Chapter 2 Reality Check

Viviane

The moment she stepped off the plane at JFK, it was like the air changed.

Colder.

Heavier.

Like New York itself didn't care that she'd just come back from the only night in years where she'd felt free.

Her phone buzzed even before customs.

Three missed calls from her mother. Two from the clinic. One from a number she didn't recognize, but she had a sinking feeling it was the insurance office again.

She didn't check the messages.

Not yet.

Not while her feet still carried traces of Rome, and her body still ached in places she refused to name.

Her apartment was exactly how she left it.

Quiet.

Dim.

Three stacked envelopes on the counter, rent, utilities, and a medical bill for Matteo's latest appointment.

Viviane dropped her suitcase in the corner and sat on the floor, back against the front door, coat still on.

She didn't cry.

She didn't breathe.

She just stared at the numbers on the overdue notice.

And told herself she'd figure it out.

She always did.

By the third day back, the scent of Rome had faded from her skin.

She washed the red dress and hung it in the back of the closet.

Blocked the number from Italy she didn't recognize.

Buried the memory of his mouth on her skin and the way he whispered her name, like he shouldn't have known it.

And she told herself it was nothing.

One night.

No strings.

She had more important things to worry about.

Matteos's medication cost more than her last freelance check.

Her mother called three times a day, not to ask how she was doing, but to ask if she'd gotten another job.

"You can't just float forever, Viviane," her mother said one morning over speakerphone. "You're not twenty-five anymore."

"Thanks for the reminder."

"I'm not being cruel. I'm being practical."

"I'll figure it out."

"You always say that."

Viviane ended the call before she said something she couldn't take back.

Then opened her laptop.

She applied for twenty-two jobs in two weeks.

Admin positions.

PR firms.

Financial offices.

Even a part-time studio assistant gig with a wellness startup she knew wouldn't last past the spring.

Anything to make the bills go away.

Anything to keep her brother's appointments funded.

She updated her resume.

Scrubbed her LinkedIn.

Wrote the same cover letter fifteen different ways.

Most didn't respond.

The ones that did offered interviews that went nowhere.

At night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

And sometimes, when her guard slipped, she thought of him.

The stranger in Rome.

The man who said nothing but touched her like she was the only real thing in the world.

She didn't regret what they did.

She regretted leaving without knowing why he felt so familiar.

Then, one Tuesday morning, she got the email:

Interview Invitation – Kane Global Holdings.

We are pleased to invite you to the final candidate interview for the position of Executive Assistant (Office of the CEO).

She blinked.

Kane Global?

She didn't remember applying there.

She double-checked her spreadsheet of applications. Nothing.

Still, the email was real. Clean. Professional.

The salary listed at the bottom made her stomach flip.

She didn't know much about Kane Global, but she knew enough to recognize the name. They didn't do mass hiring. They didn't post jobs publicly.

Which meant someone must have sent her resume.

She reread the message again.

A final round interview.

She hadn't even done a first.

It didn't make sense.

But she was too desperate to question it.

She confirmed the interview.

Set the time in her calendar.

Pulled out her last pair of pristine heels and the navy-blue sheath dress she reserved for meetings that mattered.

She straightened her hair. Went over her references. Rehearsed interview questions aloud in her bathroom mirror.

She didn't know what Kane Global saw in her-but she'd be damned if she let the chance slip.

Viviane's heel struck the wet pavement of Seventh Avenue with a deliberate click, echoing through the crisp March air.

Steam billowed from manhole covers, mixing with the scent of freshly brewed espresso drifting from a nearby cart. She kept her eyes forward, watching her reflection in store windows-navy sheath dress, black coat draped over her arm, résumé folder secured under her elbow like a shield.

Her chest tightened as she reached the Kane Global tower. She stepped into the marble lobby and told herself.

This is just a job.

This is just another office.

This is your future calling you back to life

She chalked it up to nerves.

Or maybe the fear of hoping again.

Of wanting too much.

Of falling.

The building rose in a single, unbroken column of smoke-tinted glass. No ornate marquee, no blaring logo, just clean lines and authority. She took a steadying breath, eyes tracing the vertical frame until the revolving doors beckoned.

Inside, the lobby swallowed her in near-silence. Polished obsidian floors reflected the high, white ceiling, where recessed lights glowed like distant stars.

A lone sculpture, twisted metal ribbons, hovered over a shallow water feature, its motionless surface broken only by a single droplet falling, falling. The hush felt sacred, unwelcoming.

Viviane approached the reception desk, where a woman in charcoal gray bespoke waited without looking up. The badge scanner beeped as Viviane presented her temporary ID.

"Miss Clarke," the receptionist said flatly, tapping a tablet once. "Please proceed to the executive elevator. Fifty-second floor."

No invitation to sit. No small talk. Just another piece of business.

She followed the sign to a side corridor where a uniformed guard stood beside a nondescript elevator.

The panel held no buttons-only a card reader and a small numeric display. He raised his hand, scanned her badge himself, and the display lit up: 52. A soft chime summoned the doors, and he nodded her forward.

Inside the elevator, smooth brushed-steel walls reflected her split expression: anticipation tempered by dread. No floor buttons. No music. Just the gentle hum of cables and the faint click of the card reader under her palm.

She glanced at her résumé folder again, fingertips brushing the raised letters of her name on the cover. VIVIANE CLARKE. It felt surreal to see it there, as if naming her was the first step toward claiming her future-or shackling it.

The doors slid closed. The elevator rose. She counted each floor in her mind: 45... 47... 50...

The higher she climbed, the fiercer the stillness became, until it pressed against her eardrums. She closed her eyes briefly, centered herself. She had prepped for this. She'd run through likely questions, polished her anecdotes, rehearsed her composure. She wouldn't let a single tremor betray her.

When the doors opened on fifty-two, the silence deepened. Light filtered down a wide corridor lined with frosted-glass office doors, each labeled only by a small brass plaque.

The carpet was a muted charcoal, absorbing her footsteps. No assistant stalls. No water coolers. Just... purpose.

She walked to the end of the hall, each step measured, each breath contained. A silent voice in her skull reminded her: This is just a job. You can do this. Breathe.

The last door stood ajar. A brass plate read Chief Executive Officer. She paused, hand hovering on the handle, then crossed her arms and exhaled. The door swung in.

Light spilled from floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing a desk carved from dark mahogany, bare except for a single document folder and a slim digital tablet.

Behind it stood Xavier Kane, no jacket, shirt sleeves rolled once; the picture of controlled power. He was slender but broad-shouldered, hair impeccably styled, expression composed. Hands in his pocket.

Her heart turned sideways.

He turned around.

And the moment froze.

Her pulse misfired. Her breath caught, just barely.

Not memory.

Not illusion.

Reality.

He was real.

He was here.

And he was her boss.