The next morning, the main conference room at Lunar Designs was a stage set for a corporate execution. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and brewing arrogance. The entire senior design team, led by a flamboyant man named Julian whose artfully arranged scarf probably cost more than a junior accountant's monthly salary, was assembled. They sat with an air of bored, nonchalant superiority, whispering and smirking amongst themselves. They were the creative geniuses, the rainmakers. This meeting, called by the Director herself to discuss some dreary budget numbers, was a tedious distraction from their far more important work of selecting ludicrously expensive Italian marble.
Aylin Moon sat at the head of the long, polished table, a silent, imposing figure of judgment. She had been observing them since they'd filed in, her chin resting on her steepled fingers, her expression as placid and unreadable as deep space. She watched the way they postured, their preening egos filling the room like a noxious perfume. It reminded her of the lesser lords of the Netherworld's old court all pomp and titles, with very little substance and an inflated sense of their own importance. They, too, had learned the cost of fiscal insubordination, though her methods of discipline had been far more direct.
Her gaze then shifted to the back of the room, where Iuno Li was taking her usual, unobtrusive seat by the wall, ready to record the minutes. It was then that Aylin noticed something was different. The young woman was not wearing the strange, delicate face harness she had worn the day before.
Glasses, the implanted memory supplied helpfully. A device to correct flawed mortal vision. Without them, Iuno's face looked younger, more open, her large, dark eyes clear and shockingly direct. The removal of the delicate frames seemed to have removed a barrier, revealing a focus and intensity that Aylin had not seen before.
How fragile these bodies are, Aylin thought, a flicker of her innate, celestial pity surfacing. To require such a delicate contraption just to perceive the world clearly. The absence of the glasses was puzzling. A sign of nervousness, perhaps? Or was it a deliberate choice? A shedding of a shield before entering a battle she knew was coming.
"We are here to discuss the catastrophic budget overages on the Henderson project," Aylin announced, her voice like ice, instantly shattering the room's light chatter into a thousand pieces of silent tension. "I have received a full and incredibly detailed report on every single fiscal transgression." Her cold, penetrating gaze swept over the suddenly less smug looking designers, lingering for a moment on Julian, who had the decency to stop admiring his reflection in the back of his spoon.
She then looked to the back of the room, her voice ringing with command.
"Miss Li. You have the floor."
A stunned, disbelieving silence fell over the room. The senior designers turned in their expensive, ergonomic chairs to stare. Iuno Li? The mousy, terrified number scribe from the paper choked office in the back? Julian let out a faint, disbelieving scoff, which was immediately silenced by a single, sharp glare from Aylin.
Iuno Li stood up. She clutched a thick, binder clipped report in her hands, her knuckles white. But her face, now free of the glasses that had so often hidden it, was set with a new, steely determination. The terror of the previous night had been burned away in the crucible of her work, leaving behind the hard, unyielding certainty of facts. She walked the long length of the table, her sensible shoes making almost no sound, placed her report on the table opposite Julian, and took a deep, steadying breath.
When she began to speak, her voice was not the hesitant squeak they were used to. It was clear, steady, and full of the unshakeable confidence of someone who had done the work and knew, with absolute certainty, that she was right. She didn't just read numbers; she wove them into a damning narrative of waste, negligence, and staggering arrogance. With ruthless, undeniable logic, she laid out the initial budget, the approved change orders, and the wildly extravagant, unapproved expenses, her presentation punctuated by the sharp click of the slideshow remote in her hand.
The designers' smirks faded, replaced by slack jawed horror as their fiscal irresponsibility was laid bare for all to see, illuminated by the harsh, unforgiving light of a projector screen.
"As you can see on page twelve of the report," Iuno stated, her voice resonating with a newfound authority, "the initial quote for custom textiles was one hundred thousand dollars. The final expenditure, following seventeen unapproved change orders for fabrics sourced from a specialty weaver in Lyon, was three hundred and twelve thousand dollars. A variance of over two hundred percent."
"The client has an appreciation for couture textiles!" a designer named Chloe protested weakly.
"The client also has an appreciation for the terms of the contract she signed," Iuno countered without missing a beat, her gaze sharp. "And the contract specifies that all material changes resulting in a cost increase of over five percent require prior sign off from the project's financial comptroller. That would be me. I was not consulted."
She clicked to the next slide, a high resolution photograph of a single, ornate screw.
"And here," she said, her voice ringing with the thrill of the kill, "is the invoice for the 'Aurelian Majesty' custom cabinetry screws for the Henderson penthouse. An unbudgeted, unapproved expense of twenty thousand dollars for twenty four karat gold leafed screws, which, I have confirmed with our structural engineer, provide precisely zero additional structural integrity over their three dollar stainless steel counterparts."
Julian, his face now a shade of pale, blotchy green that clashed horribly with his scarf, finally found his voice. "It was a matter of aesthetic integrity! The client expects a certain level of luxury! You wouldn't understand, you're an accountant!"
The insult was meant to sting, to put her back in her place. It didn't work.
"What I understand, Julian," Iuno replied, her voice dangerously calm, "is that our firm's profit margin on this project is now negative three percent. I understand that your 'aesthetic integrity' is going to cost the rest of the employees their annual bonuses. And I understand that our firm's reputation for fiscal responsibility, which is the only reason clients trust us with eight figure budgets in the first place, is being bankrupted by your personal definition of 'luxury'."
Aylin watched the transformation with a growing sense of profound, unsettling familiarity. The nervous, jittery number scribe was gone. In her place was a sharp, witty, and fiercely competent professional who was systematically dismantling her arrogant, overpaid opponents with nothing more than logic and a healthy dose of well deserved sass.
This confidence. This fire. This stubborn, passionate refusal to be silenced when she knew she was right…
It's the same spirit, the thought asserted itself in Aylin's mind, stronger and more certain than the night before. She tried to dismiss it, the logic of it impossible. A soul could not simply reappear across worlds, an echo in a different shell. But the feeling, the deep, instinctual recognition of this specific type of fiery, loyal, and stubborn soul was too strong to ignore. The seed of suspicion was no longer a seed; it was a sprouting, insistent sapling that threatened to break through the cold ground of her disappointment.
Iuno concluded her presentation. A stunned, tomb like silence filled the conference room.
Aylin stood up, the soft rustle of her suit jacket the only sound. "Your creative vision," she said, her voice dangerously soft as she addressed the shell shocked design team, "will now be subject to the tyranny of a budget. From this moment on, all non essential expenditures will be personally approved by Miss Li. Your corporate expense accounts are frozen, pending her full review."
The collective gasp was audible. She had just promoted a junior accountant to be the absolute financial gatekeeper of the entire company's creative output. She then turned to the woman of the hour.
"A commendable report, Miss Li. My office. In five minutes."
With that, she swept out of the room, leaving behind a terrified, neutered design team and a stunned, triumphant Iuno Li.
The conference room emptied like a tomb after a grave robbing. The design team filed out in a state of stunned, silent shock, their usual arrogance completely deflated. Iuno Li, clutching her report like a holy text, followed her new orders and made her way to the Director's corner office, her heart a frantic drum of terror and triumph.
She found Director Moon standing by the vast window, looking out at the city below, her posture one of regal, thoughtful silence.
"You wished to see me, Director?" Iuno asked, her voice returning to its nervous squeak now that the adrenaline of battle had faded.
Aylin turned, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she simply studied the young woman, her mind still reeling from the powerful, unsettling feeling of recognition.
She pushed the thought aside, focusing on the matter at hand. A leader, she knew, must reward merit to ensure loyalty.
"Your strategic takedown of the design faction's fiscal rebellion was… effective, Miss Li," Aylin stated, her voice a low, formal cadence. "Your courage was commendable. For this service to the firm, I am granting you… a boon."
Iuno blinked. "A… a boon, Director?"
"Yes," Aylin continued, trying to recall the appropriate corporate terminology from her implanted memories. "The archives in my mind suggest a 'raise' or a 'promotion' is the standard tribute for such exemplary work." She made a decision. "This firm requires a new role. One that bridges the gap between creative vision and fiscal reality. A position that requires both an accountant's discipline and a designer's insight."
She pinned Iuno with her intense gaze. "Effective immediately, you are no longer in Accounts Payable. Your new title is Assistant Director of Design and Finance. You will report directly to me. You will be my right hand. You will ensure my design vision is not bankrupted by incompetence."
Iuno was so flustered she felt her knees might give way. This wasn't just a promotion; it was a transfiguration. She was being lifted from the dungeon of accounting and placed on a throne beside the queen. "Assistant… Director?" she whispered, the words tasting of magic and disbelief.
Before she could express her stunned gratitude, the heavy office door swung open without a knock.
A woman strode into the room with an air of absolute, unquestionable ownership. She was stunningly beautiful, with elegant, high cheekbones and a regal bearing that was a chilling echo of the figure in the crystal. But where Xue Lian's hair was the white of the moon, this woman's was the black of a starless midnight. Her eyes were not a warm, mischievous amber, but a cold, sharp obsidian. She was a dark, breathtaking mirror of the woman who haunted Aylin's every thought.
The woman completely ignored Iuno's presence, her sharp gaze fixing on Aylin with an icy annoyance.
"Aylin," she said, her voice a cool, impatient silk. "You have not been responding to my messages."
Aylin stared, her mind a complete blank. Her implanted memories offered no context for this person. The Author's 'stable identity' had apparently come with some glaring, terrifying omissions.
The woman sighed, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on her designer handbag. "Our families require our presence for dinner at the club tonight. We need to discuss the final arrangements for our engagement. Did you forget again?"
Engagement?
The word detonated in the silent office. It was one thing to be told by a cosmic entity that this body had a fiancée. It was another thing entirely to be confronted by her. This beautiful, demanding stranger was the relationship she was forced to maintain on pain of soul scattering. This was her warden.
Iuno Li, meanwhile, looked as if she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. The Director's secret fiancée? A family dinner? She had just been given the promotion of a lifetime, and now she was in the middle of a deeply personal, high society domestic dispute. She felt a powerful, immediate need to be anywhere else in the universe.
"Oh! I'm… I'm so sorry to intrude!" she stammered, frantically gathering the report she had placed on the desk. "I'll just… I have to go… reconcile the… spreadsheets! Very important spreadsheets! So sorry!"
She practically ran from the room, tripping over her own feet in her haste to escape the crushing, awkward tension.
The door clicked shut, leaving Aylin alone with the beautiful stranger who was apparently her future wife. The woman's cold expression softened slightly, replaced by a look of possessive exasperation.
She glided closer, her expensive perfume filling the air. "Well? Don't just stand there looking like a ghost, darling," she said, her voice a low purr. She reached up, her hand cool as she tucked a stray strand of Aylin's hair behind her ear.
"Did you truly forget about our future together?"