The morning sun was just barely crawling over the city when Vanic pushed through the revolving glass doors of L&A Group, clutching a paper bag with a stale bagel and a thermos of coffee he'd barely touched.
His shirt collar was crisp. His tie knotted so tightly it pressed against his throat like a warning. He'd slept three hours at best — most of it haunted by the icy echo of Lorenzo's voice and the frantic drum of deadlines he barely understood.
No mistakes.
Don't touch what isn't yours.
Don't waste my time.
He repeated the rules to himself like a prayer as the elevator doors closed, cutting him off from the world below.
By eight-fifteen, he'd already made one mistake.
Claire appeared at his desk, her expression pinched but polite. She dropped a slim stack of folders in front of him. "Mr. Atlas asked for these contracts to be delivered to legal last night. They're still here."
Vanic's mouth went dry. "I—I thought he meant—"
Claire didn't sigh, but her eyes did. "He doesn't mean. He says. If he says, you do it. Now he's in the boardroom expecting these signed and ready."
"I'll— I'll run them down now."
She lowered her voice, a flicker of pity breaking through her practiced calm. "Don't run. Walk fast. And pray."
By ten, the contracts were signed — but the ink was barely dry when Lorenzo called him into the glass-walled conference room.
The board members — older men in suits darker than midnight — turned to look as Vanic slipped inside, clutching the folders like a child's shield.
Lorenzo didn't look at him at first. He sat at the head of the table, one leg crossed over the other, expression carved from stone. When he did glance up, it was only to flick his eyes from the folders to Vanic's flushed face.
"Late," Lorenzo said, the word cracking like ice underfoot.
"I— I'm sorry, Mr. Atlas. I—"
"Do you know what happens when a contract is late, Mr. Rov?" Lorenzo's voice was so calm it almost sounded kind — but Vanic knew better now. It was the calm of a quiet winter storm just before it buried a city whole.
Vanic's lips parted. "I— I thought—"
"That's the problem." Lorenzo's voice sharpened, slicing clean through Vanic's trembling excuses. "You thought. You don't get paid to think. You get paid to do exactly what I say."
The room was so quiet Vanic could hear the faint hum of the city twenty stories below. One of the older board members cleared his throat, shifting in his chair, but no one else dared interrupt.
"I asked for one simple thing," Lorenzo continued, voice so cold it burned. "One. And you couldn't handle it. Is this how you plan to repay the chance you were given here? Wasting my time? Making me look like I tolerate incompetence?"
Vanic's vision blurred for a moment, heat flooding his cheeks and ears. He felt small. Smaller than he'd ever felt in his life.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice raw.
Lorenzo leaned back, studying him like he was something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Get out. Before you embarrass yourself further."
Vanic stumbled out of the room, the glass door whispering shut behind him like the hiss of a snake. He stood in the hallway, blinking hard, fighting the urge to slide down the cold wall and vanish into the polished marble.
He thought of Benthy's warning: Don't let him eat you alive.
Too late.
He didn't remember getting back to his little alcove desk. His hands trembled as he stacked the folders, his breath hitching in his throat. He could feel Claire's eyes on him from her office down the hall, but she didn't come over. Maybe she knew there was nothing she could say that would make it better.
He made it another two hours.
Two hours of answering calls, sorting emails, double-checking calendar invites — every word he typed ghosted by the echo of Lorenzo's sharp voice: One simple thing. One.
At noon, Claire dropped off another stack of files. He thanked her automatically, but when she left, the neat black letters blurred.
His chest ached. His throat closed. He pressed his palms to his eyes until stars burst behind his eyelids.
Not here, he thought desperately. Not here, not here, not—
But the tears came anyway.
He ducked his head, chest hitching with silent sobs that racked his narrow shoulders. He shoved his fist against his mouth to keep the noise in. He hadn't cried since his last year in college — late nights at the library, wondering if he'd ever make something of himself. He'd promised himself he wouldn't cry again. He'd be strong. He'd make his mother proud.
Now here he was — a grown man weeping into his sleeve because one cold billionaire looked at him like he was nothing.
He felt like nothing.
A soft knock jolted him. Claire's shadow fell across his desk. He scrubbed his eyes red and forced a too-bright smile.
"I'm fine," he croaked.
She didn't look convinced. "Come with me."
She led him to the break room — a sleek space of steel and glass that smelled like burnt coffee and quiet resignation. She poured him a cup of tea he didn't ask for and pressed it into his trembling hands.
"I know he's difficult," she said gently. "He doesn't mean—"
"He does," Vanic said, voice small. He stared at the swirl of steam rising from the tea. "He does mean it."
Claire hesitated, then sighed. "You're right. He does."
That hurt worse than any lie would have.
"You're not the first," she added softly. "He breaks everyone at least once. Some people don't come back the next day. Some do. I did."
Vanic looked up at her. "Does it get easier?"
Her smile was sad. "No. But you get stronger. Or you learn to stop caring."
When Vanic finally slipped back to his desk, his eyes were dry but raw, the inside of his chest hollow. He worked mechanically — calls, notes, printing, sorting — all through the afternoon hum of the office.
Through the glass, he could see Lorenzo. The man didn't spare him a glance. He paced during calls, barked orders at partners, laughed — actually laughed — at something on his phone.
Vanic wondered if it was a joke from that club friend of his, Cole Stunner — the one everyone whispered about. Probably planning his next cold night with someone who'd never matter.
He wondered what it was like to be that free. To be that cold.
At five on the dot, Claire tapped his desk again. "Go home," she said gently. "Eat. Sleep. Come back tomorrow. You survived today — that's enough."
He nodded, gathering his things with slow, careful movements like he might break if he went too fast. He didn't look back at the glass door, though he felt Lorenzo's shadow there — looming, indifferent, impossibly distant.
As he stepped out into the cool night, the city swallowed him whole.
For a moment, Vanic wondered if anyone would notice if he simply kept walking.