Chapter 3 The trial

She didn't speak.

Not for a second. Maybe two.

Then she did what women like her did best-she adapted.

"Mr. Kane," she said, voice cool, crisp, controlled. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

His eyes landed on her. Unblinking. Deep.

No reaction.

No flicker.

No acknowledgment.

Just that same glacial stare.

She didn't move. Neither did he.

Something pulsed in the air between them. Rome, pressed between glass and marble.

She wondered if he remembered the taste of her mouth.

She wondered if he remembered saying her name.

"I expect discretion," he said. "Efficiency. Clear boundaries."

"You'll get them," she replied.

He didn't shine with recognition.

He merely acknowledged her presence with that mild tilt of his head.

"Miss Clarke," he said, voice low and precise.

She forced a calm nod, swallowing past the sudden dryness in her throat.

"Mr. Kane," she replied evenly.

He gestured to the chair. No smile. No handshake.

"Please sit."

Viviane stepped forward, crossing the room with careful balance, and lowered herself into the leather seat. The moment her skirt touched the cushion, a faint click echoed-a chair too well-made to mute noises meant to be heard.

He sat at the same moment, paper rustling. She watched his fingers, long, deliberate turn the folder toward him. He didn't open it, merely glanced at the cover.

An assistant's voice crackled softly from a hidden speaker.

"Mr. Kane, your nine-thirty is here."

He didn't move. He waited.

Viviane held her breath.

Then he pressed a button on his tablet, and the speaker fell silent.

He looked back at her.

"Shall we begin?"

She nodded once.

"Of course."

He opened the folder. Glanced down.

"Your résumé arrived via internal referral. Margot Lane?"

"Yes," Viviane said. "She and I collaborated on the Halverton project."

"She speaks highly of your discretion," he observed, voice even.

He looked up, meeting her gaze directly. The briefest hint of challenge flickered in his eyes.

"Discretion is vital in this role."

Viviane inclined her head.

"I understand."

She watched his jaw clench once, just enough to show something stirred beneath the surface of his calm. Then he flipped the page.

"In London last quarter," he said, "you managed scheduling for five simultaneous board meetings with zero conflicts. Walk me through your process."

Viviane inhaled. Reached into her memory bank.

"I cross-referenced each attendee's time zone, flagged overlapping windows, and built in buffer intervals, thirty-minute blocks, to accommodate overruns. When conflicts arose, I negotiated adjustments directly with the executive teams, prioritizing key stakeholders and ensuring clear communication at every step."

He listened, eyes steady. When she finished, he nodded.

"Efficient."

He turned the page again.

Viviane kept her answers succinct. Her gaze unwavering. The room felt smaller with each exchange, the windows' view of the city a distant backdrop to the pressure building here.

Twenty minutes in, she noted he hadn't asked a single personal question. No hint of the night in Rome. No mention of anything but business.

She wondered if he'd intended it-if avoiding her history was his way of keeping the rule intact.

Never mix business with pleasure.

But every beat between them said that rule was already broken.

Finally, he closed the folder.

"We'll proceed with a three-month trial period," he said. "Your start date is Monday." Meet Marcus for your resume letter.

He reached for his pen, paused. Then placed it down again.

Viviane opened her mouth to speak, thank him, clarify details-but nothing came out.

He looked at her, expression almost gentle.

"That will be all."

She stood.

Her legs felt light.

Her head was humming.

"Thank you," she managed.

He didn't rise.

He didn't offer his hand.

He just watched her, watching her as though measuring every step she took away from the desk.

Viviane crossed back to the door once, twice. Before turning.

"Mr. Kane," she said softly.

He looked up.

"Yes?"

Her pulse pounded.

"I... appreciate the opportunity."

He inclined his head.

"I expect discretion. Results. No excuses."

"You'll have them."

And then she left.

The door closed behind her.

Her chest heaved.

The corridor's hush swallowed her footsteps.

Her mind replayed every second-the tilt of his head, the flicker in his jaw, the way he'd kept his distance even as he broke his own rule.

She leaned against the wall, exhaled.

Inside, something taut and electric trembled.

Outside, Manhattan roared as if nothing happened.