The ride back from the party was soaked in thoughts.
"I can't lie, that party was everything," Ann muttered, unfastening her heels in the car.
Oma chuckled. "I still can't believe we were actually there."
"Well, thank Tessie. That babe knows how to make a scene."
They both laughed, but deep down, Oma felt something. Like her world had tilted slightly. She couldn't name it—but it was coming.
---
THE NEXT DAY
The energy inside The London Empire buzzed differently today. It was still early, but the air felt heavier, tighter, like something was coming. Maybe it was the dimmer lighting from the cloudy sky or the way everyone seemed a little too alert.
The Office Floor
Oma adjusted her headset and straightened the files on her desk. The layout team had an urgent presentation due by noon, and both she and Ann had been roped into assisting the branding department with client proposals. Pages of digital mockups, client briefs, and mood boards flooded their screens.
Ann sat opposite her, fingers dancing across her keyboard, fixing typo after typo in a campaign deck. "I swear," she mumbled, "if this client sends another revision, I might scream."
"You won't," Oma replied calmly, "you'll sip your coffee like a CEO and send the correction."
Ann smirked. "Touché."
---
"Good morning, ladies."
The voice was smooth—older, confident, with a scent of cologne that tried too hard.
Ann looked u Ip. A tall man in a tailored navy suit stood by her desk. Mr. Cole, Senior PR Executive. Late thirties. Sharp eyes. Quick smirk. Known around the office for mixing compliments with business.
"You must be Ann Andrew," he said. "I've heard a lot. Your edits are impressive."
Ann gave a small smile. "Thank you, sir."
"No need for 'sir.' Makes me feel old. Call me Cole." He leaned just slightly forward. "Maybe you could help with a small PR pitch this evening... if you're free."
Oma glanced at him without turning her head. Ann smiled politely. "I'll check my schedule."
As Cole walked off, a pair of eyes followed from a distance.
He was standing near the far glass wall, hands in his pocket, silent. Watching.
Marco.
Tall, olive-skinned, sharp jaw, clean haircut. A man who blended into the shadows and didn't blink unless necessary. He leaned against the glass, sipping his espresso. His gaze? Fixed on the two girls.
He took mental notes.
Calm. Sharp. Unafraid.
Especially the tall one. Oma.
He clocked her ability to work under pressure. The subtle way she calmed her friend.
Ann? Polished. Smart. But guarded.
Marco didn't need to speak to understand who was worth reporting back on.
---
The morning got busier.
Oma and Ann were pulled into a brainstorming session with Rebecca and the Branding interns. Post-it notes flew. Everyone was trying to rebrand a failing luxury perfume line. Words like "sensual," "mystery," "nighttime allure" were being tossed like confetti.
Ann led the copy revisions. Oma suggested a visual rehaul. Both women handled the heat like pros.
But someone else wasn't impressed.
"Excuse me," came a sickly sweet voice.
Oma looked up to see three women from earlier—the mean girls. One blonde, one redhead, and one dark-skinned with icy blue nails. Each draped in labels. Each with a face that screamed bitter competition.
"You girls sure love attention," the redhead said.
Ann raised a brow. "Do you need help with something?"
"Oh no," the blonde smirked. "We were just admiring your… enthusiasm. New hires working overtime to look important. Adorable."
Oma didn't smile. "If you're intimidated, say that."
The room quieted just a bit. A few heads turned.
The dark-skinned one clicked her tongue. "Let's see how long you last."
The trio turned and sashayed off like they'd won something.
Oma rolled her eyes. "Are mean girls a requirement in corporate?"
Ann chuckled. "Maybe it's in the contract."
---
The girls finally took a quick lunch break at their desks. Leftover noodles, bottled juice, and gossip texts.
From Regg:
"Tell me why Mia has been texting Mr. Billionaire all morning?!"
From Mia:
"He just asked what color I'd wear if he invited me to Paris."
From Regg:
"If she goes, I'm stealing his twin."
Ann laughed under her breath. "Mia and Regg are already talking stages deep."
"Love that for them," Oma replied, still typing.
Suddenly, a low buzz vibrated through the hallway.
The receptionist whispered something to Rebecca. Rebecca froze for a second—like ice had been poured down her back.
Shalon walked up moments later, eyes wide.
"Did you hear?" she whispered, barely containing her excitement. "The chairman's coming tomorrow."
Ann blinked. "The chairman?"
"Kaine London." Shalon's voice dropped to a near whisper. "He hasn't stepped foot in this building for over a year. Not since the Monarch Acquisition."
The news spread like wildfire. Staff sat up straighter. Emails were double-checked. Makeup was reapplied. No one dared appear unprepared for the ghost king of the company.
In a distant hallway, Marco closed his notepad and walked silently toward the executive wing.
---
By the end of the day, Oma's fingers hurt from typing, and Ann had rewritten the tagline of the perfume campaign four times.
They filed their reports, packed their bags, and walked toward the elevator.
"Tired?" Ann asked.
"Exhausted," Oma replied. "But I'm ready for tomorrow."
Neither of them knew that tomorrow would change everything.
Somewhere far from the office, Kaine London leaned back in a leather chair, watching security footage.
His voice was calm, but final.
"Schedule me for 10:00AM. I want to see the new hires."
Marco stood by the door, silent as ever.
"Yes, boss."
.
.
.
.
To be continued.....