Meetings with the Minotaur (Love at Labyrinth Solutions #1)

Chapter 1 Bye-Bye Basement

BYE-BYE BASEMENT

JAMIE

The elevator dings, and I brace myself for the smell.

Damp basement air, heavy with paper dust, toner, and recycled ambition seeps through the vents.

It’s not unpleasant—that award goes to the subway in August—but a year delivering mail at Labyrinth Solutions has taught me that every floor has its own scent.

I step out, clutching my bag like it's a shield against middle management.

“Torres,” grunts a troll in accounting as I pass. He doesn’t glance up from his monitor, broad shoulders hunched, tusks jutting over his lip as he types beside a teetering stack of invoices and a delicate bonsai. Accounting and the mailroom enjoy the dubious honor of being banished to the basement.

“Happy Monday, Phil.”

He grunts again. That’s about as friendly as Phil gets before noon.

I keep moving, dodging a griffin swooping down with an armful of legal pads.

Labyrinth Solutions’ tagline reads We help you find your way—ironic, considering most days I feel trapped in a maze with no exit.

But hey, the rent on my tiny studio doesn’t pay itself, and if I keep smiling, keep delivering, keep fetching, keep doing everything exactly right, maybe one day I’ll climb out of the basement and into a proper office.

Hell, today might be the day.

I push open the breakroom door and nearly collide with Greg, the IT department’s most patient orc, holding a vending machine sandwich like it’s a live grenade.

“Don’t do it,” I warn.

He freezes. “What? It’s turkey.”

“It’s gray,” I point out. “That’s not turkey. That’s regret on stale bread.”

He shrugs and eats it anyway. Greg isn’t exactly known for subtlety—or refined taste—but he’s got kind eyes, a tusky smile, and he’s the reason my company-issued laptop hasn’t burst into flames yet.

I don’t technically need a computer to work in the mailroom, but apparently corporate believes everyone deserves equal access to the daily flood of spam we inevitably ignore.

Greg and I have an understanding: I keep him caffeinated, and he makes sure my internet search history stays confidential.

“Jamie!” Amara calls from one of the breakroom tables, wings half-furled as she stirs sugar into her tea.

Her feathers catch the fluorescent light—copper, gold, flashes of green.

She’s a harpy br goddess. br—Being Resources—because Labyrinth understands talent comes in every shape, size, and species.

Amara’s a literal goddess, at least to me.

She’s the one who got me in the door a year ago.

I dump my bag onto the table and flop into a chair.

“Guess who’s playing admin assistant today?”

Amara leans against the table, wings twitching like she’s savoring the reveal.

“Me?”

My stomach flips. I moved to Crownpoint because I believe in the Community Outreach Initiative—not just as a buzzword but as the future.

Over the last century, humans and monsters have been pushing for more collaboration, slowly unwinding generations of fear.

Some cities resisted. Others tried and face-planted.

But many are doing the work. Crownpoint is one of the places getting it right.

All beings share schools, neighborhoods, and boardrooms alike, each bringing their own flair and perspective.

It’s a little chaotic, always interesting, and exactly the kind of collaboration that makes me excited to show up every day.

After a year in the mailroom, hauling envelopes and dodging delivery carts with a death wish, maybe—just maybe—today’s the day I’ll finally get to see sunlight streaming through the windows of Labyrinth Solutions’ high-rise.

The office floors above me feel like another world, all glass and polished steel, full of folks who actually matter.

And for a moment, I let myself imagine belonging up there, maybe even running into Magnus Trainor, the CEO with the kind of presence that makes your chest tighten and your brain go fuzzy all at once.

Leaving the mailroom for more than a walk-by in the halls means I could saunter into his orbit.

Hopefully, I won’t trip over my own feet while doing it.

“Congratulations, Jamie.” She fans her talons like she’s crowning me. “Vanessa Voss’s admin quit last week—honestly, she burns through them faster than we can hire new ones—and I suggested you.” She dips her chin. “Now I know you have your heart set on the Junior Strategist program…”

“But internal candidates have to be with the company for two years.” The phrase sputters out of me like coffee from the old machine in the corner—burnt, bitter, and definitely overused.

I came to Crownpoint, and to Labyrinth, for their junior strategist program.

It’s my chance to slip in the side door without the whole college-and-ass-kissing routine.

Just one more year of mailroom purgatory and I’ll finally qualify.

“Yes, but look at this as an opportunity.”

“I know, I know. Patience.”

“Exactly. Your time will come.” She glances at her phone. “Franklin just pinged me with the official word. Vanessa’s out sick, so you’re her eyes and ears until she’s back. She’ll call with instructions. Basically, do whatever she says.”

My stomach flips. “Sick? I thought vampires couldn’t get sick?”

Amara lowers her voice. “It’s some new mysterious virus. Allegedly.”

“Oh, wow. Well, I’d be honored to step in.” I take a deep breath, my heart thudding. “Finally, a chance to go upstairs for more than just delivering mail. A chance to really… make a difference.”

Amara steps closer, wings fluttering slightly behind her, her voice light but teasing.

“Vanessa’s the Head of Creative—you’re moving up to the grown-ups’ table.

This is your chance to show off all those lofty ideas you’re always talking about.

When I hired you last year, you were so hungry for every scrap of experience.

Your eagerness is endearing." She leans in a bit, a playful glint in her eye. “And all your hard work is paying off—it’s time to spread your wings.” She cringes.

“Sorry, poor turn of phrase.” She shrugs, feathers flitting. “Are you excited?”

“Nervous,” I admit. “Her office is the size of my apartment.”

“You live in a tiny studio.”

“Yes, but still. And I’ve heard her calendar looks like someone lost a bet with Satan.”

“That’s because Vanessa Voss is Satan,” Amara says with a grin. “Or at least his distant cousin. Seriously. It’s in her br file.” She taps her talons on the table. “You’ll be fine. Keep your head down, take notes, and don’t flirt with anyone.”

I blink. “Why would I—”

“Jamie.” Her tone sharpens, br mode activated. “Company policy: no extracurricular activities with coworkers.” She takes a slow sip of tea. “Especially bosses.”

I try to play dumb, which is hard when my ears go red on their own schedule. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Greg takes a seat next to me, green hand on his stomach, and clears his throat. “Mr. Trainor.”

I groan. “I don’t—okay, yes, maybe I’ve noticed Magnus Trainor.

Once. Or twice. Or every time he takes the elevator, and it sounds like the cables are weeping under the strain of his thighs.

But he doesn’t know I exist. And even if he did, I’m going to be professional.

The epitome of professionalism. If you looked up professional in the br manual, there’d be a photo of me smiling. No teeth.”

I give them my best, subdued grin.

Greg snorts. “Yeah, because you just finished spanking it thinking about the CEO.”

Amara laughs so hard she nearly spills her tea. “You’re doomed.”

Before I can retort, my phone buzzes. Vanessa’s name flashes across the screen.

It’s her.

I hold up my phone for Amara and Greg.

“Your new boss,” Greg says.

Amara juts her head forward. “Well, are you going to answer it?”

“Yes, of course. Answer.”

I fumble my phone but manage to answer before it goes to voicemail.

“Vanessa? Um, sorry. Ms. Voss?”

Her voice is tinny, staticky, like she’s calling from inside a coffin. “Jamie Torres? Is this you? A lovely harpy in br gave me your cell. Are you in my office?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ms. Voss. I mean, it’s me. Jamie Torres. Not that I’m in your office. I’m not. Not yet. But I can be. Soon. I’m headed there as we speak.”

I nod to Amara and Greg, gather my belongings from the small table where I’ve been sorting mail for the last year, and ready myself to leave.

“Darling, a favor.” Vanessa’s voice curls into my ear. “I’ve got a meeting with Magnus. Three sharp. You’ll have to take it.”

My stomach drops like a meteor crashing into the sea. “What?”

This stops me in my tracks, Amara and Greg watching my every reaction.

“You’ll be brilliant. br said you’ve been delivering mail like your job depends on it.

Which I suppose it does. Or did. Now you’re my right-hand…

sidekick, lackey, minion, pick your poison.

You get the idea, dear. And today, that means meeting with the CEO.

It’s our kickoff for planning the big pitch for the city’s outreach initiative.

Again, horrible timing on my part. But you can handle it.

I’ll give you my notes.” She clears her throat.

“It’s very PR. Very marketing. Very sunshine-and-rainbows.

It would be a tremendous deal if Crownpoint selected us.

Our firm has the most diverse workforce in the city.

This is our opportunity to show the city we’re not just capable but indispensable.

They just have to select us. Come to think of it, maybe it’s a blessing I’m…

away. You bring a perspective we don’t have yet. ”

“I do?”

“Yes, the brought-up-from-the-basement perspective.” She laughs, and my skin crawls at the sound. “But listen, Jamie-poo. There will likely be more meetings. Lots of meetings. Let’s not tell Magnus more than he needs to know. As far as he’s concerned, I’m sick.”

“But you are sick. Don’t you have some new virus?”

She lets out a small cough. “Not exactly.” Her voice drops conspiratorially.

“Listen, you’re on Team Voss now, so I need you to know everything: I’m not sick.

No mysterious new virus for me. I’m actually in Transylvania at a spa for the week, getting my teeth done.

Flew in last night. And boy are my arms tired. ”

I laugh at her attempt at a joke.

“No, sweetie,” she continues. “Literally. Why would I pay for first-class when I can just zip over on my own? Anyway, apparently this is what happens when you miss your three-hundred-year checkup with the dentist… twice. I chipped a fang on… let’s just say an ill-advised midnight snack.

And before you panic, yes, of course it was bagged blood from the blood bank.

I don’t do the messy, illegal, morally bankrupt stuff.

Please.” She scoffs. “I have standards.”

I blink at my phone, trying to imagine Vanessa reclining in a marble chair at some ultra-luxe vampire dental spa. “Right… okay. And your tooth is… okay?”

“It will be,” she says breezily. “But I simply cannot show up looking asymmetrical. The tragedy of it. Now, be a darling and handle Magnus for me. I should be back in a week. Two, if they try to upsell me on whitening.”

Handle Magnus.

“Vanessa, I can’t—he’s the CEO. He’ll expect—”

“Confidence,” she interrupts. “Now go. Chin up. Chest out. Lip balm. Pomade. Deodorant. Whatever you young people do. Bye, sweetie!”

The call cuts out, and I’m left staring at my phone.

“She wants me to cover a meeting. With Magnus.”

Greg whistles low. “The big Minotaur himself.”

Amara pats my arm with a talon. “Listen, he’s stoic, but sweet.

Clear, but kind. Everyone adores him. Plus, he’s…

magnetic as hell.” She stares off for a moment before shaking her body, feathers fluttering.

“And remember: no extracurriculars. Even if he’s seven-foot-two with eyes that make you forget your own name. ”

I manage a weak smile. “Right. No drooling. I got this.”

My stomach’s in knots as I head for the elevator.

The air on the executive floor hits different—crisper, colder.

Like they’re pumping in pure oxygen and the scent of money.

I pass the small admin desk I’ll occupy when Vanessa returns and enter her office.

The room radiates sleek menace—shades drawn tight, desk polished obsidian, chairs upholstered in blood-red leather.

It feels less like an office and more like a throne room.

Even the air is heavy, still, like it’s desperate for her return.

I hover by the blackout curtains, nerves buzzing.

It feels wrong to touch anything in here, like I’ve snuck into a dragon’s lair.

Which makes no sense. Mr. Lang’s office is down the hall.

But then I use the remote on her desk to open the shades, and sunlight spills in.

The gloom breaks apart, revealing the gleam of the Crownpoint skyline outside and throwing golden highlights across the glossy desk.

I straighten a stack of files, line up the pens, and settle into the crimson chair. For a second, I see myself reflected in the glass—definitely an imposter—but my pulse quickens with something that feels suspiciously like excitement. Vanessa’s den or not, until she returns, it’s mine.

The door creaks open.

“Vanessa?” a voice rumbles, low and rich. My stomach, still recovering from the sudden news of being transferred up here, takes another tumble.

I look up. And there he is.

Magnus Trainor.

The big boss in the flesh—massive shoulders filling the doorway, a charcoal suit stretched just enough to contain all that muscle, fur peeking out from his collar and sleeves.

His ivory horns catch the light under the recessed lights, and deep, dark brown eyes land on me.

His brow furrows, and I catch a glimpse of his tail swishing behind him.

“Oh,” he says, voice deep enough to rattle the desk. “You’re not Vanessa.”

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.