Lena arrived at the Trent & Cole building fifteen minutes early, standing near the revolving doors as the morning crowd flowed around her. The air carried the scent of coffee, polished metal, and something faintly chemical—cleaner, maybe. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and checked the time again, though she didn’t need to. Her body had been calibrated to the minute since she woke.

Her badge pickup instructions were simple, but the simplicity only emphasized the weight beneath them. First day. Thirty-second floor. Orientation. She repeated the words silently, steadying her breathing as she stepped through the entrance and into the lobby.

The lobby felt colder than yesterday. Not temperature-wise—just in tone. Monday energy radiated from the people moving through the space, brisk and practiced. Lena joined the line near the security desk, waiting as new analysts and interns collected badges. When it was her turn, she handed over her ID.

Welcome to Trent & Cole, the guard said, scanning her information.

The badge printed slowly, a laminated rectangle sliding out of the machine. Her name appeared above a small photo taken moments earlier. She clipped it to her blouse and stepped aside for the next person.

Elevator banks stretched along the far wall: low-rise, mid-rise, high-rise. Floor 32 fell into the mid-rise category. She walked toward those doors, rehearsing the orientation instructions in her mind—report to HR first, then meet the training coordinator, then join the analyst group briefing. Straightforward. Predictable. Nothing that should provoke a reaction.

Yet her chest felt tight again. She pressed a thumb to her wrist, counting until her pulse evened out. The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside with three other employees, none of whom spared her more than a brief glance. That helped more than she expected.

The ascent felt slower than yesterday’s, which allowed her body to adjust. When the doors slid open, she found herself facing a different environment entirely. The thirty-second floor was bright, lined with soft gray carpet and frosted partitions that let in diffused light. It felt less like a battlefield and more like a quiet training ground.

HR? the woman at reception asked.

Yes.

Straight down the hallway, second door on the left.

Lena followed the directions and stepped into a medium-sized room where a handful of new hires were already seated. They glanced up as she entered, then returned to their onboarding packets. She selected a seat near the end of the table, keeping her posture open but reserved.

The coordinator arrived—a brisk woman with efficient gestures. She welcomed everyone, distributed forms, explained benefits, schedules, and conduct expectations. Lena followed along, highlighting key points, maintaining focus even as her shoulders remained stiff.

At the first break, she excused herself to refill her water bottle. The break room sat at the corner of the floor, its large windows offering a clear view of the harbor. The water shimmered under morning light, currents forming thin lines across the surface. She stared for several seconds, letting the motion soothe the tension under her ribs.

When she turned, someone was standing near the door.

Eamon Price.

He was hard to miss—tall, composed, with the kind of unhurried presence that suggested he rarely needed to look for attention. His gaze flicked to her badge, then to her face, recognition settling in effortlessly.

First day? he asked.

Yes.

He nodded, stepping further inside. His suit was a softer shade than most she’d seen here, a muted gray that contrasted with the sharper lines of the office. He moved with an ease that felt intentionally different from the atmosphere around them.

Congratulations, he said. Silas doesn’t approve many candidates for analysis. His tone held no malice—just an observation delivered lightly.

Her fingers tightened around her bottle. Thank you. But I wasn’t aware he approved me specifically.

He smiled, the kind that didn’t reveal much. Most decisions go through him at some point. Especially yesterday’s.

Something under her sternum fluttered—not panic, exactly, but a shift. A reminder that her path into this company was not as neutral as she wanted it to be.

Before she could reply, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Eamon glanced past her, and something in his expression sharpened.

Silas Trent appeared at the door.

The tension was subtle but unmistakable. The air between the two men held a guarded familiarity, the kind that suggested history they didn’t speak about openly.

Mr. Price, Silas said in a tone that was neither warm nor particularly cold.

Trent, Eamon returned with similar neutrality.

Silas’s attention shifted to Lena. You’re needed in Conference 32B in five minutes. The coordinator wants to assign project groups early.

Lena nodded. Understood.

Silas gave a single brief nod and stepped away from the doorway. Eamon watched him go, then turned back to her.

Interesting timing, he murmured. His tone held something she couldn’t interpret. Not quite amusement. Not quite warning.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she left the room with measured steps, careful not to let her breathing quicken. The hallway felt too narrow as she walked, though nothing in her surroundings had changed. Only the presence of the two men and the tension that lingered between them.

Conference 32B was halfway down the hall. She entered quietly, taking a seat near the edge of the room. A few other analysts filtered in, chatting softly or reviewing notes. She focused on the binder in front of her, willing her body to stay calm.

Then the door opened again.

Silas entered, speaking quietly to the coordinator before stepping aside. She didn’t expect him to stay—executives rarely lingered during orientation briefings—but he stood near the back of the room, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable.

The coordinator addressed the group. You’ll all be assigned to teams based on your strengths and project needs. Some of you will rotate. Some of you will remain in specialized tracks.

Lena’s pulse climbed a notch.

When your names are called, please collect your assignment packet.

The process moved quickly. One by one, names were read, analysts collected folders, and the room shifted with rustling paper and soft footsteps. Lena waited, hands resting lightly on her knees.

Lena Carrow.

She stood, walking calmly to the front. The coordinator handed her a folder labeled with her name and something else—a second label, printed neatly beneath it.

Team Lead: Silas Trent.

Her breath thinned.

She stepped aside to let the next person through, gripping the folder a moment too tightly. The coordinator continued listing assignments, the voices drifting past her ears without meaning.

From the back of the room, she felt a gaze settle on her.

She didn’t have to look to know whose it was.