3. Cloe
CLOE
The message came through internal chat.
No other context. No subject line. No prep time.
Just a command.
I checked the clock. Six minutes.
Six minutes to figure out where conference 3B was, and pray my legs could carry me there without collapsing under the weight of borrowed clothes and a stomach hollow with dread.
I grabbed my notebook—half-filled with frantic scribbles and hopeful lies—and rushed into the hallway.
My skirt bunched at the sides from sitting too long, the fabric clinging to my thighs with every step.
I tugged it down, but the hem was already fraying.
It was one wash away from unraveling entirely.
I passed two assistants with matching Louis Vuitton crossbodies, their heels clicking in perfect unison. They didn’t step aside. I had to move. Their eyes barely skimmed over me, like I was background noise .
I was used to that now.
But it still hurt.
I found the door to Conference 3B halfway open. A sliver of sound slipped out—low male voices. One of them laughing.
Royal.
Of course it was him.
I wiped my palms on my skirt, heart thudding, and pushed the door open.
Three men sat at the long table.
Royal at the center, lounging like it was a photoshoot and he was the main event. Loyal beside him—back straight, sleeves rolled, pen already in hand. And a third man I didn’t recognize—mid-fifties, steel-gray hair, an expensive suit and a presence that screamed power.
He looked like the kind of man who monogrammed his cufflinks and forgot women’s names before they even walked out of the room.
Loyal looked up, just once. “Cloe,” he said, nodding toward a seat near the screen. “You’re here to observe. Don’t speak unless asked.”
I nodded. Quiet. Small.
I moved quickly, kept my eyes down, slipped into the chair like I hoped it wouldn’t notice. My notebook hit the table with a soft thud, my pen already uncapped.
Royal didn’t look at me.
Not right away.
But I felt him.
Felt the weight of his presence like it was draped across my skin.
I opened my notebook and tried to look busy. Tried to look competent. Tried to look like I hadn’t just power-walked across the floor like an imposter with a countdown in her chest.
Then Royal looked up.
Just once.
Just long enough to rake his gaze over me from behind his lashes.
And his mouth curled. Slow. Sharp.
Like he knew I didn’t belong.
Like he liked it that way.
I dropped my eyes and started writing.
The meeting began. They spoke about acquisition targets. Price per carat. Market value. International holdings.
It may as well have been another language.
I scribbled anyway, dragging down bullet points I didn’t understand, words I planned to Google later. Terms like “equity conversion” and “valuation tiering” filled the margins.
I was five minutes in—knees pressed tight, trying to disappear—when Royal leaned back in his chair and tapped the table in front of me.
“You taking notes, little intern?”
I looked up, startled.
“Yes,” I said too quickly.
His smile widened.
“Show me.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“You’re supposed to be learning, aren’t you?” His tone was mild. But his eyes weren’t. “Let’s see what you’ve absorbed.”
My stomach dropped.
Loyal said nothing.
The third man watched with passive interest, like this was part of the meeting agenda.
My hand shook as I turned my notebook and slid it across the table.
Royal picked it up with two fingers like it might bite him. He flipped through it lazily.
One of his eyebrows lifted.
“You spelled ‘valuation’ wrong.”
The older man chuckled softly.
Like it was charming.
Like it was amusing to watch a girl drown.
I felt it like a slap. A hot flash of shame climbed up my chest, into my throat, burning the tips of my ears.
Royal glanced at Loyal, then looked back at me.
“You sure this isn’t your first day at a call center?”
I wanted to sink through the floor.
“I’m—trying,” I said, voice shaking.
He pushed the notebook back toward me.
“Try harder.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the table to keep from shaking.
My jaw locked to keep my face neutral.
Loyal cleared his throat. Not loudly. Not forcefully.
Just enough to redirect.
The meeting moved on.
But my heartbeat didn’t slow.
And Royal didn’t stop watching me.
Royal pushed the notebook back toward me. He didn’t toss it. That would have been too obvious. Too kind. He slid it across the table with two fingers, like it offended him.
“Cute handwriting, though,” he murmured. “Little hearts over the i’s. Still a fan of high school romance novels?”
My face went hot.
Loyal shifted beside him. His chair creaked. “That’s enough.”
“No,” Royal said, ignoring him, eyes still on me. “Let’s test her.”
He leaned forward, fingers laced under his chin like this was a game he already knew he’d win.
“Cloe,” he said, all polite cruelty. “What’s EBITDA?”
My blood ran cold.
I blinked.
The room got quieter.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
The air shifted.
The older executive raised an eyebrow. Amused. Mildly curious. Waiting for the punchline.
Royal’s smirk widened. “I thought so.”
My stomach twisted. I felt small. Smaller than I’d ever felt in this place—and that was saying something.
Loyal looked at me then.
Just once.
But there was no comfort in it.
Only disappointment.
The kind that didn’t have to be loud to hurt.
Like I’d failed him. Like I should’ve known better than to show up unarmed in a battlefield made of suits and silent wars.
“I—I wasn’t given any briefings,” I stammered, trying to steady my voice. “I didn’t know?—”
Royal waved a hand, already bored. “Of course not. You’re here for sentimental reasons. Not qualifications.”
That stung more than I wanted to admit.
The third man cleared his throat. “Should we move on?”
No one answered.
Not really.
Loyal didn’t say anything.
He just flipped a page in his notes and nodded.
Royal leaned back like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just carved a fresh scar under my skin.
And I sat still .
Burning.
The meeting ended with the flick of Royal’s pen.
He stood, rolled his sleeves casually like the conversation had been light, fun. The older executive shook both brothers’ hands and offered a polite smile. When he glanced at me, it was the same look you gave a forgotten item in the background of a photo.
He would never remember my name.
That certainty hit harder than I expected.
I stayed seated until the room was empty.
I couldn’t trust my legs not to shake.
Loyal stood, gathered his folder and notes with the kind of precision that made me ache. He didn’t look at me. Not right away.
He walked to the door.
Paused.
Turned.
Our eyes met.
I didn’t blink.
I waited. Hoped for something. A lifeline. A scrap of kindness. A look that said this wasn’t as bad as it felt.
Instead, he said?—
“You need to be better prepared.”
I blinked. “I wasn’t told?—”
“I told you not to be late,” he said softly.
“And I wasn’t.”
“I didn’t tell you not to be ready.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I sat there in the silence, the echo of his words louder than anything else in my head.
It felt like failure. Like the kind that didn’t get second chances .
I pushed my chair back.
The leather peeled from the backs of my thighs with a sound that made me wince. I stood slowly. My knees locked. My heels wobbled on the slick tile.
I walked out into the hallway.
Head down.
Eyes on the floor.
And then I felt it.
That sting of awareness.
The weight of a gaze so sharp it cut.
Like a wire stretched tight between my shoulder blades.
I looked up.
And there he was.
Wolfe.
Leaning against the far wall like he belonged there. Like the whole building tilted toward him.
His posture was casual. One leg crossed. Arms folded.
But there was nothing casual in the way he watched me.
He wasn’t blinking.
He wasn’t hiding it.
His jaw was set hard, a muscle ticking beneath his cheekbone. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and the silver watch on his wrist caught the light like a blade.
His eyes dragged over me slowly.
Not hungrily.
Not kindly.
Like he was measuring something.
And didn’t like what he saw.
I felt it in my spine.
In the heat that bloomed between my legs—humiliating, involuntary.
Because it wasn’t attraction .
It was survival.
I felt like prey.
Like a thing.
And somehow, it made my knees weaken.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just watched.
Until I looked away.
Because I had to.
Because I couldn’t stand to feel that seen.
Not by him.
And when I finally glanced up again, he was gone.
But I still felt him.
Like fingerprints on the inside of my skin.
I stopped walking.
I couldn’t help it.
The air changed as Wolfe moved. It didn’t shift. It thickened. Like the building was holding its breath.
He pushed off the wall with the kind of quiet confidence that didn’t require power suits or titles. Wolfe didn’t move like a man in charge.
He moved like a man who had already claimed everything—and was deciding what to do with it.
He took one slow step forward.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t glance.
Just passed me.
His shoulder brushed mine—not hard, not aggressive. Just… deliberate. Enough to unmoor me.
His breath grazed my cheek. Warm. Sharp. It smelled like mint and smoke and something darker. Something that didn’t belong in the air but lived in it anyway.
I froze .
Turned, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
But he was already gone.
Like he’d never been there at all.
The hallway was empty.
But my body wasn’t.
My hands shook.
I clutched my notebook like it could steady me, like it might absorb the heat crawling across my skin. It didn’t help. I walked—unsteady now—back to my desk. The sad little space at the end of the hall. No drawers. No privacy. No dignity.
Just a chair that hated me and a screen that refused to load.
I sat down.
The screen was still frozen.
Still blinking.
Still mocking me with its eternal spin.
I didn’t care.
Because all I could think about was Wolfe.