The city didn't care about my past.
Cities never do.
They only care whether you can survive them.
I was twenty-one now, standing outside Everest Corporation with a thin file tucked under my arm and exhaustion stitched into my bones. The glass building rose above me like a warning — cold, polished, unreachable.
I had lost my job three days ago.
Not because I was lazy.
Not because I was careless.
Because my little sister collapsed with fever, and I chose her over a clock-in machine.
"You can't keep leaving," my former supervisor had said, already bored. "This is a business, not a charity."
So was survival.
I walked inside anyway.
The lobby smelled like money and control. People in tailored suits moved like they belonged here — like they had never known hunger, never slept with fear breathing beside them.
I adjusted the sleeves of my worn blouse and approached the front desk.
"I'm here about the cleaning position," I said.
The receptionist looked me over slowly. Too slowly.
"Wait," she said.
I waited.
Minutes stretched. My legs burned. My thoughts drifted where I didn't want them to go — to hospital bills, unpaid rent, and the thin frame of my sister lying too still on a borrowed mattress.
Then a sudden hush fell over the lobby.
Footsteps. Measured. Heavy.
I didn't need to look up to know someone important had arrived.
But I did anyway.
He was tall. Sharp in a dark suit that looked like it had never known dust. His face was carved from discipline — no warmth, no hesitation. His eyes swept the room like a judge already tired of excuses.
Brian Carter.
I didn't know his name then.
I only knew that when his gaze landed on me, it didn't linger with interest — it assessed.
Dismissed.
"Why is there a delay?" he asked, voice calm and cutting.
The receptionist stiffened. "S-sir, she's here for—"
"The cleaning job," I finished quietly.
His eyes returned to me.
Up close, they were colder than I expected.
"You're late," he said.
"I was told to wait."
Silence.
People like him were not used to being answered.
"Follow me," he said abruptly, turning away without checking if I would obey.
I did.
Because I needed the job.
Because I had no room left for pride.
Inside his office, the walls were glass, but the man wasn't. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes locked on me like I was a problem to be solved.
"You've been fired before," he said, flipping through my file.
"For choosing family," I replied.
"Emotion is inefficient."
"So is replacing staff every month."
That made him pause.
Just for a second.
Dangerous.
"I don't tolerate excuses," he said.
"I don't make them."
Our eyes met.
For the first time, something shifted.
He didn't know my history.
Didn't know my scars.
Didn't know what it took to keep standing when the world kept pushing you down.
And I didn't know that this man — cold, controlled, untouchable —
Would soon be standing at the center of everything I had tried to escape.