The elevator ride back down to the sixty-fourth floor felt like a freefall. Elara stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors, her chest heaving slightly. Her skin still felt charged, as if the air in Rowan Thorne's office had been static-heavy.
"I've already decided you're staying."
The words looped in her mind. It wasn't the encouraging tone of a hiring manager; it was the possessive statement of a man claiming a prize. She tightened her grip on her bag, her knuckles white. She needed this job for her freedom, but she hadn't expected the price to be the unsettling attention of the CEO.
When she re-entered the waiting area, the atmosphere had shifted. Sarah and the others looked at her with a mix of suspicion and envy.
"Vance? You're up," the assistant said, gesturing toward a smaller, glass-walled office.
Mr. Sterling was the opposite of Rowan Thorne. He was a man in his late fifties with a soft face and spectacles that sat precariously on the bridge of his nose. He looked tired, surrounded by stacks of physical audit reports that seemed to be buried in the digital age.
"Sit, sit," Sterling said, waving a hand toward a chair. "Apologies for the delay. The top floor likes to... disrupt the flow sometimes."
Elara sat, her loafers silent on the carpet. She took a breath, forcing her professional mask back into place. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Sterling. I've prepared a brief overview of my analysis of your Q3 logistics overhead."
Sterling blinked, surprised. "Q3? That hasn't been fully synthesized yet."
"I used the public filings and projected the variables based on the current fuel indices," Elara explained, opening her notebook. She slid a neatly printed sheet across the desk.
For the next twenty minutes, Elara was in her element. The numbers were a language she spoke fluently—a world where everything had a place and logic always won. Sterling's initial fatigue vanished, replaced by a growing, genuine excitement.
"This is... remarkable, Ms. Vance. Your grasp of the micro-fluctuations is better than some of my senior staff." He leaned back, tapping his pen against the desk. "Tell me, why haven't you applied for a permanent role? An internship seems beneath this level of work."
Elara hesitated. She couldn't tell him she was running from a gilded cage in her hometown. "I value the opportunity to learn the Thorne methodology from the ground up, sir. I'm looking for a firm where I can build a long-term career."
She didn't notice the small, recessed camera lens in the corner of the ceiling.
Three floors up, Rowan Thorne sat in total silence. He wasn't looking at the data Elara had provided. He was watching the way her eyes lit up when she talked about logic. He watched the subtle movement of her throat when she swallowed, and the way she rested her left hand on the table—fingers steady, unadorned by rings.
He pressed a button on his desk console. "Marcus."
His head of security appeared in the doorway seconds later. "Sir?"
"I want the lease agreement for the apartment Elara Vance currently occupies," Rowan said, his voice devoid of emotion. "And I want the floor plans for the sixty-fourth floor modified. I want her desk moved."
Marcus paused. "Moved where, sir? The interns are usually grouped in the central bull pen."
Rowan turned his chair toward the window, the city sprawling beneath him like a map he had already conquered. "Not this one. Put her in the glass annex outside my suite. I want her within my line of sight."
"Sir, that's highly irregular for an intern—"
"I didn't ask for an opinion on the regularity," Rowan interrupted, his tone dropping into a dangerous chill. "I asked for it to be done."
Back on the sixty-fourth floor, Mr. Sterling stood up and offered his hand. "Well, Elara. I usually interview ten people before making a choice, but in your case... I think we can skip the formalities. You'll hear from HR by this afternoon."
Elara felt a wave of pure, cold relief. "Thank you, Mr. Sterling. I look forward to it."
As she walked out of the building and back into the midday sun, she felt a sudden urge to run. She felt like she had just escaped a trap, even though she had walked away with exactly what she wanted.
She pulled out her phone and texted Maya: I think I got it. Pastrami at 6?
She didn't see the black SUV parked across the street. She didn't see the tinted window roll down an inch as she crossed the pavement. She only felt that familiar prickle on her neck—a shadow following her even in the brightest light of day.