I lay on the futon with my eyes open, listening to the city breathe through the cracked window. Sirens rose and fell somewhere far away, a drunk couple argued on the sidewalk below, life kept moving like nothing had changed, but everything had changed for me.
The folder sat on the floor beside me, I hadn't closed it since I brought it home, I was afraid if I did, it would disappear. Or worse, prove I imagined it. At some point near dawn, I sat up and dragged it back onto my lap.
Numbers marched down the pages, dates, transfers, accounts that fed into other accounts, then vanished offshore like ghosts. I understood more than I wanted to. Money laundering, corporate theft, and threaded through it all, like a signature carved into bone...
A.S.
I traced the initials with my thumb, Alexander Stone. The name sat heavy in my mouth, even silently. I reached for my laptop, the glow of the screen felt harsh in the dim room, I typed his name and hit enter. There he was, everywhere.
Alexander Stone: billionaire CEO of Stone Industries. Visionary, innovator, philanthropist. The kind of man journalists described using words that sounded religious.
His face appeared again and again, different angles, the same expression. Cold control wrapped in expensive confidence, he didn't smile with his eyes, he didn't smile much at all.
I clicked article after article.
Mother died in a plane crash when he was six, father died due to heart issue when he was sixteen, took over the company at twenty-three. Ruthless acquisitions, aggressive expansion, lawsuits that quietly disappeared, competitors crushed, then absorbed.
No scandals, no criminal records, no mention of my mother. I leaned back, my stomach tight. Men like this didn't get caught, they didn't leave trails unless they wanted to. Which meant my mother had seen something she wasn't supposed to.
My phone buzzed, I flinched. A text from my father.
Don't forget, interview today, 9 a.m. Stone Tower.
I checked the time, 7:15 a.m. My chest constricted.
Stone Tower.
The name sounded different now, less like a building, more like a warning. I stared at the text, then at Alexander Stone's face on my screen.
The universe had a sick sense of humour.
I showered on autopilot, the water slid over my skin without registering, my hands shook as I buttoned my shirt, I chose black pants because they felt safe, invisible, armour. In the mirror, I looked like a stranger trying to play adult.
"You can still walk away," I whispered.
But my reflection didn't answer.
The subway ride blurred past, I barely noticed the stops, every rattle of the train felt like it was shaking something loose inside me. I kept imagining hands on my shoulders, eyes watching. By the time I stepped onto 52nd Street, my palms were slick with sweat.
Stone Tower loomed above me, glass and steel piercing the sky, it didn't look real, it looked like a monument to money so powerful it didn't need to explain itself. I stood across the street for a full minute, then another. I thought of my mother's notes, of the way her handwriting grew tighter near the end, of my father in the hospital.
If I turned around now, nothing would change. If I went in...
I crossed the street.
The lobby swallowed me whole. Marble floors, art that probably cost more than my entire life. People moved with purpose, like they belonged here, like they owned the air.
I didn't.
Security stopped me before I reached the elevators.
"Name?" the guard asked.
"Maya Wells, interview, nine a.m."
He scanned his screen, then me, his gaze lingered a second too long.
"ID."
I handed it over, my fingers brushed his, he didn't smile.
"Elevator bank C," he said finally, clipping a badge to my shirt. "Ninety-nine."
My breath caught.
"Ninety-nine?"
"That's where Mr. Stone's office is."
Of course it was.
Elevator bank C was quieter than the rest of the building, glass walls, no chatter, no music. I stepped into an empty elevator and pressed the button, the doors slid shut with a soft, ominous hush. The elevator climbed fast, my ears popped, the city shrank beneath me, people turning into ants. With every floor, my sense of safety peeled away.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
Ninety-five.
I smoothed my shirt, tried to steady my breathing.
Ninety-seven.
I pictured Alexander Stone's face again, tried to imagine him capable of murder.
The doors chimed.
Ninety-nine.
They opened.
And he was standing right there.
Close enough that I could smell him—clean, sharp, expensive. He was taller than I expected, broader, his presence sucked the air out of the space.
Alexander Stone.
The man from the photos didn't do him justice. In person, there was something predatory about the way he stood, relaxed, alert, like he was always waiting.
His eyes locked onto mine instantly. Ice-blue, unforgiving. For a heartbeat, the world froze.
This is him.
My legs went numb. His gaze flicked to my visitor badge, then back to my face.
"Going up?" he asked.
His voice was calm, smooth, like nothing in the world could surprise him.
"I..." My tongue stuck. "Ninety-nine."
"You've arrived."
"Oh." I swallowed and stepped out of the elevator, my shoulder brushing his.
The contact jolted through me.
He stepped inside the elevator, the doors began to close.
I should've let them. I didn't.
"Wait," I said.
The doors slid open again.
"Yes?" His tone was polite, almost amused.
"I have an interview," I said quickly. "Special projects analyst."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"The interview's with me."
My stomach dropped hard. "With you?"
"I do the final interviews." His gaze swept over me slowly, clinically. "You're early."
"I didn't want to be late."
"Good."
He stepped out, the elevator doors closed behind him.
"You're on the wrong floor," he said, walking toward an unmarked door, he swiped a card, the lock clicked open, he held it there.
Open, waiting, every instinct screamed danger.
He turned back to me, one brow lifting slightly, not impatient, curious.
"Second thoughts, Miss…?"
"Wells," I said. "Maya Wells."
"Second thoughts, Miss Wells?"
Yes, a thousand of them. I thought of my mother's handwriting, of the last page, where the notes stopped abruptly, of my father's tired eyes.
"No," I said.
I stepped forward. The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.
And I knew...
whatever happened next, there was no turning back.