The elevator ride to the 40th floor of the Sterling Tower took exactly 45 seconds. Vivian counted every one of them to keep her heart rate under 70 beats per minute.
When the doors opened, she stepped into the chaos that was the Design Department.
It was a sea of panic. The original S.W. team was huddled in corners, clutching their coffee cups like life rafts. The Sterling HR team was moving through the space like sharks, dropping policy manuals on desks with loud thuds.
"Vivian!"
Winnie, the intern, came running over. She was a tiny girl with glasses too big for her face-a painful reminder of Vivian's own disguise.
"Are you okay?" Winnie whispered. "They fired three people already. They say the new standards are impossible."
Vivian squeezed Winnie's shoulder. "Breathe, Win. It's just corporate posturing. They need us."
"Attention!" A sharp voice cut through the room.
A woman in a severe grey suit stood on a platform. "I am Mrs. Gable, Head of HR. From this moment on, all creative IP belongs to Sterling Group. No freelance work. No side projects. And..." She scanned the room, her eyes landing on Vivian. "Miss Sullivans. Mr. Ford-Sterling expects you in the penthouse immediately."
The room went silent. Xavier, the former Creative Director of Sterling who had been demoted to merge with S.W., smirked from his desk.
"Looks like someone's in trouble," he sneered.
Vivian ignored him. She smoothed her skirt, lifted her chin, and walked back to the elevator.
The ride to the penthouse was silent. When the doors opened, Gavin was waiting. He did a double-take when he saw her.
"You..." he stammered. "The crash."
"Is he in?" Vivian asked, breezing past him.
"Yes, but..."
Vivian pushed open the double mahogany doors.
Julian was sitting behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from the hull of a pirate ship. He was reading a file. He didn't look up.
"Sit."
Vivian sat. The chair was low, forcing her to look up at him. A classic power move.
Julian closed the file and looked at her. Recognition flickered in his eyes-not of his wife, but of the woman from the street.
"So," he said, leaning back. "Vivian Sullivans. The woman who destroys my cars and my acquisitions."
"I didn't destroy the acquisition," Vivian said evenly. "You bought it. Hostilely."
"And you came with the furniture." Julian picked up a pen. "I've reviewed your portfolio. The work under the alias 'Rose'. It's... adequate."
Vivian felt a vein in her temple throb. "Adequate?" Her designs had won awards in Milan under that name. "It is exceptional."
"It shows potential," Julian corrected, though his eyes betrayed him. He had spent the last hour marveling at the blueprints, wondering how a ghost could design with such life. But he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. Negotiation 101: never let the asset know their value. "Confidence," Julian mused. "I like that. But here at Sterling, we require obedience." He slid a document across the desk. "This is a supplementary contract. It binds you to the 'Rose' identity exclusively for Sterling. And it increases the penalty clause."
Vivian read it. It was a golden cage.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you want Rose so badly?"
Julian stood up and walked to the window. "Because my ex-wife," he said, the word dripping with disdain, "had zero taste. She filled my life with beige. Rose... Rose understands passion. Color. Life. I want that energy in this company to wash away the stench of mediocrity."
Vivian gripped the armrests of the chair. He was talking about her. He was insulting her to her face, praising her alter ego to replace the memory of her real self.
The irony was so thick she could choke on it.
"Your ex-wife," Vivian said, testing the waters. "She must have been terrible."
Julian laughed, a harsh sound. "She was a ghost. A contractual obligation. She had no spine, no fire. Unlike you." He turned to face her. "You have fire, Miss Sullivans. I saw it in the street."
Vivian stared at him. "Maybe she just didn't show it to you because you never looked."
Julian's eyes narrowed. The air in the room grew heavy. He walked around the desk until he was leaning against the front of it, inches from her knees.
"Are you married, Miss Sullivans?"
"Divorced," she said quickly. "Recently."
"Good," Julian said. "Then you know that marriage is a trap. Work... work is honest." He tapped the contract. "Sign it. Or pay the fifty million."
Vivian picked up the pen. Her hand shook, just once. She signed.
Vivian Sullivans.
"Welcome to the team," Julian said. He reached out a hand.
Vivian took it. His skin was warm, calloused. A shock of electricity shot up her arm, just like in the hotel room.
Julian pulled his hand back sharply, as if he had been burned. He looked at her hand, then her face, confusion clouding his eyes.
"That's all," he dismissed her, turning his back.
Vivian stood up and walked to the door. Before she left, she turned.
"Mr. Sterling?"
"What?"
"Beige is a very calming color. Maybe you just needed peace."
She slammed the door before he could respond.
Julian stared at the closed door. He rubbed his hand where he had touched her.
"Who the hell is she?" he whispered.
