Elle swiped her ID card at the Veritas PR & Media Solutions front desk with all the enthusiasm of a woman walking straight into her own execution.
Which, to be clear, she didn't know yet. She didn't know she was walking into the ninth circle of hell that morning.
But the air?
Oh, the air knew.
Because the moment her Louboutin heels clacked against the marble like a death march in Dior, the office buzzed to life like a live episode of Gossip Girl: Burned Alive Edition.
GASP. Like an actual, audible, communal gasp.
Then came the jaw drops.
We're talking Looney Tunes level—mouths so wide someone definitely inhaled a fly. One intern dropped her oat milk latte and whispered, "Worth it."
And then—
"OH. MY. GOD… Is that Elle Carter?"
"It is. Holy crap. She's walking like she just lit her ex's apartment on fire and still made it to work early."
"She looks—like death but with contour."
"Like… espresso-fueled, heartbreak-powered, 'I-did-not-cry-but-maybe-set-something-on-fire' HOT."
Elle, to her immense credit (and years of experience ignoring irrelevant humans), kept walking like she had no ears and even fewer emotions.
Lie. She heard everything. Her Gossip Radar had five-star Yelp reviews. But today?
Today she was in Dead-Hot-Sexy-Corpse Mode.
Hair: Chaos, but the kind you pay for.
Blazer: Fitted like a betrayal.
Lipstick: So red it could file for arson charges.
Vibes: Don't-talk-to-me-unless-you-want-to-cry.
With a practiced flick of her hair and not a single glance to the gawkers, she stepped into the elevator like a Victoria's Secret angel entering Valhalla.
Ding.
Doors shut. Sanctuary.
Elle leaned dramatically against the mirrored elevator wall, looked up like a Shakespearean widow with a Prada habit, and whispered, "Lord, grant me strength to survive this day… or let me perish on the 17th floor and haunt this elevator like a petty fashion ghost."
Ding. Top floor.
The doors slid open… And Elle stepped into pure chaos.
It was like someone had screamed FIRE and also WE'RE OUT OF COFFEE at the same time.
Papers were flying. Heels were clacking. Someone was sprinting in socks. One poor intern tripped over a rolling chair and screamed, "I'M TOO YOUNG TO BE FIRED!"
And in the center of it all: The corporate apocalypse.
"FAST! The CEO has called an all-hands meeting in FIVE MINUTES!"
"FIVE MINUUUUUUTES!"
"WHERE'S THE POWERPOINT? WHERE'S THE LASER POINTER? WHY ARE WE YELLING?!"
"GET ME A STAPLER AND A PRAYER!"
Elle blinked, still standing perfectly still in the elevator, sipping her coffee. Her brain calmly whispered: Oh. So it's a Monday-Monday.
She took one step forward.
A junior exec—eyes wide, shirt tucked like a toddler dressed himself—nearly face-planted trying to dodge her.
"SORRY, MISS CARTER—I DIDN'T SEE YOU—I MEAN, I DID—I MEAN—YOU LOOK GREAT—I'M TERRIFIED!"
Elle raised a single, beautifully arched brow. "Blink twice if you're being held hostage."
He blinked four times, then vanished into the cubicle jungle.
Another co-worker popped out from behind the copier, whisper-shouting, "Did she just walk through chaos like it was a fashion show?"
"Yes," someone gasped. "She's not sweating. She's glowing. Is that legal??"
Elle strutted through the mess like Moses parting the Red Sea of corporate anxiety. The click of her heels echoed like a countdown to judgment day.
Click. Click. Click.
Then her assistant, Ava, emerged from the smoke cloud of despair. Hair frizzy. Eyes caffeinated. Tablet in hand. Breathing like a haunted Victorian orphan.
She flung herself dramatically into Elle's path like she was in a telenovela finale and clutched her hand.
"ELLE… THE SATAN HAS SUMMONED US!!"
Elle blinked.
Sipped her coffee.
"...I see. Then… happy journey, I guess."
Ava sobbed like a bride at the wrong wedding.
"The SATAN scheduled a full floor strategy session. And—AND—he asked for YOU. By NAME. Personally. Greg cried into the coffee pot. He said it tasted like fear. Someone threw a USB at Carol."
"Did Carol survive?" Elle asked coolly, like this was her third apocalypse.
"She blocked it with a clipboard and yelled, 'NOT TODAY, SATAN!' She's a hero now."
"Incredible. We should nominate her for Employee of the Month."
Around them, heads nodded solemnly. A few wept.
Then Elle tilted her head. "So… who is the Satan, exactly?"
Everyone froze.
Ava blinked. "Right… you're still new. Only two months in."
Her voice dropped to a whisper that smelled like panic and stale coffee. "His name is… Damien Wolfe."
And just like that—doom rolled in like a fog machine.
"Big deal. Total prodigy. Harvard MBA. Face like it was hand-sculpted by vengeful angels. Terrifying in meetings. Allergic to mediocrity. Bench-presses egos for cardio. Once made the VP of Strategy cry just by adjusting his tie. His tie, Elle."
Elle's left eye twitched.
She was 83% sure her soul just attempted to eject from her body.
She turned back toward the hallway like a horror movie final girl realizing—she's not in the woods. She's in the killer's basement. "So… why does Satan Wolfe want me?" she asked.
Ava's voice dropped lower than corporate morale after a surprise reorg. "No one knows. He said he wants a creative brainstorm. Just emailed it last night… in red font."
"Wait. We can do that?"
Everyone around nodded.
Elle sighed, deeply and dramatically. "Fine. Let's go. But if he asks for ideas, I'm giving him an interpretive dance about trauma."
Ava nodded like a soldier going into battle. "Honestly? That might be safer than suggesting a new tagline."
And with that, Elle Carter—Senior Strategist, Post-Breakup Goddess, Coffee-Fueled Icon—walked toward the Boardroom of Doom.
Unaware.
Utterly unaware.
That inside that frosted-glass door waited…
Damien Wolfe.The man.The myth.The Harvard-sculpted hellspawn.
Sitting there.
With coffee.
And a plan.
***
[Boardroom, Later...]
The boardroom was dead silent.
Tension thick enough to spread on toast.
Elle sat near the end of the polished conference table, legs crossed—but not in confidence. In survival. One Louboutin heel nervously shaking like a mini earthquake under the table. Her perfectly manicured fingers death-gripped her laptop like it could protect her from embarrassment, unemployment, and hot men with secrets.
Then—
CREEAAAAAAK.
The door opened—not like a normal door, but like the gates of Olympus opening just to ruin her entire reincarnation cycle.
A gust of air swept in.
And so did he.
Damien. Freaking. Wolfe.
In slow motion.Wearing a three-piece charcoal suit that probably cost more than Elle's entire existence.With that walk—somewhere between 'I own this building' and 'I just walked out of a Tom Ford commercial with zero humility.'
And in his hand?
A cup of black coffee, held with the reverence of a dark wizard clutching a soul fragment.
Elle looked up.
And the world. Froze.
The air molecules? Stopped moving.Her pupils? Shrank.Her soul? Tried to detach and file for early retirement.
Her brain screamed in Dolby Surround:
MY. HOT. ONE-NIGHT-STAND. PARTNER.
And then came the montage of mental chaos.
Elle, internally: No no no no NO—this is not happening—I was drunk—I had tequila—I thought he was a model-slash-assassin—not a CEO—I LEFT MY BRA ON HIS CHANDELIER (Well, she didn't)—OH MY GOD—
Meanwhile, Reality (a jerk) gave her a big ol' shove.
Get up, child. This is the bed you did the devil in. Now LIE IN IT. Professionally.
Damien's eyes scanned the room with predator-level calm. And then—
Smirk.
That smirk.
The one that said, "Yes, I remember. Yes, I still look like sex in a suit. Yes, this is going to be fun. For me."
Elle's heart dropkicked her lungs. She flinched like someone just whispered, "Tax season."
Damien stepped forward, every molecule of his being radiating CEO, but he could ruin your life in four positions or less.
The room sat down as if God himself had whispered, "Behave."
Then, his voice. Deep. Smooth. Slightly dangerous. "Take a seat."
Elle, who was already sitting, somehow sat harder. Like a corpse at a tax seminar.
Her back? Straighter than her love life.Her face? Emotionless, but her brain?
Her brain was having a full Olympic gymnastics meltdown.
HE'S THE DAMN CEO?! THAT'S WHY HIS BEDROOM LOOKED LIKE A BOND VILLAIN'S LAIR.BECAUSE HE IS THE BOND VILLAIN!I slept with capitalism in human form. God, smite me gently.
Her assistant, Ava, sitting next to her, mouthed, "Are you okay?"
Elle responded with the wide-eyed panic of someone whose entire résumé was about to catch fire.
Damien sat down at the head of the table like a king on his bloodthrone of failed deadlines. He took a slow sip of his coffee and said casually, almost kindly:
"I trust everyone's awake and alert this morning?"
Elle wanted to scream:
No. I'm not. I'm in the seventh circle of corporate hell, and I've seen your abs. This is cruel and unusual punishment.
Instead, Elle smiled. That professional, practiced, PR-perfect smile that said: "I am calm, composed, and definitely not screaming inside."
And then, very quietly, very dramatically, and very Elle…She internally hurled herself off the corporate rooftop, screamed into the void of capitalism, landed in a metaphorical dumpster of regret, and whispered,
"God, take me back to the tequila."