He couldn’t be older than thirty-five, but he held himself like someone who had never been young. Black hair swept back from a face with sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could have been carved from marble. His eyes were so dark they looked black in the morning light, with no visible iris, no distinction between pupil and color. Just darkness, deep and endless.
His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored. His hands, resting on the desk, had fingers that were slightly too long.
He didn’t look up from the document he was reading.
The pendant flared hot against Ava’s skin.
“The Pemberton files, sir.” Derek set the papers on the desk, his hand trembling slightly.
“You’re three minutes late.”
“The filing system in Archives was being difficult.”
“The filing system is never difficult. It responds to confidence.” Now Victor looked up. His gaze moved past Derek like he wasn’t there and landed on Ava.
His attention pressed against her chest, her throat, the space behind her eyes.
“Ms. Feng. You’re early.”
“I believe in making good first impressions.”
“Hmm.” He stood, and Ava realized he was taller than she’d expected, six-three at least, with the kind of presence that made the large office feel small. “Derek, the Henderson merger documents are on my secretary’s desk. Take them to Conference Room Seven.”
Derek’s voice cracked. “The Henderson merger? But that’s…”
“A complex international acquisition with potential complications. Yes.” Victor’s attention stayed on Ava, and she felt pinned by it, examined, catalogued. “Which is why Ms. Feng will be reviewing it. Consider it a practical assessment.”
Derek shot Ava a look of alarm—I’m sorryandgood luckandrun while you can—and fled.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Victor walked around the desk. He moved with deliberate precision, each step measured, like a predator who knew exactly how far away its prey was at all times. Ava caught his scent as he approached: cedar, smoke, something burnt-sweet underneath. Like a fire that had been burning since before there were words for fire.
He stopped close. Too close. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
“Tell me, Ms. Feng. Why corporate law?”
Her mouth was dry. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to step back, to create distance, to run.
She didn’t move.
“It’s puzzle-solving with real stakes. Finding the trap doors in contracts, the clauses that could destroy a company or save it. The language that means one thing on the surface and something else entirely underneath.”
“Interesting.” He began to circle her slowly. She felt his gaze on the back of her neck, her shoulders, the line of her spine. “And what makes you think you can handle the puzzles we deal with here?”
“I graduated summa cum laude. Law Review editor. Professor Whitman said my contract analysis was the best she’d seen in twenty years.”
“Academic excellence is not practical capability.” He completed his circuit, stopping in front of her again. Closer this time. Close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his black eyes, or were they flames? Distant lights burning very far away?
“This firm has existed for over three hundred years. We’ve survived crashes, wars, and competitors with a hundred times our resources. Do you know why?”
“Because you’re selective.”
“Because we see what others miss. Details hiding in plain sight. Truths concealed in plain language.” He tilted his head, studying her. “We also conduct extensive international business. Languages are essential.”
“I’m good with languages. Mandarin, Spanish, Latin.”
“Some Latin?” His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile, but close. “That will prove particularly useful. Conference Room Seven is on the sixty-sixth floor. I’ll be interested to see what you make of section eight-five-three, subsection J.”
