Just… sharper.
Like walking into a room full of wolves and being expected to smile as if you belong there.
I finish my coffee, kiss my mom’s forehead on my way out, and text Em a reminder to eat something that isn’t vending machine food.
She responds with a heart and:Grabbed the leftovers from the fridge, thanks, mom.
I smile and chuckle to myself.
Northwell’s lobby is exactly what you’d expect: glass, steel, marble, and a kind of polished silence that makes you instinctively lower your voice. Even the people walking through it look like they were styled for the part, tailored coats, expensive shoes, purposeful expressions.
I tell myself I belong here because I’m working.
That’s it.
I’m not intimidated by money. I never have been. I’m intimidated by people who think money makes them untouchable, because they tend to be the worst amongst us.
At the reception desk, the woman in a sleek black blazer glances at my name and smiles professionally.
“Ms. Bennett. They’re expecting you.”
They.Notsomeone.NotHR.Notthe team.
They.
A man escorts me to the elevator and up to the twenty-seventh floor, where the air feels cooler, and the lighting feels brighter, and everything feels… controlled.
Like the building itself is holding its breath.
“You’re early,” the escort says as we walk.
“I prefer it,” I reply.
He nods like that’s the correct answer.
He opens a conference room door and gestures for me to go inside, and I stop.
Because the room is already full.
Not full of assistants or managers or people who might actually need the presentation I’ve prepared.
Full ofthem.
I researched the company after my first visit here and immediately recognized the men in this room.
Julian North is at the head of the table, posture calm, expression unreadable. He looks like authority given human form: a tailored suit, quiet intensity, eyes that make you feelassessed even when he isn’t speaking. There isn’t a thing out of place on him, every piece of hair is perfectly placed.
It makes me want to run my hand down my dress to make sure it isn't creased from the journey here.
To his right sits Elliot Vale, blond, broad-shouldered, the kind of handsome that feels friendly until you realize it’s weaponized. He’s smiling like this is all a bit amusing.
Theo North is sprawled in a chair, as if he’s been told to sit still and decided to make it a personal challenge. His grin is already halfway to trouble. To my knowledge, he doesn't work for Northwell, but he has been here for both of my visits.
At the far end of the room stands Rowan Black. Not sitting. Just… there. Arms crossed. Watching. The kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself to be felt.
And beside the coffee station is Caleb Mercer. Dark hair. Sharp suit. Everything about him screams clean and composed. He looks up when I enter, and his eyes flick over me, and it's calculated, not curious.
I swallow.
