The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that felt too delicate for the place I'd just stepped into.
Greyson & Vale Tower — a thirty-two–story monument of glass and ego, where people wore ambition like armor.
I adjusted my blazer and stepped into the lobby, heels echoing against marble. Eyes flicked toward me — some curious, some dismissive. They always looked that way when someone new walked in uninvited.
I was used to it.
My name carried its own weight in the PR world. Ava Sinclair — the woman corporations called when their reputations were one headline away from collapse. I was the cleaner, the fixer, the storm that came before calm.
But even storms have to obey the weather sometimes.
And this time, the weather was Damien Vale.
---
The receptionist led me toward the boardroom with a nervous smile. I didn't miss how she smoothed her skirt twice before knocking.
"Ms. Sinclair," she murmured, "they're waiting for you."
They — meaning the Board of Greyson & Vale, and more specifically, its youngest, coldest partner.
The moment I walked in, the air shifted.
A dozen men in suits looked up, their expressions a mix of skepticism and polite interest. But my eyes caught on one man at the far end of the long black table — tall, dark suit, hand resting lazily against his chin, like he had better things to do than breathe the same air as everyone else.
Damien Vale.
I'd seen pictures — none did him justice. The man exuded control. Not loud or performative — just quiet, absolute power. The kind that didn't need words to make the room tense.
His gaze lifted to me, steady and unreadable.
For a second, I forgot the presentation I'd practiced for two days straight.
Then I remembered who I was.
I gave a small, confident smile. "Good morning, gentlemen." My voice cut cleanly through the silence. "And Mr. Vale."
A flicker — barely — crossed his expression, as if he wasn't used to being addressed last.
Good. Let him notice me.
I placed my file on the table, unfolded my laptop, and began, "Greyson & Vale is facing a trust crisis — public backlash after the procurement scandal, leaked internal emails, and your CFO's rather… dramatic exit. My job is to rebuild your image before the next quarter."
The men exchanged glances. Damien remained silent.
I continued, "I've prepared a three-phase plan focusing on controlled media narratives, selective partnerships, and image rehabilitation through leadership transparency."
"Transparency?"
His voice. Low, unhurried. The kind that slid through a room and made people forget what they were saying.
I met his gaze. "Yes, Mr. Vale. Honesty works better than silence in a scandal. Unless, of course, you prefer silence."
A quiet chuckle escaped one of the directors.
Damien didn't move. His eyes locked on me, assessing, measuring, dissecting. "You think you can fix a billion-dollar reputation with interviews and half-truths?"
"No," I said. "I'll fix it with control. The narrative has slipped out of your hands. I'm here to take it back."
That earned me a pause.
For a moment, the room seemed to shrink — just the two of us, and that hum of challenge in the air. I wasn't sure if it was annoyance I saw in his eyes or something else entirely.
"Bold," he said finally, leaning back. "Arrogant, even."
"Confidence is often mistaken for arrogance," I replied evenly. "Especially by men who aren't used to being challenged."
A few of the board members stiffened. I didn't look at them — I only watched him.
For a second, something dangerous flickered across his face. Then — nothing. He gave a slight nod, dismissing me with the smallest lift of his hand.
"You'll have your contract drawn up by tomorrow," he said. "I'll expect results within the first month."
"Results don't appear on command," I said before I could stop myself. "They're built."
That earned me his full attention again.
"Then build fast," he murmured.
---
When the meeting ended, the others left quickly, murmuring goodbyes. I gathered my things, but before I could reach the door, I heard his voice again.
"Ms. Sinclair."
I turned.
He was standing now — taller than I'd realized, close enough that the light from the glass wall outlined the sharp cut of his jaw.
"I don't like outsiders," he said quietly. "Especially ones who think they understand my company after a day's research."
"I don't need to understand your company," I said, matching his tone. "Just its weaknesses."
Something in his eyes shifted. Interest? Irritation? I couldn't tell.
He stepped closer — not enough to cross a line, just enough to make my pulse stumble.
"You're used to being the smartest person in the room, aren't you?"
"Only when I am," I replied.
His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "Let's see how long that lasts."
---
The air between us felt charged — like a match hovering over gasoline. I didn't step back. Neither did he.
He was testing me. Seeing if I'd flinch.
I didn't.
Finally, he moved past me, his shoulder brushing mine — just barely — but enough to send a jolt straight through me. The scent of something expensive lingered in the air, sharp and clean.
He stopped at the door and spoke without turning. "My office is on the top floor. You'll report directly to me."
That was unexpected. "I thought I'd be coordinating with the communications team."
"You'll coordinate through me."
"Why?"
"Because I like to keep an eye on the people who think they can control my narrative."
He left without another word, leaving the door swinging softly in his wake.
---
The receptionist caught my expression when I walked out.
"Is he… always like that?" I asked.
She hesitated. "Mr. Vale doesn't… warm up to people easily."
I smirked. "Good thing I'm not here to warm him up."
But as I walked toward the elevator, his words replayed in my mind.
Let's see how long that lasts.
Something told me this wouldn't be a typical assignment.
Because Damien Vale wasn't a man you worked with.
He was a man you survived.
---