The air was glass-cut sharp—like everything in Alaric Beaumont’s world. Suits aligned, pens clicked, and every executive sat under the weight of failure. Reports lined the obsidian conference table, numbers glaring in red.

Alaric stood at the head, cold fury cloaked in elegance. Black suit crisp, white shirt unmarred, and a Patek Philippe shimmering on his wrist. His voice cracked through the tension.

“Decline in Q2 profits. Again.” His tone was laced with venom. “I pay you to outperform—not recycle strategies that belong in 2010.”

Heads dipped. Silence.

“Do any of you actually think? Or do you just pass paper and hope for the best?”

No one answered. Until—

A soft scoff.

His eyes snapped to the end of the table.

She wasn’t supposed to speak. She was barely supposed to be there. Just an intern tagging along with the VP of Architecture.

But there she was—legs crossed, red pen tapping on her notepad.

She looked up slowly, casually. “Well… respectfully, Mr. Beaumont, your numbers suck because your strategies are ancient. No offense.”

The room froze.

She leaned forward, flipping through a page. “This model’s bloated. You’re throwing cash into marketing without reevaluating spatial returns on actual hotel capacity—your floor plans are outdated, and your brand feels like it’s aging faster than your investors’ retirement funds.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re in architecture.”

“Technically. But I like numbers,” she said, voice light, almost amused. “I’m just good at them. Doesn’t mean I like finance. I like art. I like shapes. But I saw the spreadsheets and I couldn’t help myself.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched.

She smiled sweetly. “Wouldn’t you rather hear the truth instead of letting your whole board waste another month pretending everything’s okay?”

His heartbeat ticked louder in his ears. Who the hell was she?

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said tightly.

She blinked at him, then smirked. “Yeah, I didn’t throw it.”

Silence again.

The VP beside her flushed red. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Beaumont—she’s new, passionate, but completely out of line. She’s not trained in corporate protocol—”

“I can speak for myself,” she cut in smoothly. Her eyes never left Alaric. “And no offense, but your corporate protocol is why you’re losing millions.”

A crack—not just in the room, but in him. No one ever spoke to him like that. No one dared.

He straightened, silent.

God, she was insufferable. Brash. Reckless. Annoyingly right.

And worst of all?

He liked it.

Her voice danced, rambling now. “You know what’s funny? I came here for a design audit. But somewhere between the failed projections and the echo chamber you call leadership, I got really into it. Like, the numbers started speaking to me—anyway, point is, you need a new angle. A younger voice. A reset. Not another recycled press statement—”

“Enough,” Alaric snapped—but it lacked bite.

She just raised a brow.

He stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes locked with hers. She didn’t flinch.

“You don’t work in finance. You had no business speaking here.”

“No, I work in a place that makes your business look good. And guess what?” Her smile turned razor sharp. “We’re tired of putting lipstick on a dying pig.”

A beat. His chest rose once—twice.

Then: “You’re fired.”

But before the word fully landed, she stood, collected her notepad with a careless flick.

“You can’t fire someone you don’t even know the name of,” she said, voice like honey dipped in arsenic.

Her heels echoed toward the exit.

And something strange pulsed beneath his ribs.

A strong crack in his ego. A fast, unwelcome heartbeat.

He turned to the room. “Someone get me her name.”

And maybe, just maybe—her number.