The elevator hummed softly as Amy descended into the heart of the city, every polished floor of the building reflecting her own uncertainty. Her heels clicked unevenly, and she felt each step weigh heavier than the last. The fog in her head from the sedative hadn't lifted entirely, leaving her thoughts sluggish, her body unsteady.
Ethan's messages from earlier that morning played in her mind like echoes she couldn't shake:
"Be at work by 9. And Amy… don't make any mistakes today."
"I expect a full report on last night's incident. Don't disappoint me."
Those words had compelled her here, yet even now, standing outside his office door, they pressed against her chest like a vice. She straightened her shoulders, taking a shaky breath, before pushing open the glass doors.
The office was everything Ethan embodied: sterile, precise, intimidating. Polished wood, leather chairs, and the faint metallic tang of the city outside through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He sat behind his massive desk, the light catching the sharp angles of his face, his expression unreadable, almost cold enough to cut through her chest.
"Sit," he said, without looking up. His voice was low, deliberate, like steel pressing against her ribs.
Amy perched on the edge of the leather chair, fingers gripping its sides. Her body felt fragile, her limbs heavy, and her mind fuzzy. She tried to form words, but each attempt caught somewhere between fear and confusion.
Finally, he lifted his gaze. Ethan's dark eyes pinned her in place. "Explain yesterday," he said, clipped, without any room for excuses. "I don't want mistakes repeated. I don't want excuses."
Amy swallowed hard. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. The words she wanted to speak jumbled in her mind, weak and incoherent. She felt the weight of his presence like gravity, holding her down, forcing her to obey even as panic bubbled beneath her skin.
A soft movement at the doorway caught her eye.
Mirable.
She didn't enter; she didn't need to. Leaning casually against the wall, hair perfect, posture deliberate, her lips curved in that infuriatingly calculated smile, she radiated power. Amy felt it like a physical thing pressing against her chest. The faint click of her heels, the subtle tilt of her head, the way she lingered just long enough—all of it was designed to unsettle.
"You look… delicate today," Mirable said softly, words sugar-coated but sharp as needles. "I hope you can handle the pressure."
Amy's hands trembled. Her stomach knotted. Pressure? She wanted to speak, to defend herself, but the fog and exhaustion held her hostage. She was trapped between Ethan's icy authority and Mirable's calculated cruelty.
Ethan's gaze cut through her like a blade. "No excuses. Focus. Handle this professionally. Yesterday cannot happen again."
Her throat went dry. Every word he spoke reminded her that mistakes weren't just frowned upon—they had consequences. And the memory of last night's humiliation, drugged and vulnerable, clawed at her mind.
Mirable's subtle smirk lingered before she glided silently out of the office, leaving Amy alone with Ethan. Amy's pulse thundered in her ears, her body weak, mind spinning, but beneath it all, the tiniest ember of awareness began to stir.
Something wasn't right. Something dangerous was happening, orchestrated carefully, invisibly. She didn't understand it yet. She still trusted the Davis family, still believed they were on her side. But she could feel the first flickers of intuition, tiny sparks whispering that all was not as it seemed.
Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her notebook. She wasn't ready to fight, not yet. But the ember in her chest—the smallest hint of resolve—refused to die.
The office felt colder than ever, the light harsher, the silence heavy. Every glance at the empty doorway reminded her that someone was always watching, testing, and manipulating.
And Amy realized, even through the fog, that the storm around her wasn't finished.
It was only just beginning.