Lena woke before her alarm, though she couldn’t remember the moment she drifted into sleep. The light outside the hotel window was thin, blue, hesitant. She lay still for one quiet breath, letting her mind arrive before her body did. Today mattered. Pretending otherwise helped no one.

She rose, showered, and dressed in a simple navy blouse and black slacks. Nothing flashy. Nothing that invited attention. She tied her hair back, smoothing out the uneven strands until they cooperated. Her hands moved without hesitation, but her stomach wasn’t as composed. It tightened each time she imagined the elevator ride to the thirty-eighth floor.

The emergency kit slipped easily into her coat pocket. She checked once, then again, resisting the urge for a third. Control had to begin somewhere.

Outside, Havenport carried its usual morning rhythm—cars moving in confident lines, pedestrians with coffee cups lifted like shields, the faint metallic scent rising from rails and pavement. She blended into the flow, letting the pace push her forward until the towering glass structure of Trent & Cole Capital appeared ahead.

It was impossible to miss. A geometric blade slicing into the sky, its mirrored surface reflecting a colder version of the world. She paused across the street, watching the revolving doors spin steadily. People entered with clipped strides and exited with phones pressed to their ears. Precision in motion.

She exhaled once, crossing when the signal changed.

Inside, the lobby rose higher than she expected, white stone panels meeting the ceiling like an overexposed photograph. The air conditioning whirred through narrow vents, producing a faint hum that settled at the base of her skull. A receptionist greeted her with a professional smile.

Final interview? the woman asked.

Yes. Lena kept her voice steady.

You can take the express elevator. Thirty-eighth floor.

The elevator doors slid open before Lena could fully brace herself. She stepped inside, pressing the indicated button. The ascent was smooth at first. Then too smooth. The numbers climbed with unnerving speed.

Her throat tightened.

She focused on her breathing. Four seconds in, hold, four seconds out. The tension eased a fraction, enough to keep her from reaching for the emergency kit. Not yet.

When the doors opened, a different atmosphere greeted her. Quieter, sharper. The thirty-eighth floor didn’t hum like the lobby—it contemplated. Every sound felt intentional. She stepped onto polished dark flooring and followed the signs toward Conference Room 4A.

Two people were already inside. Both wore suits that didn’t wrinkle. Both glanced up when she entered.

Lena Carrow? the older woman asked.

Yes.

Have a seat. Someone will join us shortly.

Lena sat where she was told, the chair firmer than expected. She placed her hands on her lap, clasped lightly, careful not to seem tense or too relaxed. The interviewers reviewed their documents with minimal expression.

The silence spread out like a surface of water—flat, deceptively calm.

The door opened again.

Cold air slipped in first.

Then a man.

Tall, dark-haired, shoulders cut in clean angles beneath a charcoal suit. His steps were measured, unhurried, as if he had never needed to rush for anything in his life. His expression held a kind of contained severity.

Silas Trent.

His presence altered the room, not with noise but with a tightening in the air. He exchanged brief greetings with the panel and then looked at Lena.

The recognition hit her too fast.

Her body reacted before her mind did—her pulse rose, the edge of her breath catching in her chest. Not panic. Something sharper. Familiar in a way she couldn’t place.

He sat opposite her, opening a slim laptop without breaking eye contact.

Let’s begin, he said.

The interview moved with an efficient rhythm. They asked about her case study submission, her analytic method, her projections for market shifts. She answered with the practiced calm she’d rehearsed for days, keeping her voice even, her thoughts collected. But Silas watched her differently. Not impatient. Not hostile. Just observant in a way that felt too precise.

When she spoke, he listened fully. When she paused, he didn’t.

He clicked to her report. Your analysis on municipal bond volatility—who taught you that risk model?

I learned it on my own, she replied. Partly from coursework. Partly from previous projects.

He nodded once. Not praise. Not dismissal. Something in between.

Another question followed. Then another. She handled each one cleanly, though her palms grew warm under the table. She shifted slightly, resisting the urge to wipe them on her slacks.

Halfway through, the older woman asked, What motivates you to pursue this field?

The question carried weight she didn’t like. Too personal. Too adjacent to places she couldn’t afford to revisit.

Growth, Lena answered. Structure. The clarity of measurable outcomes.

Silas’s gaze flickered, brief but sharp.

The interview wrapped with the kind of tight conclusion that suggested further deliberation would happen without her. The panel stood. She followed. They thanked her, and she thanked them. Her voice did not shake.

When she stepped into the hallway, she inhaled, expecting relief.

It didn’t come.

Not yet.

Footsteps approached behind her, steady and unmistakable.

Ms. Carrow.

She turned.

Silas Trent stood several feet away, but his presence felt closer. His expression hadn’t changed, though his eyes carried an intensity she hadn’t felt during the interview.

You handled the panel well, he said. A mere observation, not a compliment.

Thank you.

You’ll be notified this afternoon.

His tone left no room for interpretation. Then he paused, as if considering something he wasn’t accustomed to phrasing aloud.

Final rounds are meant to be difficult.

She wasn’t sure if that was reassurance or warning.

I understand, she said.

He gave a short nod, then turned and walked toward the far office suite, disappearing behind frosted glass doors.

The moment he was gone, her breath escaped in a quiet tremor. She pressed her fingers against the inside of her wrist, counting until her pulse retreated from the edge of a flare.

She made it to the elevator. The descent was slower this time, giving her body room to settle.

Outside, the air felt lighter. Not lighter, exactly—just less constrained. She crossed the street again, returning to the world where people didn’t dissect every word or breath.

Her phone buzzed while she waited for the crosswalk light to change.

Tessa: Alive?

Lena typed back: Barely.

Good. That’s the correct amount of alive for an interview with those people.

Another buzz followed.

Come to Eastbridge later. I’m buying dinner or dragging you out by force.

Lena pocketed the phone as she walked. The afternoon sun had warmed the pavement, and her shoulders loosened with every block she put between herself and the Trent & Cole tower.

But one thought kept circling back, refusing to dissolve:

Silas Trent had looked at her like he already knew her.

And that unsettled her more than anything else that morning.