By her second morning at Reed Financial, Avery moved through the lobby with a little more certainty, or at least with enough practiced calm that she didn’t feel like she was trespassing. She scanned her badge, stepped aside for someone hurrying behind her, and headed for the elevator bank with the quiet hope that today would feel slightly less like a test she hadn’t studied for.

On the fourteenth floor, the office was already alive with movement. People leaned over cubicles, exchanged updates, made early calls. Avery slipped into her seat, set her bag under the desk, and woke her computer. Overnight emails had reproduced again—ten unread this time, which felt strangely manageable.

She was halfway through sorting them when something entered her peripheral vision.

A small, rectangular box. White, sealed, neatly placed at the edge of her desk.

She blinked at it.

It hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Avery glanced left, right. No one looked her way. The office didn’t seem aware that a mysterious object had materialized on her desk.

She reached for it cautiously, the way she might approach a package that wasn’t meant for her. A printed label sat on top:

REED DINING — PERSONALIZED MEAL PROGRAM  

Recipient: Collins, A.

Oh no.

Her stomach dropped a full inch.

She looked around again, more urgently this time. This had to be related to the health screening email—some automated enrollment she’d accidentally clicked on. Or maybe she hadn’t even clicked on it. Maybe the system didn’t need her permission. Maybe this was normal.

She opened the lid.

Inside was a compartmented meal more beautiful than anything she would ever have chosen for herself: grilled chicken with a glossy glaze, roasted vegetables in precise rows, rice sprinkled with herbs, a small lemon wedge tucked neatly into a corner. Not cafeteria food. Not even restaurant takeout.

This looked…personal.

Too personal.

Avery checked the label again, as if it might change. She tried to remember whether anyone else had mentioned receiving a meal plan yesterday. Nothing. Not a word.

She typed a quick message to Jenna on the internal chat.

Hi — sorry to bother you, but I think I received something by mistake?

A minute later, Jenna appeared at the side of her desk, mug in hand.

“What’s up?”

Avery pointed at the box. “Um. This.”

Jenna leaned in, inspected it, then straightened with a shrug. “Meal program. Wellness initiative. They’re rolling it out one department at a time.”

“But… I didn’t… sign up for anything.”

“Sometimes they enroll people automatically if there’s a screening scheduled.” Jenna took a sip of coffee. “Lucky you. These are supposed to be actually good.”

Lucky.

Avery tried to smile, though her confusion remained firmly in place. “So… this is normal?”

“For some people,” Jenna said. “Don’t overthink it. Eat. You’re tiny.”

Then she walked off toward a meeting, leaving Avery staring at the meal that definitely still felt not normal.

She checked the hallway, half expecting someone to come back and take it away. No one did.

So she opened the biodegradable utensil packet, stabbed a piece of chicken, and took a careful bite.

Warm. Balanced. Not overly seasoned. Exactly the kind of healthy meal a nutritionist would design for someone who needed… she didn’t know, better overall functioning.

She glanced again at everyone else’s desks. People ate yogurt cups, protein bars, sandwiches brought from home.

No one had a meal like hers.

She ate slowly, trying to make the whole thing feel less strange. Maybe she wasn’t the only one. Maybe other people picked theirs up somewhere else. Maybe hers had simply been delivered earlier.

She was mid-bite when a voice behind her said, “Excuse me.”

Avery turned.

A man with a tablet stood there, wearing a Reed Dining polo. “Sorry, just verifying delivery. You’re… Collins?”

“Yes.” She swallowed quickly. “That’s me.”

He tapped on the tablet screen. “Great. Your meals will arrive around the same time each day. Let us know if you have any allergies or adjustments.”

“Each day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She froze. “Um—I’m not sure I’m supposed to—”

“It’s arranged,” he said simply. “If you have concerns, contact HR.”

Arranged.

By who?

She watched him walk away, disappearing around the corner toward the elevator bank. Her pulse fluttered in confusion. HR wouldn’t arrange something like this personally for a new hire. And she definitely hadn’t requested it.

She tried to focus on work, but the questions kept looping in her head. Between emails and spreadsheets, she found herself glancing at the empty meal box beside her keyboard, then at the entrance to the floor, half expecting someone else to appear.

Around noon, she pushed the box aside and headed to the break room to refill her water bottle. Two analysts were talking near the fridge—quiet but not quiet enough.

“—nah, that’s definitely one of the wellness lunches.”

“Yeah, but they don’t just give them to anyone.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Someone upstairs has to approve it.”

Avery tightened her grip on her bottle.

They weren’t talking about her meal… probably. Couldn’t be. She wasn’t important enough to be “one of those” people. Maybe they were talking about executives. Directors. People with real responsibilities.

Back at her desk, she tried again to concentrate. Numbers blurred, reformed. Her thoughts drifted back to the man she’d seen on seventeen yesterday—the quiet authority, the way the room seemed to hold its breath when he spoke.

Ridiculous connection. There was no connection.

She was a first-week nobody.

He was the CEO.

She shook her head and kept typing.

An hour later, she stood to stretch and nearly collided with Jenna returning from a meeting.

“Oh—sorry! I didn’t see you.”

“All good.” Jenna pointed at the empty meal box. “You finished it?”

“Yes. It was really good, actually.” Avery hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure this program isn’t… unusual?”

“For you?” Jenna raised an eyebrow. “Maybe a little. They don’t usually start new hires this early. But like I said—don’t overthink it. If someone wants you functioning at your best, let them.”

Someone?

Avery felt her mind stutter.

Jenna didn’t seem to notice. She just set down her mug and added, “Honestly, Collins? Take the win. Most people around here don’t get anything unless they’ve proven themselves for about eight years.”

Then she walked away again.

Avery sat back down slowly.

Someone wanted her functioning at her best.

Who?

Why?

She looked at the meal box again.

It wasn’t just lunch.

It was intentional.

And suddenly, she had no idea what that meant—or what she was supposed to do about it.