Dakota's POV
The coffee in my hand is cold. I don't remember when I finished it. The fluorescent lights in the office buzz like insects trapped in plastic, and the spreadsheet in front of me blurs together. Numbers. Always numbers. My eyes burn but I'm not done yet.
I check the clock on my computer. 2:17 AM.
Three more hours until dawn. Three more hours of this, and I'll have enough for another two weeks of my mom's rent. Two weeks closer to breathing. Two weeks of not watching her face get thinner while she works nights at the hospital and comes home too tired to eat dinner.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. I'm good at this part. The math. The patterns. Nobody notices the invisible intern who sits in the corner and makes sure the numbers don't lie. That's fine. Being invisible is safer than being seen.
I push away from my desk and stand up, my back cracking. The office is dead around me. The cleaning crew finished hours ago. Most of the lights are already off on the lower floors. Only the executive level still glows, which is weird. Nobody works this late except desperate people and billionaires. Jordan March is both.
I've worked at March Dynamics for six months. I've seen Jordan March exactly four times. Once in the elevator, where I pressed myself into the corner and stared at my shoes. Once at the company meeting where I was so invisible he looked right through me. Once in the cafeteria, where his presence made everyone sit straighter and speak softer. And once, just once, our eyes almost met before I looked away because eye contact with people like him feels dangerous.
The break room is on the executive floor. I don't usually go there this late but I need water. I need something to shake the exhaustion off. My throat is dry and my head is pounding and I've got hours left.
As I walk toward the break room, I hear it.
Voices. Angry.
They're coming from down the hallway. From somewhere near the offices at the end, where only the important people work. Where Jordan March works.
I stop walking. I should keep going. I should get my water and go back to my desk and pretend I heard nothing. That's what the invisible intern does. That's how I survive.
But my feet don't move.
There's something in those voices. Something sharp and desperate. One voice is panicked, almost pleading. The other is calm. Too calm. Cold in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I walk closer.
I shouldn't. I absolutely shouldn't. But I've spent my whole life reading people. My mom's tone when my dad was about to leave. The way Marcus grips my shoulder when he's scared about money. I'm good at understanding what things mean. I'm good at knowing when something is about to break.
This is breaking.
The voices are clearer now as I move down the hallway. I recognize one of them. It's definitely Jordan March. But the other voice belongs to someone I've seen in meetings. Someone who works here. A man with a nervous laugh and expensive watches.
"You promised," the other man is saying. His voice shakes. "You said you had it handled."
"I did handle it." Jordan's voice is different. Not angry, which is somehow scarier. It's just flat. Empty. "You chose to be stupid."
"I can disappear. I have money. I can leave the country tomorrow and nobody has to know anything."
"Nobody will know anything because you're not leaving."
I'm close enough now to see through the cracked office door. My heart starts pounding so hard I think my ribs might break.
I can see Jordan March standing by his desk in an expensive suit with his shirt sleeves rolled up. There's a lamp casting shadows across his face. He looks like something carved from ice. The other man, the one I recognize from meetings, is backing away from him. His hands are up like he's trying to negotiate with a bomb.
"Please," the man says. His voice cracks. "Please, I'm begging you."
"You sold our research to Richard Voss," Jordan says. Not a question. A fact. "You sold fifteen years of development and billions in market value for three million dollars. Do you understand what that means?"
"I was going to tell you. I was going to explain."
"You were going to disappear into whatever hole you crawled out of and let someone else clean up your mess."
The man turns toward the window like maybe he thinks he can jump out. That's when I realize how high up we are. Fifty floors. He's actually considering jumping instead of facing whatever Jordan March is about to do.
I push the door open a little wider to see better. I'm not thinking about consequences. I'm just trying to understand. Trying to read the situation like I always do. Trying to figure out what's about to happen so maybe I can help somehow.
My elbow catches the edge of a file folder on the small table by the door.
It falls to the floor.
The sound of paper scattering across hardwood is the loudest thing I've ever heard.
Both men go completely still.
Both men turn toward the door.
Both men see me.
The man I don't know looks shocked, like a prisoner who just realized another prisoner is watching his execution. Jordan March looks at me and something flickers across his face. For a second, just a fraction of a second, I see something dangerous cross his eyes.
Then he says my name.
"Dakota."
Not a question. He knows my name. He's never spoken to me once in six months and he knows my name.
"I can explain," I say but my voice comes out as a whisper. "I was just getting water and I heard voices and I didn't mean to..."
"Shut the door," Jordan says.
I don't know if he's talking to me or the other man. The other man suddenly bolts. He runs straight for the hallway, for me, trying to push past me to get out.
He's panicked now. Completely panicked. He shoves me hard as he runs and I fall backward into the hallway. My shoulder hits the wall. Stars explode in my vision.
I hear footsteps running. I hear doors slamming. I hear the frantic ding of the elevator arriving.
Then everything goes quiet.
I'm sitting on the floor with my heart in my throat and my shoulder throbbing. I'm trying to figure out what just happened. I'm trying to figure out if I should run too.
Then I hear a sound.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
Jordan March walks out of his office and looks down at me sitting on the floor. He's not rushing. He's not panicked. He looks exactly the same as always. Cold. Untouchable. Perfect.
"Get up," he says quietly.
I don't move.
"Don't make me ask twice, Dakota."
I get up. My legs feel like water but I get up. I brush off my jeans with shaking hands. I'm trying to figure out what happens now. Do I run? Do I call someone? Do I scream?
"Come here," he says.
He walks back into his office and I follow because I don't know what else to do. Because I'm terrified and I'm curious and the observant part of my brain is screaming that something terrible just happened and I'm the only other person who knows.
I step inside the office and freeze.
There's blood on the white marble desk.
There's a body on the floor.
The man who was just running is now completely still, his head at an angle that necks shouldn't make. His eyes are open but he's not looking at anything anymore.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Jordan closes the office door behind me and locks it.
"Welcome to the truth, Dakota," he says, his voice quiet and smooth like we're just having a normal conversation. "Now we need to figure out what to do with you."