrank into models, bridges into delicate bones of light. The world below was his to look down upon.
A desk of black polished wood dominated the center, vast and unadorned except for a single laptop and a fountain pen laid perfectly parallel. Behind the desk, the wall was empty. No degrees. No awards. No photographs. As if nothing outside the man himself deserved attention.
And there he was.
Damian Voss sat in a chair that seemed more like a throne disguised in leather. His charcoal suit was tailored with merciless precision, the fabric shifting lightly over broad shoulders when he moved. His hair was dark, combed with intention, though one rebellious lock hung near his brow. His jaw was sharp, his mouth set without softness.
But it was his eyes that stopped her cold.
Steel-gray. Patient. Unblinking.
They pinned her where she stood, and for a moment Elena had the disorienting impression that he had been watching her long before she entered the room, perhaps even long before she stepped into the tower.
"Miss Cross."
Her name rolled out of him in a voice smooth but deliberate, as though every word was weighed before it was allowed to exist. "You're punctual. I like punctuality."
Her heels clicked against marble as she moved closer, each step measured. She forced her voice into an even register. "Mr. Voss. Thank you for seeing me."
He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. Not a smile, not even a courtesy. Just a flick of his hand that felt less like invitation and more like command.
Elena sat, carefully placing her portfolio on her lap, her knuckles whitening as she held it. Her pulse thundered beneath her calm exterior. "I wasn't given many details about this consulting opportunity. I understand it has something to do with reviewing financial records?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her with unsettling precision. His gaze seemed to strip away more than her words: the steadiness of her posture, the way her hand trembled against the leather, the effort she spent on appearing composed.
At last, he leaned back slightly, a faint crease etching his brow. "You're not here for an interview, Miss Cross. You've already been hired."
The words landed like a blow. Elena blinked. "Hired? But we haven't discussed terms. I haven't even—"
"I don't waste time with auditions." His tone was clipped, leaving no room for question. "Your reputation speaks for itself."
Her breath faltered. Reputation. A word with teeth. A word that still chained her to the scandal of her father—the fraud, the courtroom stares, the financial ruin he left behind. No matter how many years had passed, Elena Cross remained to many the daughter of a man who had set fire to everything he touched.
Her chin lifted in defiance. "With all due respect, Mr. Voss, my reputation isn't spotless. If that's what you're basing this on—"
A shadow of something that was not quite a smile crossed his mouth. "That's precisely why I want you. You know the scent of fraud better than anyone. You've lived through it. Which means you'll see what my in-house accountants won't."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what exactly do you expect me to see?"
Damian leaned forward, forearms resting on the sleek black desk, his hands clasped with unhurried patience. The shift in posture was predatory, deliberate.
"Discrepancies. Hidden flows of money. Records that don't match reality. You'll find them. And you'll keep quiet about what you find."
The air thickened. Elena's grip tightened on the portfolio until the edges bit into her palms.
"If you're asking me to falsify records," she said, her voice sharper than she intended, "I don't do that."
"I'm not asking." His words were quiet, but they cut with the edge of glass. "I'm telling you how this arrangement will work."
Heat flared in her chest, fury momentarily overtaking nerves. "With respect, you don't know me. You don't know what I will or won't do."
The faint curve of his lips deepened, though his eyes remained cold, merciless. "Then enlighten me. Tell me what you'll do, Miss Cross, when the truth is more dangerous than the lie."
Her pulse stuttered, traitorous in its reaction. His question was a trap in itself, coiling in her chest, tangling fear with something she refused to name.
She drew herself taller in her chair. "I'll do my job. That means following the numbers to the truth. Even if it's inconvenient."
For the first time, something flickered across his expression. His gaze darkened, stormclouds in steel. "Good. Then maybe you'll be useful after all. But understand this—"
He opened a drawer, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the desk with smooth precision. The folder glided to a stop just short of her hands.
"You're not free to walk away once you've seen what's inside."
The silence that followed was heavy, absolute.
Elena's breath shallowed. The folder lay between them, ordinary on the outside, but it radiated menace like heat from a flame. Her instincts screamed at her to get up, walk out, retreat while she could. But another part of her—sharper, braver, more reckless—urged her to lean forward. To touch the edge of whatever web Damian Voss was weaving.
Her fingers hovered, brushing the folder's corner.
His eyes fixed on hers, unblinking. "Consider this your contract. Once you open it, Miss Cross… you belong to me."
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out reason, and in that moment she realized something she should have suspected from the very start:
This wasn't an interview. This was a trap.
And she had just stepped into it.