Elara..
"They called it a gala. He called it a battlefield."
The office smelled faintly of coffee and ink when Elara arrived, too early for chatter and too late for peace. She'd been awake since four, her mind looping around one line that refused to fade: If you want answers, follow the trail where it began.
Zurich. 2010. Voss Technologies.
The words had burned behind her eyes all night. She'd opened the message twice, memorized every pixel, then deleted it before dawn—but the curiosity stayed.
By the time the elevator doors slid open to the fifth floor, she'd already built and dismantled twenty theories. None of them ended well.
"Morning, sunshine."
Stella materialized beside her desk, two coffees in hand and the kind of grin that shouldn't exist before nine a.m.
"You look like you've seen a ghost. Or you're planning to haunt one."
Elara accepted the cup. "Both."
Stella laughed, spinning her chair toward her computer. "Then haunt whoever sent the new email blast. Did you see it?"
Elara frowned. "What blast?"
"The Gala!" Stella's voice jumped an octave. "The annual Voss Industries Charity & Innovation Gala is officially happening next weekend." She turned her screen toward Elara. A sleek announcement glowed—gold letters over black marble: Where vision meets legacy.
Elara scanned the details. Location: Voss Tower Ballroom. Dress Code: Formal. Attendance: Mandatory for all senior staff and departmental representatives.
"Mandatory?" she muttered.
"Oh, don't pretend you're not excited," Stella said. "Every division's been waiting for this. Publishing gets to curate the official gala magazine this year! We'll be interviewing executives, writing profiles, picking photographs—it's huge."
Elara forced a smile. "Sounds … great."
"Girl, that's the fakest smile I've ever seen." Stella sipped her coffee. "Come on, you'll love it. Maybe you'll even meet Mr. Voss himself again—"
Elara cut her off. "Let's hope not."
"Please. Half the company would commit crimes for that privilege."
Elara turned to her monitor, pretending to check emails. One window still sat minimized: Zurich Branch Archive—Restricted. She hesitated, then opened it.
Rows of coded documents blinked to life. Dates, project names, old budgets—most meaningless, until she spotted one line halfway down a page:
> Project Serpent – Voss Technologies (Zurich) 2010
Her stomach tightened. She highlighted the line, copied it into her notes.
"Working already?" Stella asked.
"Trying to," Elara murmured. She closed the archive window. Not here. Not now.
The office door swung open. Their supervisor, Mrs Irene, stepped in with a folder clutched to her chest. "Morning, everyone. Quick announcement—Voss Publishing will be producing the official magazine for the gala. Layout concepts are due tomorrow. And…" she paused, eyes flicking across the room, "…Mr. Voss will personally review preliminary drafts this afternoon."
The room froze.
Stella's gasp broke the silence. "Personally? He's actually coming down here?"
"Yes," Mrs Irene said, brisk. "Be professional, be prepared, and for God's sake, don't faint."
Elara's heart gave a small, traitorous jump. She hid it behind a sip of coffee.
Later, Damon Voss
At 11 a.m., the executive elevator opened directly into the publishing floor. Conversations died mid-sentence.
Damon stepped out first—black suit, silver tie, presence sharp enough to slice through oxygen. The low hum of machines, the click of keyboards—all of it faltered.
Even silence seemed to stand at attention.
Stella whispered, half under her breath, "Oh my God, he's still as hot as ever. "
Elara didn't look up right away. She felt him before she saw him—the weight of the room tilting slightly toward his gravity. She forced her hands to stay steady on the keyboard.
"Good morning," his voice rolled through the space—smooth, even, the kind of tone that made instructions sound like inevitabilities.
Mrs Irene hurried forward with a folder. "Mr. Voss, welcome. We've prepared the preliminary layouts for the gala magazine—"
He accepted the folder with a brief nod, flipping through the glossy pages. "Concise. Clean." His eyes skimmed the copy. "But I want more weight in the narrative. Less marketing fluff."
"Yes, sir," Ms. Han stammered.
Then he started walking. Each step measured, unhurried. He stopped beside a desk—the one with a mug that said Introverts Unite (Separately).
Elara finally looked up.
For a heartbeat, nothing existed but his gaze. Green eyes, cool and assessing, cutting through pretense.
"Ms. Quin," he said. Her name slid off his tongue like a statement, not a greeting.
"Mr. Voss," she replied evenly.
He set the folder on her desk, tapping the corner of a page. "You edited this section?"
"Yes."
"It's good," he said. "But it reads safe."
"Safe?"
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Voss Industries doesn't do safe. Make the words bite."
Her pulse stumbled. "Understood."
He held her gaze a second longer than necessary—enough for Stella to elbow the nearest coworker in silent glee—then straightened. "I expect a new draft by tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
Damon moved on, giving brief notes to other editors, his calm presence leaving a trail of short breaths behind him.
When he disappeared back into the elevator, the entire department exhaled at once.
Stella spun toward Elara. "Okay, I don't care if he terrifies me—I'd follow that man into a war."
Elara forced a laugh, though her hands still trembled faintly. You have no idea.