The elevator doors closed with a soft hydraulic sigh.
For the first time in hours, Ava was alone.
Or almost.
The mirrored walls reflected her from every side — jacket precise, hair still in place, pupils blown wide from adrenaline that hadn't faded yet. She looked like someone who belonged on that floor.
Almost.
Her phone buzzed once in her bag.
She didn't move to take it out. Whoever it was could wait.
The numbers above the elevator ticked down: 47, 46, 45.
Each floor felt like a layer peeling away from the version of herself that had just stood at that table
By the time the doors opened onto the lobby, her breathing had steadied. Her hands no longer shook. But her mind wouldn't stop replaying it — the silence, the stares, the single word from him that changed everything.
Yes.
She stepped into the marble expanse of the Lucan lobby, and the sound of the city leaked in through the revolving glass doors — traffic, footsteps, the real world.
And standing by the reception desk, like he'd known exactly how long the meeting would last, was Ethan.
He wasn't wearing the same expression as upstairs.
Here, away from the board, away from the cameras that didn't exist but always might, he looked almost… human. Tired around the eyes. The line of his shoulders looser.
Ava stopped a few steps away. "You waited."
"I wanted to see if you'd walk out or fall," he said.
"I didn't fall."
"I noticed."
A small silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable, but sharp-edged. The kind that hums with things unsaid.
Ava's fingers brushed the outline of the folded paper in her bag. "The addendum," she said. "That was you."
Ethan's gaze didn't waver. "You earned it."
"I didn't know I was auditioning."
"You always are," he said quietly. "Everyone in that room is, every minute."
Ava let out a slow exhale. "So that's what it was — a test."
"Partly," Ethan said. Then, after a beat: "Partly protection."
She studied him. "For me or for you?"
He didn't answer.
Which was, somehow, answer enough.
The receptionist pretended not to watch them. Security at the far end of the hall had subtly turned their attention elsewhere. Power rearranged itself around him, even in silence.
"You humiliated Vanessa," Ava said finally. "In front of everyone."
Ethan's jaw flexed once. "Vanessa humiliated herself. I just refused to help her hide it."
"She's not going to forget that."
"She's not supposed to."
Ava looked at him for a long moment, trying to decide if that was ruthless or honest. It was both.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"You work," Ethan said simply. "You build the thing you promised. You make them believe change is inevitable."
"And if I fail?"
"Then I chose wrong." His tone was calm. Not cruel — just factual.
Ava felt a flicker of something she couldn't name — not fear, not defiance, but a recognition of the strange symmetry between them. The same steel, shaped differently.
She nodded once. "Then I won't."
Ethan's gaze lingered on her a second longer than necessary. Then he said, almost absently, "You still have ink on your wrist."
Ava looked down — a faint black streak, a remnant from the contract she'd signed that morning. She rubbed it off with her thumb. "You noticed."
"I notice everything," he said. Then he turned, heading toward the private exit, his voice low as he passed her. "Forty-eight hours. Don't waste them."
She watched him go.
He didn't look back.
By the time Ava reached her apartment, night had wrapped the city in glass and neon.
The adrenaline had burned off, leaving behind something stranger — not exhaustion, but alertness. Like she'd stepped onto a track that hadn't existed before and now couldn't stop moving.
Her laptop screen came to life with the Lucan crest.
Dozens of internal files had already been shared to her account: architectural renderings, expansion proposals, public perception reports.
He'd given her access to everything.
No one got that much access.
She scrolled through the documents, eyes flicking from metrics to visuals, until one caught her attention — a series of design mockups labeled "Expansion Lobby – Concept A."
Cold. Metallic. Controlled.
She stared at them for a long time before closing the file.
"Fortress," she murmured.
Then she opened a new blank document and typed the header:
Lucan Reimagined.
Underneath, she wrote a single line:
The future isn't a wall. It's a door.
And then she began to work.
Hours later, her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
Message: You still awake?
She didn't need to ask who it was.
She typed back: Working.
A moment later, the reply came.
Good. Then don't stop when it starts to hurt. That's when it gets interesting.
She stared at the words.
Then, without really thinking, she wrote:
You sound like someone who's done this before.
The dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Finally:
I have. I just never had anyone to do it with.
Her pulse tripped once — just once — before she set the phone facedown beside the keyboard.
Outside, the city lights flickered against her window.
Somewhere across town, Ethan Lucan was probably doing the same thing — awake, calculating, already three moves ahead.
And for the first time since stepping into Lucan Tower, Ava didn't feel like she was trying to catch up.
She felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Awake.
Inside the game.
And maybe, just maybe — no longer the one being played.
— To be continued. —