By the time Vanic stepped out of the L&A tower, the sky over Manhattan had turned the color of bruised peaches — streaks of pink and orange fading into the hungry blue of evening. The city seemed even larger in the fading light, the air thick with the hum of traffic, the smells of street carts, exhaust, and a thousand different lives crashing into each other.
Vanic paused at the curb, clutching his worn messenger bag like a lifeline. His feet ached. His head spun with unfamiliar names, passwords, a stack of print-outs Lorenzo had barked at him to memorize overnight.
And, worst of all, the memory of cold gray eyes that seemed to look right through his skin.
He fumbled for his phone as it vibrated in his pocket.
Benthy: Outside. Don't you dare run.
He sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the exhaustion. He spotted her instantly — leaning against the hood of her beat-up yellow Beetle like she owned the whole block, a cigarette dangling from her lips though he knew she never lit it. Benthy Rose had a way of making the street her stage, denim jacket sleeves rolled to her elbows, her black hair swept up in a messy bun, red lips curled in a smirk.
"Well, well, well," she drawled as he crossed the sidewalk. "Look who survived day one with the Ice King."
He dropped his bag into the passenger seat. "Don't call him that."
She raised an eyebrow. "Sorry — Mr. Atlas," she mocked in a deep voice, pulling the cigarette from her mouth and flicking it into the gutter. "Get in. We're getting drinks."
"I can't. I have to—"
"—Memorize your new master's commandments? Tough. You need a burger and a beer before your tiny brain explodes."
Vanic didn't argue. He never won with Benthy anyway.
---
The bar they ended up at was a tiny dive on the Lower East Side. Neon signs flickered above sticky floors, and the booth they claimed had a tear in the red vinyl seat that scratched Vanic's thigh every time he shifted.
Benthy slammed two glasses down. "To surviving corporate America!" she toasted.
Vanic clinked his glass weakly against hers. "To not getting fired before lunch."
She watched him over the rim as he sipped. "So, how cold is he really? Lorenzo Atlas. He's got that reputation, you know — everyone says he's half reptile, half Armani."
Vanic rubbed his forehead. He hadn't even told her half of it — how Lorenzo's voice could slice the air in half, how he could fill a room without even speaking, how Vanic's stomach flipped every time he stood too close.
"He's… intense," Vanic said finally.
Benthy's grin widened. "Uh-huh. Intense-hot or intense-run-away?"
He flushed. "Benthy—"
She laughed, shoving his shoulder. "Relax, lover boy. I know you. You'd trip over your own feet before you made a move."
"I'm not making a move!" He nearly choked on his drink. "He's my boss, Ben. He doesn't even see me as a person. Just an extension of his desk."
Benthy tilted her head, studying him. "Yeah, well. Just promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't let him eat you alive."
Vanic blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She stabbed a fry at him. "Men like him — old, rich, bored — they see someone like you and they think, 'Why not ruin something soft for fun?' Don't be soft. Or at least don't be soft with him."
Vanic opened his mouth, then shut it. What could he say? That part of him didn't want to run — that a dark part of him liked the cold? That the way Lorenzo looked at him, or didn't, made his chest ache in a way he didn't want to examine too closely?
He just forced a smile and stole one of her fries instead.
---
An hour later, full of cheap beer and half-melted mozzarella sticks, Vanic leaned his forehead against the cool bus window on his way back to Queens. He pulled out his phone and dialed his mother.
She answered on the second ring, breathless. "Vanic, sweetheart! I was just about to call you — how was it? Are you home? Have you eaten?"
He closed his eyes, her voice a balm for the scratchy ache in his chest. "Hi, Mom. Yeah — I ate with Benthy. It was… a lot. But good. I think."
"Your voice sounds tired."
"I'm okay."
Beatrice Rov was all warmth. He could hear her kettle whistling in the background, the faint clatter of dishes. "Don't let them work you to the bone, baby. And watch your back with that boss of yours. The news says he's ruthless. Heartless."
"He's not heartless." Vanic didn't know why he said it — maybe because part of him wanted it to be true.
She made a soft noise of disapproval. "Men like that don't have hearts, Vanic. Not for people like us. Keep your head down, do your work, and come home when you can."
"I will, Mama."
"Good boy. I love you."
"Love you too."
When the line went quiet, Vanic rested the phone on his chest. The bus jolted over a pothole, rocking him gently as the city lights blurred past.
Somewhere out there, Lorenzo Atlas probably wasn't thinking about him at all.
---
He was wrong.
---
Lorenzo Atlas pushed open the dark wooden door to Cole's private lounge. The bass of the club pulsed below them — an expensive heartbeat vibrating through the floor. Lush leather couches, dim lights, and the sweet scent of cologne and lust thickened the air.
Cole Stunner looked up from the low table where two glasses of whiskey gleamed like liquid gold. He grinned when he saw Lorenzo — a grin that was all teeth, warm and wolfish.
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Doom and Gloom himself," Cole drawled. "Come. Sit. Drink."
Lorenzo dropped into the couch opposite him, shrugging out of his suit jacket with a sigh. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs. It was the closest thing he allowed himself to freedom.
Cole pushed the glass toward him. "Bad day?"
"Long day."
"New toy not performing?" Cole asked, eyes glittering with mischief.
Lorenzo's lip curled. "He's not a toy."
Cole's eyebrows shot up. "Well, that's a first. What is he, then?"
Lorenzo didn't answer. He knocked back half the whiskey in one swallow, letting the burn clear the fog in his head. He pictured Vanic's wide green eyes, the flush on his throat when Lorenzo had stepped too close. So soft. So easy to break.
He should have let Claire hire someone older. Harder. Someone he wouldn't notice at all.
Cole watched him over his glass. "Jesus, you're actually thinking about him, aren't you?"
Lorenzo glared. "Drop it."
Cole laughed, low and delighted. "I won't. You finally bring me something interesting. After all these years of models and bored wives who don't even know your name, and now — a baby secretary?"
"Cole."
But Cole didn't stop. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You know what your problem is? You're so busy pretending you don't feel shit that you forgot what it's like to want something real."
Lorenzo's jaw ticked. "He's an employee. That's all."
"Uh-huh. So why are you here, instead of upstairs with that blonde who's been eyeing you since you walked in?"
Lorenzo said nothing.
Cole's grin softened into something closer to concern — the closest he'd ever show. "Careful, Atlas. If you want to ruin something soft, you better be ready for it to ruin you back."
---
Much later, in the dark hush of his penthouse bedroom, Lorenzo lay awake, one arm flung over his eyes.
His mind should have been blank — it always was. That was how he survived the noise.
But instead, all he saw was a single thread of lint on a white collar, and a pair of green eyes that hadn't learned yet how to look away.