Chapter 9 SAVED BY THE ELEVATOR

CALLIOPE

A loud, insistent pounding rattles my door.

"Calliope! Wake up! You're late!"

Julia's voice slices through my sleep-heavy brain like a knife.

Late?

My eyes snap open, and panic floods my system. Morning light streams through my curtains-too much light. I grab my phone, fingers clumsy, and groan. My alarm never went off. Or I slept through it. Either way, I am screwed.

I fling my covers back and stumble out of bed. "I'm up!"

The door swings open before I even finish the sentence. Julia, arms crossed, brows raised, looks entirely too put-together for this hour. "You have twenty minutes. Coffee's brewing."

Bless her.

I yank open my closet and grab a navy dress. Classic cut, cinched waist-professional but not suffocating. Perfect. I hop on one foot while pulling on my nude heels, nearly face-planting in the process.

Julia's voice drifts in from the kitchen. "You know, if you wanted an entrance on your first day, showing up fashionably late is a bold choice."

"Not intentional!" I shout back, buttoning the dress at lightning speed.

I snatch my handbag, shove my phone inside, and practically dive into the kitchen. Julia hands me a steaming cup of coffee like a guardian angel with great hair. I take a scalding sip, wincing, but there's no time for patience.

"Love you forever," I say, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before bolting for the door.

"Try not to die in those heels!" she calls after me.

No promises.

The moment I step outside, the crisp morning air smacks me awake. The streets hum with the usual chaos-horns blaring, people speed-walking like their lives depend on it, the faint scent of fresh bread from the bakery down the block. My bus stop is three blocks away. I check my phone. If I sprint, I might make it.

I take off.

My heels clack aggressively against the pavement, my bag bouncing against my hip. A man with a briefcase throws me a disapproving look as I dodge around him. Too bad, buddy. I am a woman on a mission.

I spot my bus just as it pulls up.

"Wait! Hold the-"

The driver gives me a look that says not my problem, but I manage to fling myself inside just before the doors wheeze shut. Victory.

I collapse into a seat, pressing a hand to my forehead. Okay. I made it. I'm on my way. Everything is fine.

Except for the fact that I now have approximately seven minutes to compose myself before walking into GreenYield and pretending I have my life together.

Piece of cake.

The glass doors of GreenYield come into view just as my lungs threaten to riot. I push forward, dodging a man with a briefcase, nearly colliding with a woman in stilettos who looks at me like I'm a personal offense to corporate elegance. My heels slap against the marble floors as I stumble inside, the air-conditioned lobby hitting me like a wall of expensive indifference.

The receptionist, whose name I should definitely remember by now, barely glances up as I skid to a stop. She's the kind of woman who probably wakes up looking effortlessly polished, with her sleek blonde bob and a blazer that screams I run this place, but I don't have to say it out loud.

I check the time. Still technically within the acceptable window of not being late. I can still salvage this.

I spin toward the elevators just as the doors start sliding shut.

No. Nope. Not happening.

"Hey! Hold that!" I yell, my voice echoing across the lobby.

The man inside hesitates for a second before sticking his hand out to stop the doors. I don't even have time to say thank you before I launch myself forward, half-running, half-leaping inside. The doors close behind me, sealing me in with the scent of leather and something that smells expensive.

I finally look up.

Orion.

Of course it's Orion.

His steel-blue eyes sweep over me, taking in the light sheen of sweat on my forehead, my slightly disheveled hair, the way I'm still catching my breath like I just ran a marathon. And then-because he's him-the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement.

"You're late," he says, leaning back against the mirrored wall, looking entirely too composed for this hour of the morning.

I straighten, pretending I have any control over this situation. "Technically, no. I'm within an acceptable time frame."

He hums like he's considering it. "You were sprinting through the lobby."

I wave a hand. "More of a... brisk jog."

His smirk deepens. "Right."

The elevator hums around us, smooth and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos inside my brain. My nerves are still wired, my pulse too fast, and somehow, that makes me talk.

"So, uh-how's work? Or, well, obviously you're here, so it's happening-oh! Julia made me coffee this morning, which was great because I almost died of exhaustion. But then-oh! Julia has a cat now! Did I tell you that?"

Orion raises a brow. "No."

I nod rapidly, because once I start talking, stopping is impossible. "Yeah, so, she picked her off the side of the road. Super tiny thing. All fur and attitude. We named her Pumpkin-well, Julia named her Pumpkin. I wanted something dignified, like Cleopatra, but apparently, no one listens to me in my own apartment. Well, our apartment..."

Orion's lips twitch. "Tragic."

"I know, right?" I huff. "And Pumpkin-don't be fooled by the name, by the way-has already claimed the place as her personal kingdom .We pay rent. I contribute to groceries. But somehow, Pumpkin is the one who owns the couch. And my bed. And now, apparently, my skin."

I hold up my hand, showing him the thin red scratch across the back.

His eyes flick to it. "She did that?"

"She attacked me." I sigh dramatically. "I was just existing. You know, as one does. And she went full feral."

Orion studies the scratch, then glances at me. "You sure she didn't just sense your brisk jog energy?"

I scowl. "You are not on Pumpkin's side."

"I don't even know Pumpkin."

I cross my arms. "Exactly. And yet, here you are. Taking the enemy's side."

He chuckles, shaking his head, then, casually-too casually-he says, "Give me your number."

I blink. "What?"

"I'll send you something for the scratch."

Nice try.

I narrow my eyes. "No."

He tilts his head, feigning innocence. "What?"

"You promised," I remind him. "No number requests. That was part of the deal."

His smirk deepens, but before he can respond, the elevator dings.

I don't wait.

I sashay out before he can say another word, my heels clicking sharply against the floor. Over my shoulder, I toss, "Nice talking, boss man!" and disappear around the corner, making a beeline for Ms. Davenport's office.

Ms. Davenport doesn't look up immediately when I step into her office. She's typing, fast and precise, her nails clicking against the keyboard with the efficiency of someone who probably edits entire reports in her sleep.

She finally spares me a glance over the rim of her glasses. "You're late."

Not a question. Not even particularly irritated. Just a fact, sharp and to the point.

I open my mouth to defend myself-because, technically, I wasn't late-late-but she's already standing, grabbing a folder, and nodding for me to follow.

"We don't have time for that. Come."

I snap my mouth shut and scramble after her as she marches through the hall, her heels clicking with an authority I can only hope to fake one day.

"This is the main work floor," she says as we pass a wide open space lined with sleek desks and massive monitors. The people here don't even look up, completely absorbed in their work. One guy has three screens filled with code, another has a dashboard of charts that look way too complicated for this time of the morning.

I nod like I totally understand what they're doing.

Ms. Davenport continues, barely pausing. "Conference rooms on the left. We book them for team meetings, but if you need one, check the system first."

She strides past a long glass wall where a few people are deep in discussion, one of them pointing at a whiteboard covered in scribbles.

We pass the break room, and she gestures vaguely. "Coffee, tea, fridge, microwave. Don't leave your dishes in the sink. People here don't tolerate mess."

Noted.

She points down another hallway. "Restrooms. You can figure those out on your own."

I nod quickly, making mental notes as we move. My brain is still catching up with the speed at which she operates.

Finally, she stops outside a door and pushes it open.

"This is your office."

I step inside, scanning the space. It's a decent size, with two desks facing opposite directions, each with a monitor, keyboard, and a chair that actually looks comfortable. The walls are lined with shelves, mostly filled with books and binders. There's a potted plant in the corner, and a small window lets in just enough light to keep the place from feeling like a cave.

The guy at the other desk looks up from his laptop.

"Calliope," Ms. Davenport says, brisk as ever. "This is Kyle."

Kyle is tall, a little scruffy in that I-work-too-much-to-care way, with dark brown hair that falls into his eyes when he tilts his head. He nods in greeting.

"Hey."

"Hey," I echo.

"Kyle's a senior data scientist. You'll be working closely with him. If you have questions, ask."

Kyle nods again, leaning back in his chair. "I'll try not to scare you off."

I smile, but before I can say anything, Ms. Davenport is already heading for the door.

She pauses just long enough to glance over her shoulder. "Welcome to GreenYield, Calliope. Happy first day."

And then she's gone.

For the first time since stepping into the building, I actually breathe.

Kyle watches Ms. Davenport leave, then turns back to me with a small smirk. "So, first day. Feeling overwhelmed yet?"

I huff out a laugh, dropping my bag onto my desk. "Oh, absolutely. If Ms. Davenport moved any faster, I think I'd be legally classified as a whirlwind victim."

Kyle chuckles. "Yeah, she doesn't believe in wasting time. You get used to it."

I slide into my chair, adjusting to the feel of my new space. "So, senior data scientist. Does that mean you get to boss me around?"

"Technically," he says, stretching his arms behind his head, "but I promise to use my power responsibly. Mostly."

I narrow my eyes. "Mostly?"

Before he can answer, the door swings open with no warning, slamming against the wall.

Orion strides in like he owns the place. Which-well, he kind of does.

His sharp, ice-blue gaze locks onto me instantly, ignoring Kyle entirely.

"I need to borrow you," he says, tone leaving zero room for argument.

I blink. "For what?"

His mouth quirks like he's already amused at how thrown off I am. "A minute."

Kyle raises an eyebrow but wisely says nothing.

I look between the two of them, heart suddenly hammering for reasons I don't have time to unpack.

Orion gestures impatiently. "Now, Calliope."

And just like that, I'm on my feet, following him out the door-straight into whatever storm he's about to throw me into.