Velvet chain

The boardroom was a mausoleum of ambition.

Andrea Delacroix stood at the head of the long obsidian table,a flawless silhouette in tailored black Armani.Her dark heels echoed against the marble floor like a metronome of menace,each steps measured, elegant,cold. The glow of the chandelier above cast a halo around her, but she was no angel. She was a Storm in stillness, and everyone at the table knew it. Twelve executive sat in polished leather chairs, their back rigid, spines straightened by fear alone. No one spoke. No one dared. The silence stretch like piano wires, tight and brittle, ready to snap. Andrea's gaze drifted slowly, deliberately, across the table. Her red lips curled not in amusement but in disdain " you missed the target" she said, her voice smooth as velvet, sharp as glass. James her CFO, shifted in his chair. "The market took an unexpected hi_" " I don't care about the market" Andrea interrupted. " I care about results. I don't pay you the predict the weather, I pay you to survive the storm". A faint ripple of discomfort passed through the room. No one defended James. They wouldn't risk it. Andrea Delacroix has a reputation not for cruelty,but for precision. Her decisions were lethal, not because they were emotional but because there were right. Always right. She stepped closer to the table, placing her well manicured hands on the cool surface. Her red nails tapped softly a rhythm that made the interns near the door flinch " you get one chance with me" she said softly " don't waist it" James paled . Andrea straightened, adjusted the diamond necklace around her neck, and turned without another word. The meeting was over. She didn't need to say it. Her silence was command enough. The elevator door opened with a soft chime, and she stepped inside alone, pressing the button to her private floor. As the door slid shut, her shoulders relaxed just slightly. Just enough. She closed her eyes. Behind them, for a moment she wasn't Andrea Delacroix, billionaire CEO and media darling. She was just a woman trying to breathe through a glass coffin of power. A face flashed behind her eyelids dark hair, soft smile, eyes that used to look at her like she was magic. She opened her eyes again before the pain could take root. Never again. She reminded herself. Never trust them again. Never believe then and. The elevator ding softly, and the door slid open. Back to the world. Back to the amor. That night, the office was mostly empty, save for the hum of the city lights and the whisper of the wind against the glass . Andrea returned to her penthouse suite inside the tower minimal, spotless, all gray and chrome. She liked her space the way she liked her mind: clean, unbothered, untouched. She poured herself a drink neat scotch, two fingers and walked barefoot to the massive window, staring out over the glittering New York skyline. Her empire. Her fortress. And yet somewhere below, she saw movement. A man in uniform . Cleaning staff. probably new. She almost turned away. But something made her pause. He moved with purpose. Not shuffling routine of someone beaten down by life, but the quite grace of someone who chooses silence. Like he didn't belong here but refuse to apologize for it. Odd. She narrowed her eyes. He looked up . And for one electric second...... Their eyes met. Dark clear. Intense. He didn't look away neither did she. Then with the smallest tilt of his head not a nod , not submission, just acknowledgment. He turned and disappeared down the hallway. Andrea blinked. Her pulse ticked faster. She wasn't used to being looked at like that. Not anymore. Not without fear... Or desire..... Or calculation. That look had held none of those things. Just recognition. And for the first time in years, Andrea Delacroix felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest. INTEREST.