CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LILA
The elevator lurches to a stop.
Lila, confidence is key. If I walk in with my head held high, as if I know what I’m doing, it’s more likely I’ll get the job… Right?
I also need to make sure Beck doesn’t think I’m sad about him ghosting me this weekend, if it was him. I square my shoulders, run my fingers through my curls, and tug the blazer into place like it’s armor.
Showtime.
"Twentieth floor," the robotic voice announces. The elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, and I step out like I’ve just crossed into another realm.
My lungs forget how to breathe. It’s… stunning. No. Intimidating. Wow. He really does like to go all out.
Above me, thousands of lilac-colored flowers cascade from the ceiling like a frozen waterfall.
They hang in delicate clusters, suspended by golden wires that curl and twist like spun sunlight.
The blooms look almost real. Soft. Ethereal.
Haunting. Arranged as if they’d been captured mid-fall, frozen in time.
They remind me of that night in the maze.
The gazebo. A nightmare dressed in a fairytale.
It’s the same flowers. But why? Is that a coincidence? Or a clue?
The walls rise around me, towering slabs of white marble veined with smoky gray, polished so perfectly they catch and bend the light like mirrors. The air smells clean, cool, and fresh, with a hint of cut flowers. Like purified air, only the wealthy can afford.
Honestly, I’ve never felt so small in an empty room.
I clutch my Chanel purse tighter. My heels click across the marble, letting it be known that someone is here. Everything reverberates off the walls, like you couldn’t even whisper a secret without someone hearing it. Everything gleams. Everything screams: You don’t belong here.
And still, I keep walking. Because somewhere behind one of these doors is Beck Heartford. Whether he remembers me or not, whether he’s the Red Mask or just another billionaire with a God complex, I’m about to find out.
The receptionist desk sits at the far end of the grand hallway, and the woman behind it looks like she wasdesignedto be here.
Flawless dark chocolate skin. Amber eyes flecked with gold.
A sleek low ponytail. A white skirt suit tailored so perfectly that it had to be custom-made, and most likely was. She radiates poise.
She fits his world effortlessly. And me? I look like a hurricane in Chanel.
I approach, heart hammering like a war drum in my ears. My eyes drop to the floor. I don’t want her to see how cracked I feel beneath this outfit.
“Good morning,” I say softly. “I have a nine o’clock interview with Mr. Heartford.”
Her face lights up. “Perfect. You must be Ms. Anderson,” she chirps, voice so chipper it sounds like she’s already had three shots of espresso.
Damn. I need whatever this girl’s drinking.
“If you need anything, let me know,” she adds, flashing a movie-star smile. “I’m Jasmine. Mr. Heartford’s personal assistant.”
Let’s be honest… I can’t compete with that.
I nod, forcing what I hope looks like a calm, confident smile. But inside, I’m already planning my escape route .
“If you’re ready,” she says, gesturing toward a pair of massive double doors, “you can follow me to his office. They’ve been waiting for you.”
They? What does she mean by they?
My stomach flips.
She glides across the marble like she was born on Mount Olympus. Effortless. Regal. And I’m scurrying behind her, trying not to trip, trying to disappear into her shadow, coming in behind a goddess.
Yeah. That’s not exactly a power move.
She opens the doors, revealing an expansive office space that resembles a setting from a luxury design magazine. More marble. More gold. Everything is big, bold, and breathtaking. And then I see him.
Beck Heartford. The man I’ve never seen face-to-face without a mask. The moment I’ve replayed a thousand times in my head. What I’d say. How I’d hold his gaze. How I’d pretend not to care. But it all vanishes. Gone. Just like that.
He’s seated like a king on his throne, one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea like he owns time.
He’s wearing a white button-down, sleeves casually rolled to his forearms, and tailored brown dress pants that hug him in all the ways that should be illegal.
A matching coat drapes lazily across the back of the couch, like even his clothes know they belong here.
His sun-kissed skin glows against the crisp white of his shirt. And his hair.
God help me.
Golden, tousled curls. Effortlessly perfect. Like he just walked off a beach in Malibu.
I want to run my hands through it. Fist it tight and tug him closer until we’re lost in the same heat that ruined me Saturday night .
It frames his face with a kind of reckless elegance.
Boyish. But the kind that carries the risk of getting your heart broken because he’s the type to accidentally friend-zone you just by being nice to everyone.
And you thought his friendliness meant he was into you.
It softens him, but not enough to dull the sharp cut of his jaw or the way his ocean-dark eyes pin me like prey.
And honestly, I want to run to see if he would chase me.
It’s the kind of hair that belongs to a fairytale prince. He lowers his cup and reaches for the documents on the table, still unaware of my presence.
“Mr. Heartford, this is Lila Anderson. She is your nine o’clock interview,” Jasmine says. He looks up immediately, giving her his full attention.
“Thank you. Please let me know when my next interview arrives. That will be all for now,” he says, not breaking eye contact for a second. She blushes.
Who wouldn’t… I mean, look at him.
“Good morning, Ms. Anderson…”
“Please, call me Lila,” I cut in quickly.
“Lila, it’s great to meet you. Please take a seat and we’ll begin.”
My heart sinks to my stomach when he says my name. He has no idea who I am. Or maybe he does, and if that’s the case… he deserves an Oscar.
“Before we get started, could you tell me what our company does?”
The question throws me, but I don’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I, um…” I clear my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of how loud my heartbeat feels. He’s watching me closely, completely still, calm, and entirely focused on me. The pressure is unbearable. I glance down, twiddling my thumbs .
“Heartford Cyphers International is… a private cybersecurity and intelligence firm. You work with agencies like the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, the International Criminal Police Organization, and international nonprofits. The company focuses on tracking and dismantling criminal networks.”
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.
His gaze doesn’t waver, examining my every syllable, patiently waiting for my answer.
“Specifically, sex trafficking rings, digital slavery markets, black market webcam operations, and cyber exploitation tied to sex crimes.” I pause, trying to remember the next part without rambling.
“You build breach detection software and surveillance systems used in sting operations. You monitor the dark web to identify victims and gather intelligence. Sometimes even going undercover to… to help.” My voice wavers, but I push through.
“You use data. Hacking. Encryption. Digital forensics. Behavioral profiling. You find the patterns other people miss. But it’s not just about data. ”
I glance up and meet his eyes, even though it makes my stomach twist. “It’s about people.
About finding the ones who get lost in all the noise.
About saving them.” I take a breath, and suddenly I’m not reciting facts anymore.
“I know what it’s like to feel powerless.
To watch someone you love suffer and not have the tools to help.
Mr. Heartford, I know how to fight. Quietly.
Desperately. When no one’s watching. And I believe that kind of perspective matters here. ”
I pause. My throat tightens. “I notice things other people overlook… because I’ve been overlooked. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be part of something bigger. Something that actually changes lives.”
He stares deep in my eyes, and I can’t read his reaction .
Did I say something wrong? Did I screw it up? Should I get up and leave?
Then he smiles. Not a polite smile but a real one. Warm and full, with a flicker of light in his eyes that sends butterflies plunging straight into my stomach.
“Wow,” he says. “That was phenomenal.” He leans back slightly, still watching me.
“The reason I ask is because some people don’t really understand what this company does, and it becomes overwhelming to them.
So, we prefer to explain everything during the first interview.
But it seems like we won’t have to do that with you. ”
We? First Jasmine said we… now him.
I glance around. It’s just him in this luxury office.
Does he have a rat in his pocket or something?
I straighten my spine.
“Yes, sir. I’ve known what this company represents since I was a senior in high school.”
He rubs his thumb slowly across his bottom lip like he’s thinking.
Sir, please don’t do that in front of me. I can’t control myself around you.
“What inspired you to pursue a career in this industry?”
My lips part, but no words come out. I glance down at my hands. They are trembling as the memory creeps in, uninvited. I lace my fingers together, trying to stop the shake, trying to steady my breath.
Tell him the truth. You can trust him.
"I..." My voice is so soft I barely recognize it. "Can I be honest with you?"
Beck nods once, slow and solemn. "Of course." His voice is gentle. His posture is polished and attentive, every inch of him focused like I’m the only thing that matters in the room. They are warm and comforting, like we are the only two people in the entire building.
I swallow hard. "I was seventeen," I whisper. "Late for a shift at a coffee shop. I thought I’d save time by cutting through a back alley."
My nervous system is on edge, every muscle locked tight. It’s hard to even say the words out loud because if I do, it makes it real. A reality. One I barely survived. "In that alley… I was taken."
The words hang between us. Too loud. Too quiet. Too final. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch. He just listens.
"I woke up in a room that felt wicked. The walls were damp. No windows. Just cracked concrete, the steady sound of dripping water, and this awful smell… like death was hiding in the corners." My voice catches. I force it out anyway. "It was pitch black. But I could hear him."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from falling apart in front of my potential boss.
Not yet. Don’t fall apart yet.
"He had a Russian accent. Cool. Calm. Almost gentle.
Like he had done it before. Like, I was not even a person to him.
Just another girl. Another number." The next part clogs my throat like cement.
But I say it. "Every second felt like it lasted an hour. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me…
but I knew what he wanted to happen. And I thought… " My voice cracks, breath hitching
"I thought I’d die there. Just vanish. Be forgotten." I pause. The silence sharpens around me. “He said if I didn’t do what he told me, he’d ruin my family. He knew we were poor. Knew we had nothing. He used it to scare me, and I believed him. I was terrified. And alone.”
Tears burn behind my eyes. I don’t let them fall.
“I did what he said. I walked down this motel hallway that reeked of sex and stale smoke. The carpet was sticky against my bare feet. The walls looked bruised. Like they’d been hit repeatedly.
There were holes in the drywall. Jagged.
New. Everything about this foreign place screamed violence.
But the one thing that I will never forget is… ”
A long pause. I force the words out like they're knives in my throat. “The red door.”
Beck doesn’t speak. His jaw is locked in place.
I barely whisper. “I was seconds away from losing everything. My family. My virginity. My identity. Who I am. And then… your company saved me. I didn’t even know it was real at first. I remember flashing lights.
Men in bulletproof vests. Shouting in a language I didn’t understand. And then he was gone, and I was saved.”
I exhale, but it feels more like a collapse. “I still dream about it sometimes. The door. The hallway. His voice. I still panic, out of nowhere, like he’s right behind me. My brain forgets I survived.”
Silence. It’s crushing. But I force myself to finish.
“That was the night I started having panic attacks. I never told anyone what happened. Not my parents. Not my best friend. I guess, it felt like if I said it out loud, it would crawl back into my life and retake everything.”
I blink quickly, but a tear escapes anyway. “I guess I want to work here because if I can help someone escape their own red door, then maybe what I went through won’t be in vain.”
The silence stretches. Thicker than before. A thousand unspoken things fill the air.
Beck’s expression doesn’t change, but somethingin himdoes. His jaw tightens .
His hands lower to the table, as if moving too quickly might break something inside him. Then he sets his coffee down with care.
“Lila…” His voice is faint and somber. “Thank you for telling me that.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and there’s a softness in his eyes sharp enough to split me open.
“What happened to you should never happen to anyone. And the fact that you’re here, in this room, telling me this…
” He pauses, his throat working as he swallows.
“That’s courage most people will never understand.
And the fact that you want to work here, with the pain you’ve gone through… that’s exactly why you do belong here.”
My chest caves in. I don’t know if I’m about to cry or vomit or run out of the room. But then he adds, gently, like a promise: “You belong here. With this company. With us. With me.”