[Elle's Condo]
It had been exactly seven days, sixteen hours, and forty-three minutes since Elle Carter's life had spun off its carefully curated, Pinterest-board-approved axis.
Not that she was counting.
She was sprawled across the couch like a tragic Victorian widow in yoga pants, one arm flung dramatically over her eyes, the other clinging to a half-eaten tub of salted caramel ice cream.
"I haven't recovered from the breakup," she announced solemnly to no one in particular. "And I don't mean emotionally. I mean physically. Spiritually. Cosmically. My chakras are in shambles. My aura looks like a traffic accident."
From the kitchen, Luna rolled her eyes so hard they nearly filed for workers' comp. She stirred sugar into her coffee like it had personally offended her. "Babe, it's been a week. You're not a ghost haunting your own living room. Snap out of it."
Elle groaned, her face still buried in the couch cushions. "You don't understand… My one-night stand was a man carved by angels and sculpted by the devil. He looked like a walking Greek tragedy with abs. ABS, Luna. I haven't slept. I haven't healed. I haven't found my other heel!"
Luna took a calm sip of coffee and said, in the tone of a woman who'd had this conversation six times already, "Elle. You need to get up. Take a shower. Wear adult clothes. And go to work. You've already taken the whole week off, and if you call in dead one more time, HR is going to dig up your corpse and fire you posthumously."
Elle let out a wounded noise. "Life is so cruel," she whimpered into the upholstery. "First Calen cheats on me with a woman who looks like she eats nothing but air and sadness, then I sleep with an actual demigod—and now I can't even mourn in peace because capitalism demands I wear pants and smile at people."
"Elle."
"Luna."
"You're being dramatic."
"I am drama."
Luna walked over, yanked the spoon from her hand, and stared her dead in the eye. "If you don't get off this couch in the next five minutes, I will personally drag your glittery, emotionally unstable ass to the office and make you walk in wearing this exact outfit—fuzzy socks and all."
Elle gasped, clutching her chest like she'd been shot. "You wouldn't."
"I would," Luna said calmly. "And I'd live-stream it."
Elle sat up slowly, a defeated queen accepting her fate. Her hair was chaos. Her eyeliner from last Friday still haunted her under-eyes like the ghost of bad decisions past. She blinked blearily at her best friend.
"Fine," she muttered. "Fine! I'll go. But if I see anyone smiling too much, I swear to God, I'm tripping them."
"That's the spirit," Luna grinned, tossing her a coffee like it was a sword before battle. "Now go forth, my tragic little phoenix. Rise from the ashes—and maybe, for the love of skincare, use some concealer."
Elle groaned again, but this time with the slight dignity of a woman who was at least attempting to face the dumpster fire of reality.
Little did she know… The real chaos was waiting at the office.
***
[Monday – 9:00 AM | Veritas PR & Media Solutions]
The cab rolled to a stop in front of Veritas PR & Media Solutions, the sleek glass building gleaming like the crown jewel of corporate ambition.
Elle stepped out with the grace of a woman who hadn't slept properly in seven days and had just waged psychological warfare with her closet before finally surrendering to a monochrome power suit that said, "I'm fine"—but her eyeliner said, "I've seen hell and brought snacks."
The sun hit her like a personal insult.Her heels clicked against the pavement with each reluctant step.Her iced coffee sloshed dangerously, like it too was over this nonsense.
She sighed, running a hand through her chaos-curls, and muttered under her breath, "I look hot. I feel like death. This must be what a dehydrated supermodel feels like during Fashion Week."
Yes, she looked good. Too good for someone who'd been dumped, emotionally wrecked, and possibly possessed by the ghost of bad decisions. But our Elle? She believed in appearances, caffeine, and faking it 'til she made it.
What Elle no longer believed in, however?
Fate.
Fate was a liar.Fate gave her Calen. Then snatched him back and slapped her across the face with trauma and abs.
Nope. She was done with fate.
…Which was ironic.
Because as Elle strutted through the automatic glass doors, praying her brain would reboot by the time she reached the elevator, she didn't know—
That Fate?
Fate still believed in Elle Carter.
Because from the top floor of that shimmering tower of power, inside an office that probably had its own zip code, someone was watching her.
No—staring.
Someone with perfect posture. An even more perfect smirk. And cheekbones sharp enough to slice through corporate egos.
Damien Wolfe.
CEO.God-tier smirker.The man who currently had a black coffee in one hand and her business card in the other.
Damien Wolfe stood in front of his floor-to-ceiling window like a Bond villain on his lunch break.
Perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Coffee in one hand. A glint in his icy blue eyes. The skyline glittered behind him, but his gaze?
Locked on the sidewalk below.
On her.
Elle Carter.Still dramatic. Still sexy. Still dragging herself through life like it personally betrayed her.
She had no idea he was up here.Watching. Waiting. Plotting.
And enjoying the absolute mess she was.
Damien took a slow sip of his coffee and stirred it lazily, his pinky barely twitching. The kind of motion that screamed, I own your salary. And probably your soul.
From below, Elle suddenly shivered.
She glanced around, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Okay, ghosts? I'm not in the mood today. I already broke up with a guy who compared me to his aunt. Then I accidentally slept with his hotter, meaner twin. I am done with supernatural fuckery. If you're here to haunt me—at least pay rent."
Her eyes scanned the street, saw nothing, and huffed, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder. "Ugh. Paranoia. Great. Now I'm not just heartbroken—I'm haunted."
Meanwhile, from his vantage point, Damien's smirk deepened as he watched her swat the air like she could feel his gaze tickling her neck.
"Can't wait to meet you, my little rabbit." He said softly, tapping the edge of her forgotten business card against his lip.
He turned, casually tossing Elle's business card onto the polished glass desk, a smirk still lazily playing on his lips.
Knock. Knock.
"Come in," Damien called, his voice smooth like honey mixed with menace.
The door opened to reveal a tall, impeccably dressed man with designer glasses, a smirk to rival Damien's, and an attitude that screamed, 'I do not get paid enough to babysit this overgrown villain.'
Jaxon Vale.
Damien's assistant.Also his best friend.Also the last remaining thread between corporate order and absolute chaos.
"She's here," Jaxon said, stepping in like he owned the place, which, if you asked the HR department, he kinda did. "Just entered the building."
Damien's smirk widened as he set down his coffee.
"Excellent. Clear my next hour. And cancel the marketing review—I'm in the mood for something… entertaining."
Jaxon stared. "Entertaining. Right. And by 'entertaining,' you mean tormenting a clearly hungover woman who screamed at your abs and stole her own heel, yes?"
Damien gave him a look. "Can you at least pretend to call me sir when we're in the office?"
"Oh, absolutely—right after I grow a moral compass and stop you from flirting with HR nightmares."
Damien raised a brow. "You know, this disrespect is exactly why the intern thinks you're my sugar daddy."
Jaxon gasped, clutching his chest. "Excuse me?! I am nobody's sugar daddy. If anything, I'm the disappointed single mom in this office dynamic."
Damien waved a hand. "Just make sure she doesn't escape. Again."
"She didn't escape, Damien. She ran like a raccoon caught stealing snacks. In heels. Screaming something about being a myth."
"Same difference," Damien said with a shrug, already walking toward his office mirror to fix a strand of hair that had dared to defy gravity.
Jaxon sighed dramatically, turning toward the door.
"I'll inform you when your little rabbit arrives," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "And maybe prep a defibrillator for HR while I'm at it."
SLAM.
The door shut behind him with enough passive-aggressive energy to qualify as a workplace hazard.
Damien stared at the now-closed door and sighed, shaking his head.
"This," he muttered to himself, grabbing his coffee again, "is the side effect of hiring your best friend as your assistant."
He took a sip.
"No respect. No reverence. Just judgment and sarcasm. Tragic, really."
Then, without missing a beat, he turned toward the mirror again, checking his reflection with the casual intensity of a man preparing for war—or worse, a flirt session.