Nora Grayson bolted through the revolving doors of Vortex Innovations, her heart slamming against her ribs. The Chicago headquarters towered above her, glass and steel piercing the sky, a monument to power she'd only dreamed of entering. First day. New job. No time to gawk. Her travel mug sloshed in her grip, chamomile tea scalding her fingers through the lid. She'd overslept, alarm didn't go off, bus was late, and now she had six minutes to reach floor 42. Don't screw this up, she chanted, dodging suits in the lobby, her flats skidding on marble.
The elevator bank loomed ahead, a swarm of polished professionals cramming in. Nora sprinted, squeezing into the last elevator as the doors hissed shut. "Sorry, sorry," she muttered, wedging between a woman in stilettos and a broad-shouldered guy in a gray suit. Her mug wobbled, tea slopping against the rim. She clutched it tighter, breath hitching. Stay calm. You're a mechanical engineer, not a klutz.
The elevator lurched upward, floor 5, 10, 15. Nora shifted, her elbow jabbing the guy next to her. "Watch it," he growled, low and sharp. She flinched, barely glancing up—tall, dark hair, expensive cologne, but the elevator jolted again, and her mug slipped. Tea erupted, splashing across his white shirt and down his trousers in a hot, amber cascade. Gasps ricocheted through the crowd.
"Oh crap!" Nora yelped, lunging to catch the mug. It clattered to the floor, rolling under feet. "I'm so sorry, I didn't…"
"Watch where you're going, you clumsy idiot!" His voice sliced through her, venom dripping from every syllable. She snapped her head up. He was gorgeous, black hair swept back, blue eyes blazing, jaw clenched like a predator's, but his glare was pure ice. Tea soaked his shirt, plastering it to a chiseled chest, and his trousers were a ruin. He swiped at the mess, furious.
"It was an accident!" Nora shot back, heat flooding her face. "I said sorry…"
"Sorry?" He barked a laugh, cold and cutting. "This suit's worth more than your rent. You think 'sorry' fixes that?" His eyes raked her over—wrinkled blazer, cheap shoes, and his lip curled. "Pathetic."
Anger flared, drowning her panic. "It's tea, not a Molotov cocktail. Chill out." The words flew before she could stop them. Snickers rippled through the elevator, but his gaze darkened, lethal.
"You've got nerve," he hissed, stepping closer. "Learn some respect, or you won't last a day here." The doors dinged—floor 42, and he shoved past her, storming out, leaving her reeling in his wake.
Nora stumbled after him, pulse pounding. Jerk, she thought, snatching her mug from the floor. The engineering floor buzzed, cubicles, screens, chatter, but she barely noticed, still fuming. Who was that guy? Some stuck-up exec, probably. She'd avoid him. Had to. She darted to the orientation room, three minutes late, and slipped into a back-row seat.
The room hummed with new hires, nervous laughs, coffee cups clinking. Nora's hands shook as she set her mug down, tea stains mocking her. Focus, she told herself. This job at Vortex, renewable energy giant, her ticket out of broke—was everything. She wouldn't let one rude guy ruin it.
The door banged open, and silence crashed in. A man strode to the front, tall, commanding, radiating power. Nora's stomach plummeted. It was him. Fresh shirt, same scowl, same piercing eyes. Whispers hissed around her: "Damien Voss." "The CEO." "He's a shark, he eats people alive."
Her breath caught. The CEO? She'd spilled tea on Damien Voss? The billionaire who'd built Vortex from nothing, notorious for firing people on a whim? Her mind spun, his venom, her sass—and dread clawed her chest. I'm toast.
Damien scanned the room, his presence a storm cloud. "Welcome to Vortex," he said, voice smooth but edged with steel. "You're here to be the best. Weakness doesn't cut it." His gaze landed on her, and a smirk flickered. "Some of you should start by not screwing up before you've even clocked in."
Laughter tittered, oblivious to her sinking heart. Nora gripped her mug, nails digging into ceramic. He knew. He knew it was her. She stared back, defiant despite the terror coiling inside. He turned to a screen, rattling off stats—wind turbines, solar grids—but she barely heard, lost in a haze of what now?
Minutes blurred. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—HR, a text: Report to the CEO's office. Now. Her gut twisted. Fired already? She'd barely unpacked her bag. Damien wrapped up, dismissing the group, but his eyes flicked to her again, cold and unreadable. She stood, legs shaky, and bolted for the hall.
The elevator ride to floor 50 was a blur—empty this time, thank God. Her reflection stared back in the glass: pale, wide-eyed, a mess. The doors opened to a sleek corridor, Damien's office at the end. She marched forward, each step heavier, and raised a fist to knock.
The door swung open before she could. Damien loomed there, arms crossed, tea-stained shirt in a heap on his desk. "You," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Give me one reason I shouldn't fire you right now."
Nora's mouth went dry, her career flashing before her eyes. She opened her lips to speak—and the fire alarm blared, lights flashing red, cutting her off as chaos erupted behind them.