The deli was loud, smelling of brined meat and mustard, a perfect contrast to the sterile silence of Thorne Financial. Elara sat across from Maya, who was practically vibrating with energy.
"They loved it, El! They called me 'bold' and 'refreshing,'" Maya cheered, waving a half-eaten sandwich. "And you! CEO-adjacent on day one? That's not an interview, that's a cinematic event."
Elara poked at her coleslaw, the weight of Rowan Thorne's gaze still lingering on her skin. "It was... intense. He's not a normal boss, Maya. He looks at you like he's already read your diary and decided which parts he likes best."
"He's a billionaire. They're all weird," Maya shrugged, unfazed. "The point is, you're in. No moving back to the 'Estate.' No more letters from your dad about 'proper social circles.' We're staying in the city."
Elara finally smiled, the tension in her shoulders dropping.
"To staying in the city."
By the time they climbed the three flights of stairs to their apartment, the sun was dipping below the skyline, painting the brick buildings in shades of bruised purple and gold.
Elara reached for her keys, but stopped.
Sitting in front of their door was a large, rectangular box wrapped in heavy, cream-colored paper. There was no shipping label. No courier tag. Just her name written on the top in thick, black ink: Elara Vance.
"Ooh, a secret admirer?" Maya teased, leaning over her shoulder. "Or did you order a celebratory air fryer and forget?"
"I didn't order anything." Elara picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy.
Inside the apartment, she set the box on the coffee table and carefully peeled back the paper. Maya hovered close, her curiosity piqued. When the lid came off, both girls went silent.
It wasn't an air fryer.
Resting on a bed of black silk was a collection of high-end office supplies. A fountain pen with a gold nib, a leather-bound planner with her initials embossed in the corner, and a weighted glass paperweight that looked like a captured storm. But it was the item tucked into the side that caught Elara's eye.
It was a pair of shoes.
They weren't heels. They were loafers—similar to the ones she'd worn today, but crafted from a leather so soft it looked like liquid. They were handmade, the kind of quality that cost a month's rent.
A Note
A small, heavy card sat at the bottom of the box.
A foundation is only as strong as the ground it stands on. See you Monday at 8:00 AM. Don't be late.
— R.T.
"R.T.?" Maya whispered, her eyes wide. "Rowan Thorne sent you shoes? El, that's... that's not a 'Welcome to the Team' gift. That's a 'I've been looking at your feet' gift."
Elara picked up one of the loafers. She turned it over. On the inside of the heel, stamped in tiny gold letters, was her exact size—including the slight narrowness of her left foot that usually made shoe shopping a nightmare.
A chill that had nothing to do with the apartment's draft swept through her. He hadn't just looked at her resume. He had observed her, measured her, and anticipated a need she hadn't even voiced.
"I can't keep these," Elara said, her voice trembling slightly.
"Are you kidding? Those are probably worth two grand," Maya said, though her voice lacked its usual playfulness. She looked at the shoes, then at Elara. "How did he even know where we live? You didn't give them your address until the HR paperwork, right?"
Elara felt the blood drain from her face. "I haven't filled out the HR paperwork yet. I was supposed to do that on Monday."
The silence in the apartment grew heavy. Elara looked at the cream-colored envelope from her father sitting on the table, then back at the black silk in the box.
She was running away from one man who wanted to control her life, only to walk straight into the sights of another who seemed to already own the ground she walked on.