Avery arrived earlier than usual the next morning, too awake for how little sleep she’d had. Her thoughts had churned long past midnight—circling the meal program, the high-priority tag, the way Alexander Reed had looked at her in the meeting. She told herself none of it meant anything. She told herself it was coincidence, protocol, coincidence again. She repeated the word until it lost meaning, but her nerves didn’t settle.

The fourteenth floor was quiet when she stepped out of the elevator. Only a few lights were fully on, casting a soft glow across the rows of desks. Early risers murmured into headsets or typed with the steady rhythm of people who thrived in morning silence. Avery set her bag down and sat, letting out a slow breath she hoped would anchor her.

She opened her computer. For a few minutes, she managed to focus—emails, task lists, an internal training module. Things she understood. Things she could control.

Then a shadow crossed the edge of her desk.

She turned.

Another white box sat neatly in place. Same seal. Same crisp typeface spelling her name across the top.

Her breath stuttered.

She hadn’t heard anyone approach. She hadn’t felt movement. The box had simply appeared, like the building itself had decided it belonged to her.

Third day.  

Third meal.  

Third time she felt a quiet, unnerving certainty forming at the edges of her thoughts.

Jenna passed by with a notebook tucked under her arm. “Morning. That yours?”

Avery nodded. “I… I guess so.”

“You guess?” Jenna laughed softly. “Collins, normal people don’t get curated lunches. Take the compliment.”

“It still feels strange.”

“That’s because you’re new. Give it time.” Jenna lifted a hand. “Eat later. We’ve got a busy morning.”

Avery waited until she walked away before opening the box. Today’s meal looked even more deliberate than the others—grilled salmon, sautéed greens, rice with a lemon wedge tucked neatly into the corner. Balanced. Thoughtful. Personal.

Too personal.

She closed the lid for a moment, trying to steady herself.

Someone wanted her to have this.  

Someone had arranged it.  

Someone who knew her name.

She shoved the thought aside and forced herself into work. It was safer to think about numbers and deadlines than about the question forming quietly in the back of her mind. She made it halfway through a report before the ping of her inbox pulled her attention to a new message.

Meeting Addition — Finance / Exec Sync  

Attendees updated: + Collins, A.

Her heart lurched.

She stared at the invite. She’d barely survived one meeting with executives. She wasn’t ready for another. She wasn’t sure she ever would be.

Jenna appeared again, like she had a radar for Avery’s internal panic. “Oh good, you saw it.”

Avery turned in her seat. “Why… am I on this?”

“They want you to sit in on more sessions. Just observing, nothing scary.” Jenna offered an encouraging smile. “You did well yesterday.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You listened well,” Jenna corrected. “And you take clean notes. People notice things like that.”

People?  

What people?

Avery couldn’t ask. She could only nod.

The hours trickled by too slowly and too quickly at the same time. She ate her lunch mechanically, forcing each bite down even though her stomach twisted with nerves. She reminded herself it was just a meeting. Just a room. Just people.

But she knew that wasn’t true. Not when he was in the room.

At 1:28, she followed Jenna down the hall again. Her steps felt heavy, her palms damp. They entered a conference room larger than yesterday’s. Glass walls. A long polished table. Several directors gathering with laptops in hand. Avery found a seat along the side, small and unassuming.

She barely had time to open her notebook before the room changed.

A shift in posture. A quiet straightening. A subtle awareness rippling outward.

Avery didn’t need to look to know why.

Alexander Reed walked in.

He carried no coat, just a tablet and an expression that conveyed focus without effort. His presence didn’t demand attention—attention simply moved to him, the way metal moved toward gravity.

Avery stared at her notebook, pretending to read a blank page.

The meeting began. Alexander’s voice cut through the room—low, clear, precise. She wrote down words she didn’t entirely understand, but the act of writing kept her anchored. She kept her eyes down, determined not to draw any attention.

Until—

A pause.

Avery didn’t lift her head immediately. She felt the shift before she saw it, a subtle weight settling on the space she occupied. Her breath caught. She lifted her gaze by a fraction.

He was looking at her.

Not long.  

Not intensely.  

Just enough to make her feel undeniably seen.

She forced her attention back to her notebook, her handwriting suddenly unsteady.

The meeting pressed forward, but Avery barely processed the discussion. Her awareness pinged each time Alexander moved, each time he turned a page or shifted his tablet. It was unfair, she thought, how the entire room seemed calibrated around him. How even when he wasn’t looking at her, she felt the possibility hovering like static.

When the meeting ended, she stayed seated until most people filed out. It gave her time to collect herself. Time to breathe. She waited for the last director to exit before standing.

She reached the doorway—

“Collins.”

Her name stopped her like a hand to the shoulder.

She turned.  

Alexander stood near the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on his tablet. His expression was unreadable; his presence felt impossibly direct.

“Yes,” she said, her voice too quiet.

“You were taking notes,” he said. Not a question.

“Yes,” she managed. “For Jenna.”

“They were clear.”

The words were simple. Professionally spoken. Yet they struck her with force—because coming from him, clear didn’t feel like a neutral comment. It felt like a deliberate assessment. A small approval she wasn’t prepared to hold.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Continue.”

Then he walked past her, toward the hallway, without a backward glance.

But Avery remained still long after he disappeared.

Her name.  

His attention.  

The lunches.  

The meetings.  

All the small pieces aligning quietly beneath her feet.

This wasn’t random.  

This wasn’t nothing.

And the terrifying part was that she could feel it—something beginning, whether she wanted it or not.