The L&A Group headquarters towered thirty-five stories above Fifth Avenue, its mirror glass reflecting the restless New York sky. The lobby alone looked like it belonged in an art museum — marble floors veined in gray and gold, towering columns, the scent of polished wood and money in the air.
Vanic Rov had never stepped inside a building like this. Not in all twenty-one years of his life, and certainly not during four grueling years at a state college where the elevator barely worked and the bathrooms smelled like old mop water.
He clutched his leather folder tighter to his chest, grateful that at least the receptionist had smiled at him when he arrived. Everything else since then had been a blur — his name ticked off a list, an elevator that seemed to glide instead of shudder, and now, a woman named Claire standing beside him with a clipboard tucked under her arm.
"He's not in the best mood today," Claire said, adjusting her glasses. She lowered her voice like she was sharing a secret she'd regret later. "Try to speak clearly and don't… overshare."
Vanic nodded, his palms slick despite the chill of the air conditioning. "Got it."
Claire pressed her keycard to the office door. "Good luck, Mr. Rov."
The door swung open soundlessly. Vanic stepped inside.
It felt more like stepping into a forest clearing than an office. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city, giving the illusion that the room floated above the world. At its center, behind an imposing mahogany desk, sat the man himself.
Lorenzo Atlas.
He didn't look up right away. His dark hair was combed back with surgical precision, a few silver strands visible under the harsh light. The suit he wore was perfectly tailored charcoal, his tie a shade darker, his cufflinks catching the morning sun like knives.
Vanic swallowed. He'd seen pictures of Lorenzo, of course — Forbes covers, gossip columns that called him "the American Sphinx." None of them captured the chill that radiated off the man like dry ice.
"Mr. Atlas?" Vanic's voice came out smaller than he meant.
Gray eyes lifted, pinning him in place. Lorenzo's stare made him feel like he'd walked in naked. There was no warmth in that look, only calculation. Cold interest.
"You're the new one," Lorenzo said. His voice was low, faintly husky, with the slightest rasp like it was used more for commands than conversation.
"Yes, sir. Vanic Rov."
Lorenzo's gaze flicked to the folder pressed to Vanic's chest. "College? Where?"
"Baruch College, sir. Business Administration."
Lorenzo leaned back, the leather chair creaking softly. He looked Vanic over like he was inspecting a piece of furniture someone had left on the curb.
"No real work experience. No connections." His tone was flat, dismissive.
"I—I interned at a small local firm," Vanic offered quickly. His voice cracked and he hated himself for it. "I can type ninety words a minute, I'm organized, and I'm good with—"
Lorenzo held up a hand. Silence fell so quickly Vanic's ears rang.
"Do you know what people do here, Mr. Rov?"
Vanic hesitated. "Administrative work, sir. Scheduling. Taking calls. Drafting—"
"Wrong." Lorenzo stood. He moved like water, fluid and quiet, crossing the room until he stood directly in front of Vanic. He smelled like expensive cologne, faint soap, and something darker Vanic couldn't name.
"People who survive here," Lorenzo murmured, his voice so close Vanic could feel the faint warmth of his breath, "are predators. They don't organize schedules. They guard secrets. They make themselves indispensable. And they never make mistakes."
Vanic tried to hold his stare, but it was like staring into a frozen ocean. "I can do that, sir."
Lorenzo's mouth curved — not a smile, but something sharper. "We'll see."
He turned away abruptly, dismissing Vanic without another glance. "Claire will show you your desk. Don't speak to me unless I ask you to. Don't touch anything that isn't yours. And don't waste my time."
"Yes, Mr. Atlas."
Lorenzo paused at the window, hands in his pockets, staring out at the skyline like he owned every building his eyes touched. Maybe he did.
"You have something on your collar," he said, so softly Vanic barely heard.
Vanic looked down, flustered. A tiny thread from his tie had snagged there, a bright piece of lint standing out against his cheap white shirt. He plucked at it, cheeks burning.
"Sorry, sir."
A low sound, almost a laugh but not quite, slipped from Lorenzo's throat. "First rule, Mr. Rov. In my company, no one apologizes. They fix it."
Vanic nodded, throat tight. "Yes, sir."
Lorenzo didn't turn back around. "Close the door when you leave."
Vanic backed away, pulse hammering in his ears. He stepped into the hallway where Claire waited, her expression unreadable.
"Well," she said briskly, shepherding him down the corridor, "that went better than I expected."
Vanic laughed, a shaky sound that felt too loud for the polished silence. "That was better?"
Claire glanced at him, lips twitching. "He didn't fire you on the spot. Or throw his coffee mug at you. So yes, it was better."
They stopped at a small alcove with a sleek black desk just outside Lorenzo's office. A computer, a phone, a planner that looked more expensive than Vanic's rent. Claire placed her clipboard on the desk.
"This is you. You handle all his scheduling, emails, travel, calls — and when he's in a mood, which is often, you keep everyone away."
Vanic placed his folder on the desk carefully, afraid to scuff the surface. "Why… me? Why'd he hire me?"
Claire gave him a look that was almost pitying. "Because you're cheap, probably. And you don't scare easy."
Vanic stared after her as she disappeared down the hall. Cheap. Young. Innocent. Easy to shape. He sank into the chair, the soft leather sighing under his slight weight.
Beyond the frosted glass, Lorenzo's shadow moved — pacing like a restless predator in a cage made of his own making.
Vanic Rov had dreamed of working in a company like this. Of building something for himself, proving he was more than the poor kid with a single suitcase and a mother who worked double shifts at a diner.
But already, he felt something shifting inside him, a dark thrill that tangled with the knot of fear in his stomach.
He wasn't sure if he should be terrified of Lorenzo Atlas — or of what he already wanted from him..