Elara
Monday mornings had a certain rhythm at Voss Publishing—coffee-fueled chatter, the click of heels, the soft hum of keyboards filling the glass-and-marble space. But that morning, the rhythm stumbled. Conversations broke mid-sentence, laughter dimmed, and the air turned heavy as if the walls themselves had been warned to stay quiet.
Because Damon Voss was in the building. He hadn't made an appearance in the office since Elara started, but word spread fast—he'd arrived at dawn, black car with his security sliding into the underground lot before most employees even finished their morning coffee. His presence rippled through the staff like a silent storm. Meetings were rescheduled. Voices lowered. The air thickened with nerves.
Except for Elara Quin.
She sat at her desk, fingers gliding over her keyboard, completely unaffected—or at least, appearing that way. Her red hair was tied up in a loose bun, one rebellious strand falling into her face. The faint gleam of her glasses reflected the document on her screen, but behind them, her hazel eyes flicked occasionally toward the glass office upstairs. The one he occupied.
"Girl, you're not even pretending to be scared."
Stella plopped into the chair beside her, clutching a mug the size of her face. "The man's back and everyone's acting like death just clocked in. You're sitting here typing like it's casual Monday."
Elara smirked faintly. "I don't see the point in panicking about someone who probably doesn't know my name."
"Oh, he knows your name," Stella whispered dramatically. "He's been calling in people all morning. Like, personally calling them. You know how terrifying that is? The man doesn't even use email. He just appears."
Elara's smile widened. "Maybe he's just hands-on."
Stella groaned. "Hands-on? Please. Last time he was 'hands-on,' someone quit, two cried, and one fainted. And... " She stopped suddenly, eyes widening as her gaze shifted past Elara. "Speak of the devil."
Elara didn't turn, not immediately. She finished typing the sentence before glancing up, calm and unreadable. Damon Voss was walking across the office floor. Even his presence felt choreographed—crisp black suit, green eyes cold and calculating, hair a mess of dark auburn that made him look too effortless for the power he held. Every step commanded silence. He didn't need to speak for the room to obey.
His gaze brushed over the space briefly before landing on her. Not long enough to call attention to it, but long enough for Elara to feel it. That assessing, unreadable look that stripped layers rather than glanced.
Then, just as quietly, he spoke. "Miss Quin. My office. Now."
The air stilled.
Stella's hand froze halfway to her coffee mug. "You're dead," she mouthed silently.
Elara rose, heart steady. "We'll see.
Damon didn't look up when she entered. His desk was an organized chaos that somehow mirrored him.
"You wanted to see me, Mr. Voss?"
He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes flicking to her. "Do I detect hesitation, Miss Quin?"
"Curiosity, actually."
He studied her for a moment—an unhurried, disarming silence. Then, "Your report last week was concise. Efficient. But too impersonal."
"Too impersonal?"
"You write like someone who hides."
She blinked, unsure if it was an insult or a compliment. "And you read like someone who looks for ghosts."
That earned the faintest smirk from him. The kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You'll be joining the internal communications review this week. Daily briefings. I expect you there."
"That's not my department."
"It is now." He returned to his papers, effectively dismissing her.
By Wednesday, it became clear that Damon Voss was not assigning her tasks—he was testing her.
Every morning, she found herself in his office or summoned to meetings she had no reason to attend. He asked questions he already knew the answers to, challenged her logic, watched her with that silent, predatory patience.
Most people flinched when he spoke. Elara met his gaze head-on, every single time.
And that intrigued him.
The staff began whispering—"She's still alive?" "He called her again?"—like it was a miracle. Even Stella joked that Elara had some kind of death wish. But Elara couldn't bring herself to care.
Because beneath his coldness, beneath every veiled remark, she sensed something—interest. Not the personal kind. The dangerous, analytical kind. Like he was dissecting her with his eyes, waiting to see what she'd do next.
The truth was, she'd started this job to gather information. She needed to know what Voss Publishing was hiding, what it was connected to. Her father's death wasn't random—she was sure of it.
And if Damon Voss wanted to watch her closely? Fine. She'd let him. She'd use his attention against him.
By Thursday, the tension between them became almost routine. Until Jamie arrived. Her younger brother showed up unannounced, all energy and charm, wearing that easy grin that Elara could never say no to. They met at a nearby café during lunch break, and to her surprise, Damon and Alex were there too—apparently finishing a meeting of their own.
Elara tried to ignore the way Damon's gaze flicked to her when he saw Jamie. The change was subtle, but unmistakable. His composure tightened, interest sharpening as he observed the two of them.
Jamie, blissfully unaware, leaned back in his seat. "So this is the famous Voss Publishing. I was half-expecting everyone to wear black capes."
Elara chuckled. "Some of them might."
Across the café, Alex Dobrick smirked and leaned toward Damon. "She's different, isn't she?"
Damon didn't answer, but his jaw flexed. His eyes stayed on her, analyzing the way she laughed—unguarded, natural, something he'd never seen in her at work. It didn't fit the woman who met his stare without flinching.
He stored that image away.
A weakness. A softness. Leverage.
That evening, Elara's thoughts lingered on Jamie's words about a quote he liked "The toughest revenge could be found in Records"
He was right. If she wanted answers, she had to take risks. Damon Voss had unknowingly opened a door by drawing her closer. Now, she'd step through it.
The elevator ride Up to the 9th floor of Voss Publishing felt longer than it should. The hum of the lights above her head was too loud, the air too still — like the building itself was holding its breath.
Elara's badge blinked green at every checkpoint. Damon's authorization code had granted her access to nearly every corner of his empire, but this particular floor — the archives — wasn't on any employee orientation map. Still, she'd memorized the code Stella mentioned offhand earlier that day while gossiping about where old contracts go to die.
Now, the steel doors slid open with a hiss.
The air down here smelled of dust, ink, and old secrets.
Rows upon rows of shelves stretched out in neat, endless lines, filled with documents dating back decades. Each labeled year sat in perfect order, a meticulous timeline of Voss's legacy. Her eyes flickered over the numbers until one caught her breath — 2010.
Her chest tightened. That year was carved into her bones.
She walked toward the far end of the aisle, her heels barely making a sound against the polished floor. Her fingers brushed over file spines, skimming through client names and merger titles until her eyes stopped 'Voss Technologies - 2010 - Confidential.
For a second, her pulse stopped.
The air felt colder.
Her name — her father's name — Arthur Quin — was typed neatly on a line beneath the header.
Elara's throat went dry. Her father had worked for Voss technologies in Chicago before quitting, before… before everything burned. But what was his name doing here, under Voss Technologies? When he already quit months before his death and why was it confidential?
Her hand trembled as she reached for the folder.
Just a peek. Just enough to understand—
Footsteps.
She froze.
They were slow, measured — the sound of power and patience descending into her silence.
Elara's fingers instinctively tucked the folder back into its slot and turned, forcing her pulse to slow as she pivoted toward the sound.
And there he was.
Damon Voss.
The dim golden lights along the ceiling carved the shape of him in shadow — tall, broad, impossibly composed. His black shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, veins flexing as he adjusted his watch. The faint scent of smoke and something expensive trailed after him, curling around her nerves like invisible hands. His figure filled the doorway
He didn't look surprised to see her. If anything, his eyes — that merciless, green fire — softened for half a second, then cooled again.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The hum of the air conditioning filled the silence.
Elara straightened, "You work late," she said, voice level but too quick. "Or do you make a habit of sneaking up on your employees?"
Damon's lips twitched — not a smile, exactly. More like something he might do before a strike. "You're the one digging through archives marked confidential at eleven p.m.," he replied smoothly, his tone low, a current of dark amusement beneath it. "Should I assume you're looking for a promotion?"
Her pulse kicked, but she met his gaze. "Maybe I'm just… curious."
He stepped closer, his presence pressing against the room's air, thickening it. "Curiosity," he murmured, "can be a dangerous thing, Miss Quin."
Her jaw tightened. "Dangerous for who?" she asked quietly, but her voice trembled — not in fear, but from the effort of holding her ground.
Damon's gaze dropped briefly to the file in her hand, then back to her face. "Put it back," he said, his voice calm but edged with authority. "Those records are from before your time."
Elara's mind spun. Before my time. Before you and your Company killed my parents!
But she swallowed the words, pressing them behind her teeth. She had no proof yet. Heck! His name might just be there because he worked for them once so not yet.
Instead, she said lightly, "I didn't realize you kept relics from the past in such perfect condition."
He leaned a little closer, one hand bracing on the shelf beside her, trapping her between the cabinet and his body — not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of smoke and cedar that clung to his suit.
His voice dropped. "Some relics," he said softly, "should stay buried."
Her heart pounded. "And what if some of them deserve to be found?"
He looked at her then — really looked at her — and for the first time, something flickered in his expression. A shadow of recognition? Of danger? She couldn't tell.
"Then, Elara" he said finally, his voice a whisper that slid over her skin like silk, "you'd better be ready for what they'll reveal."
Her breath caught — not because of the warning, but because of the way he said her name, he'd never said her name before, he said like it was something he wanted to understand rather than say.
For a moment, the air between them thickened. The lights above buzzed faintly; her pulse thrummed loud enough she was sure he could hear it. He studied her face for a moment — too long, too intently. His gaze dipped, not with lust, but analysis. Like a man reading a language he almost recognized.
"You're not afraid of me," he said finally.
Her lips tilted, just a fraction. "Should I be?"
"Most people are."
"But then again not everyone is invited by you to meetings they have no business with so maybe I'm not most people. I'm special. "
That got a reaction — the faintest lift of his brow, a hint of something like amusement flickering behind his control.
He exhaled quietly, straightened, and stepped past her — deliberately close. His hand brushed the edge of the file shelf beside her, and the subtle graze of his presence felt like static.
"You should head home," he said, his voice low, like smoke sliding through her ribs. "It's late. And I don't tolerate exhaustion in my employees — it leads to mistakes."
"Is that a threat or advice?"
He paused at the doorway. "Depends," he said without turning. "Do you make a habit of breaking rules you don't understand?"
And with that, he left — no parting glance, no backward look. Just that calm, measured stride fading down the hall until all that remained was the echo of him and the pounding of her heart.
Elara leaned against the shelf, breathing hard. The scent of old paper filled her lungs. Her gaze flicked back to the file on the shelf— the one marked Confidential. Her father's name still burned in her mind.
She whispered to the empty air, "What were you doing in their world, Dad?"
Her reflection stared back at her in the polished glass of the cabinet — quiet, defiant, alive. And for the first time since she'd joined Voss Publishing, she realized something.
Damon Voss wasn't just her boss.
He was the lock.
And she had just found the first key.
The city stretched below him — a sprawl of lights, noise, and chaos. From his office, it looked peaceful, almost obedient. Unlike the storm in his head.
Damon's hand tightened around the glass he hadn't touched in over an hour. The amber liquid trembled.
He had left her standing in the archives. Silent. Pale. Her eyes somewhere between defiance, annoyance and shock but never guilt. He didn't look back when he left — not even when her lips parted, searching for a comeback that never came.
He'd just walked out.
Now, the image wouldn't leave his mind.
Elara Quin in the restricted wing— her fingers brushing the spine of a Voss Technologies folder marked Confidential: 2010.
Her father's name printed in bold black ink.
Damon exhaled slowly. Once. Twice.
He should've confronted her. Demanded answers. Threatened to fire her. But something — something about her stillness — had kept him silent.
"What the hell are you doing, Elara?"
He whispered it into the empty room, his voice low, rough.
Because if she had gone digging where she shouldn't… then she either didn't know who she was dealing with — or she did.
And that was worse.
The city lights flickered against the glass as he set the drink down, untouched. His reflection stared back — sharp suit, colder eyes, jaw tight.
He turned from the window.
Tomorrow, he decided, he'd act like nothing happened.
Let her think she'd gotten away with it.
Let her breathe.
Then he'd take everything from her.
Piece by piece.
"You shouldn't have gone looking, little fox."
In a city of eight million people, their collision wasn't fate — it was inevitable.
And the silence between them had just learned how to breathe.