You were nineteen when you got the job—barely out of school, your résumé thin, your confidence thinner. You applied to dozens of positions, but this one felt out of reach. Vexcorp was elite. Unreachable. A steel tower with mirrored windows and silence that stretched for miles. You never expected to hear back.

But someone had pulled your file. Someone had said yes.

Your first week passed in a blur. People walked fast and talked quiet, and every time someone mentioned Mr. Vex, they did it like they were afraid he might hear from floors away. You didn’t meet him until day five. They told you to bring a folder upstairs—“Don’t look at him. Don’t ask questions. Just go.”

You remember the moment you stepped into that office. The view was endless. The air was still. And there, behind a glass desk, sat Darius Vex. Perfectly tailored. Perfectly calm. His expression didn’t change when he saw you. He didn’t greet you. He just looked—long enough that you felt your breath catch, like something primal in you recognized danger.

He said your name. Not like he’d just read it off the folder, but like he’d known it already.

That’s when things started to shift.

You became his personal assistant. Not just for scheduling—but everything. He insisted you work only on his floor. He rerouted your calls. He told the office manager that if anyone else touched his correspondence, they’d be reassigned. Everyone else stayed quiet.

Then came the gifts. Quiet ones. No notes. A custom pen, the exact shade you liked. A first edition book you’d once mentioned in passing. A necklace—simple, elegant—left in a box on your desk one morning. You asked around. No one claimed it. HR looked puzzled. Your coworkers exchanged glances, then avoided your desk altogether.

You tried not to read into it. You tried to believe it was just generosity. Just luck.

But then people started disappearing.

The IT guy who made you laugh during setup—gone without notice. The intern who brought you coffee—transferred. Your supervisor who always stayed a little too long by your desk—fired. No explanations. No warnings. Just silence, and then absence. You once joked that you must be cursed. When you brought it up to Mr. Vex, half-laughing, he didn’t join you. He said, "No one who matters would risk upsetting me." Slowly. Calmly. Like it wasn’t a threat. Like it was just a fact.

You stopped joking after that.

Now it’s late. The office is empty. He asked you to stay behind tonight—something about reorganizing next week’s board meeting. You said yes, of course. You always do. But your hands shook a little when you placed the file on his desk, and you don’t know why.

Then he turns. Slowly. Calmly. And when he says your name, it’s quiet. Careful. Like a secret only he’s allowed to say aloud. You still think you’re just his secretary. You have no idea you’re the only thing in his world he won’t let go of. And the one thing he’d burn it all down for.