Liam
I wasn't Liam West anymore.
The name felt foreign—like a coat I'd long since outgrown
and buried in a place I never planned to revisit. Liam was soft edges and
childhood dreams. Liam forgave. Liam hoped.
But I? I had no use for such things anymore.
Now, I was Leo Carter. And Leo didn't hope. He planned.
My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, sharp and
still. Blue eyes—calculated, unflinching—met my gaze. They held no emotion.
Just focus. The kind of cold, deep blue that made people hesitate. My jaw,
freshly shaved, cut a clean line beneath high cheekbones and a mouth that
rarely smiled unless it needed to.
Dark hair framed my face, styled immaculately—sleek, parted,
nothing rebellious. Everything in place.
I tightened my tie, navy silk against a crisp white shirt.
The charcoal suit jacket fit like it was stitched to my bones, hugging broad
shoulders with precision. One last breath, one last glance.
No cracks.
No hesitations.
I picked up my black suitcase and stepped out of the apartment.
The hallway was quiet, the scent of disinfectant clinging to the air. The cold
morning greeted me like a slap—brisk, almost bracing, and perfect. Let the
world try to bite; I was ready.
The bus ride into the city was slow and mundane. Horns.
Murmurs. The occasional rattle of wheels over cracked concrete. I sat in
silence, surrounded by commuters absorbed in screens or staring blankly out the
windows. They had places to be. Lives to lead.
I had a mission.
And soon, I saw it.
Grayson Corp rose into view like a titan of glass and steel,
its mirrored surface catching the pale sunlight and throwing it back like a
dare. Thirty stories of ambition, intimidation, and power, nestled in the heart
of the financial district. The giant silver "G" emblem gleamed at the top
corner, sharp as a blade.
A modern palace built on polished lies.
Grayson Corp was a conglomerate of everything that made
people rich and afraid to talk about how. Real estate. Tech. Legal
acquisitions. Security. They called it "corporate versatility." I called it
something else entirely.
My fingers flexed around the handle of my suitcase.
No one knew who I was. Not really. And that anonymity was my
weapon.
I stepped off the bus, straightened my jacket, and walked
across the pavement toward the tall, curved glass doors. The closer I got, the
more it towered over me—like it was looking down.
I looked right back.
Then I walked in.
The lobby was vast and clinical, bathed in natural light
pouring in through the wide windows. The floors were white marble veined with
gold, polished to a mirror-like sheen. A giant abstract sculpture spiraled up
from the center, surrounded by minimalist leather chairs arranged like chess
pieces. People moved about with brisk purpose, not stopping to look—just
another day at the kingdom.
No one spared me more than a glance. Just another
well-dressed man in a sea of them.
I found the reception desk and gave my name. A polite smile,
a nod, a motion toward the elevators.
Third floor.
I stepped inside the lift and watched the doors glide shut.
My reflection wavered slightly on the mirrored wall.
"You've got one shot," I muttered under my breath. "Make it
count."
The doors opened with a chime, and I stepped out into a
smaller, more focused lobby. Warm lighting, wood paneling, indoor plants that
were suspiciously real—this was a curated space. Designed to impress. To
disarm.
A few others were already seated, likely other candidates.
All of them trying not to look nervous. I sat down in the corner, crossed one
leg over the other, and waited. Calm. Quiet. Watching everything.
After a few minutes, a receptionist called, "Leo Carter?"
I stood.
And then, I walked into the room.
What I wasn't expecting—what threw me, if only for a
second—was the woman waiting for me on the other side of the desk.
She wasn't what I'd imagined.
No clipboard-clicking HR veteran. No stuffy assistant with
tired eyes.
She has golden blonde hair that framed a face that was
almost sculptural in its symmetry—high cheekbones, wide green eyes that held
both sharpness and curiosity, and a calm, commanding expression. She wore a
fitted navy blazer and subtle pearl earrings. No nonsense. But not unkind.
I blinked once. Just once. Then recovered.
"Mr. Carter," she said, her tone polite but guarded. "Take a
seat."
I obeyed.
"Elena," she offered. "I'll be conducting your interview
today."
Just Elena. No last name.
I nodded. "Nice to meet you. I was starting to think this
whole thing was a test in patience."
That earned a faint smile. "We like to see who sticks it
out."
"And here I thought it was just because the elevators were
slow."
The corner of her lip twitched but she didn't comment.
She flipped open the folder in front of her and glanced over
my résumé. Her eyes scanned quickly, noting things, no doubt cataloging gaps,
strengths, inconsistencies.
She asked questions—sharp, smart ones. About forecasting,
risk mitigation, global finance trends.
I answered each one with the polish of a man who belonged.
With just enough data to prove competence, and just enough wit to make her
raise a brow in interest.
When she asked about my approach to portfolio risk
balancing, I leaned in slightly and said, "Like a good soufflé. Too much heat,
and everything collapses. Too little, and it's just scrambled eggs in an
expensive dish."
She chuckled a bit openly this time.
"I don't think I've ever heard financial strategy compared
to French baking."
"High risk, high reward," I said. "Plus, I'm terrible at
cooking, so it's entirely theoretical. If you ever wanted to poison someone and
you called me, I would be able to assist."
She shook her head, amused. "You're an interesting one, Mr.
Carter."
I shrugged. "Better than being forgettable."
The rest of the interview continued smoothly, her questions
faster, sharper now—like she was genuinely intrigued. I stayed composed.
Casual. Let her laugh, but never pushed too hard. Just enough to stay in her
mind when the next name came up.
Eventually, she closed the folder.
"Thank you," she said, standing. "We'll be in touch."
I nodded once. "Pleasure meeting you, Elena."
She didn't respond, but I caught the pause—the smallest
hitch in her breath as I turned.
Back in the lobby, I rejoined the others. Time passed. More
names were called. Some came back looking defeated. Others hopeful.
Then—
"Elena would like to see Leo Carter again."
I stood.
Inside, she didn't waste time. "Congratulations. You got the
job."
I allowed the smile to touch my lips. "I appreciate the
opportunity."
"You start tomorrow. 9 A.M. sharp. Someone from HR will send
you details later today."
"Looking forward to it."
As I stepped out of the office and back through the glass
doors into the city, the wind hit me again—colder now, sharper.
I paused, glancing once over my shoulder.
Grayson Corp stood tall behind me.
Phase one was done.
And as I walked toward the corner and disappeared into the
crowd, I whispered to myself—
"Now the game begins."