The ledger was heavier than it looked.
By the time Selena left Lucian's office, her arms ached. The book wasn't huge, but it carried the kind of weight you didn't measure in pages. Names and numbers pressed against her palms, a pulse that wasn't hers.
Hana waited just outside the door.
"Well?" she asked, eyes flicking to the ledger. "You survived."
"Debatable," Selena said. "What do you call it when you sign a contract and immediately start carrying around everyone else's bad decisions?"
"Employment," Hana said. "Come on. You need a badge before security loses their minds."
The floor looked different now that she knew what sat in a single black book in her hands. Every closed office door hid a deal. Every glass wall watched her back.
At the end of the corridor, Hana stopped by a small, immaculate room: white walls, a counter, a biometric scanner. A sign on the door read ACCESS SERVICES.
"Stand there," Hana said, pointing to a taped mark on the floor. "Don't blink."
Selena obeyed.
A camera clicked; a machine hummed. Thirty seconds later, Hana slid a thin card into a plastic sleeve and clipped it to Selena's hoodie.
Her own face looked back at her, washed-out and wide-eyed above the DEVERUEX HOLDINGS logo. Underneath: SELENA BEER, EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT.
"Executive," Selena repeated faintly. "That word feels like a typo."
"It's accurate," Hana said. "You assist an executive. That makes you executive-adjacent. Which means people will start treating you like a messenger for God or a particularly well-dressed demon, depending on their mood."
"Comforting."
"It's not meant to be." Hana's gaze softened. "You'll get used to it. Or you'll quit. Either way, wear the badge. It'll stop some of the sharks from biting you on sight."
"Some?" Selena echoed.
"The ones who still fear HR," Hana said. "Come on. I'll show you your desk."
Her desk.
The words landed with a strange mix of dread and thrill.
They passed a cluster of open-plan workstations where assistants and analysts sat in neat rows, eyes glued to screens. Phones rang in low, controlled bursts. No one laughed. No one slouched. No one looked surprised to be here.
This, Selena thought, was what the inside of a well-fed machine looked like.
Hana stopped at a small corner outside Lucian's office—a pocket of space with a desk, a chair, and a view of the city through the glass wall.
"This is you," Hana said. "Computer's already set up. Password's on the sticky note until you change it. Don't tell IT I gave you a sticky note."
Selena set the ledger down with care. "So it's like a… guard post for his lair."
"More like an airlock," Hana said. "Nothing gets to him without going through this desk first. Calls, meetings, documents, disasters."
"And that's my job," Selena said slowly. "Filter the devils."
"Some of them," Hana said. "The rest, he invites in himself."
She handed over a slim headset. "Calls go through this. Calendar and email are already synced. He prefers in-person updates to long messages, so get comfortable with knocking on that door."
"I'm never going to be comfortable with that door," Selena said.
"You'd be surprised." Hana gave her a small, wry smile. "He's easier to deal with when you stop pretending he's a myth."
"He stole my rent money to lure me here," Selena reminded her.
"Did he?" Hana asked. "Or did he just make sure you couldn't keep pretending you had a choice?"
Before Selena could answer, Hana's tablet buzzed.
She glanced at it. "And you're on the clock. He wants coffee, black, no sugar, and the updated schedule for tomorrow. I'll route the calendar to you; the coffee machine is in the staff lounge. Don't mix up the mugs. You'll know which one is his."
"Because it's made from actual human ego?" Selena guessed.
"Because it's the only one without a motivational quote," Hana said, already walking away. "Welcome to the tower."
The ledger sat on her desk like a dare.
Selena took a breath, clipped the headset behind her ear, and went to find the coffee.
***
The staff lounge was smaller than she expected. Sleek, spotless, stocked with enough caffeine to keep a small army marching. Assistants clustered in quiet pockets, murmuring over their phones or scrolling through documents even on break.
A giant poster on the wall showed the Devereux logo above an inspirational slogan: EVERY DECISION, A LIFELINE.
"Sure," Selena muttered. "Or a noose."
She found the mug immediately.
Plain white. No logo. No text. No chipped rim. It sat on a separate shelf from the others, as if nothing dared crowd it. She rinsed it anyway, just in case, then filled it with coffee from the premium machine she didn't want to know the price of.
"You're new," someone said behind her.
She turned.
A man about her age leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, ID badge flashing: JAMIE KHALID, LEGAL ANALYST. His tie was loose, his hair a little too long for the tower's aesthetic. There was a smudge of ink on his cheek and the hint of a tired smile on his lips.
"I'm Selena," she said. "Executive Assistant. Temporarily. Hopefully. Maybe."
"Executive assistant to…?" he prompted.
She lifted the mug by way of answer.
His eyebrows shot up. "You're Devereux's new shadow? Huh. I thought he scared them off faster than HR could print badges."
"Encouraging," she said.
"Don't take it personally. He burns through people like this place burns through lightbulbs." Jamie took a sip of his own coffee. "I'm in legal. If you ever need someone to translate contracts into actual human language, I work late and accept bribes in caffeine."
Selena hesitated. Rule one of surviving new environments: don't trust the first person who offers help. Rule two: don't ignore lifelines when you're already underwater.
"I might take you up on that," she said.
He nodded at the mug. "Careful with him, though. He remembers who brings his coffee."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"With Lucian Devereux?" Jamie shrugged. "Depends on whether he's smiling."
"Great. Very relaxing."
Jamie studied her for a beat. "You look like you want to run," he said. "But you're still here. That's either bravery or terrible decision-making. Around here, they're practically the same thing."
Before she could frame a reply, her headset chimed softly.
"Ms. Beer," Lucian's voice came through, smooth and close. "If my coffee has gotten lost on the forty-ninth floor, I will be deeply disappointed."
Selena nearly dropped the mug.
"On my way," she said quickly.
Jamie's mouth curved in sympathy. "Run," he advised. "He hates lukewarm."
She didn't run, exactly. She walked very fast.
By the time she reached her desk, her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. She set the mug down carefully, then knocked on his door before her courage could leak out.
"Come in."
He wasn't behind the desk this time.
Lucian stood by the window, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. The city lights painted faint patterns on the glass behind him. From here, Seraph City looked almost gentle—a scatter of constellations instead of a maze.
She walked in, holding the mug like a peace offering.
"Coffee," she announced, mostly so she didn't announce how attractive he looked with his sleeves rolled up.
He turned.
The effect was immediate and unfair.
The loosened tie, the softened lines of his shirt, the way a strand of hair fell across his forehead—it all chipped at the inhuman distance she'd tried to maintain around him. He looked… younger, almost. Or maybe just less like an untouchable idea and more like a problem she could wrap her hands around.
His gaze slid to the mug, then to her face.
"You found the right one," he said. "Some assistants think I'm testing them when I say I can taste the difference."
"I assume you're always testing people," she said, setting the mug on his desk. "It saves time."
"Accurate." He picked up the cup, inhaled the steam, and took a slow sip. "Sit."
She sat, pulse not quite calming.
"The ledger is on your desk?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And your landlord?"
"Paid." The word felt strange in her mouth. "He called me 'lucky.'"
Lucian's smile flickered. "Seraph City confuses luck with leverage," he said. "You'll see that often."
"You're very poetic for a man who steals rent," she said.
"Borrowed," he corrected. "At an excellent rate of return. I already have your work product improving my floor."
She frowned. "I haven't done anything yet."
"You came back after reading the terms," he said. "That alone is more commitment than most people give."
The way he said it—quiet, almost offhand—made something twist in her chest, a mix of pity and alarm. How many people had walked out on him? How many had stayed and broken?
She cleared her throat. "What do you actually want me to do with the ledger today? I assume it's more specific than 'stare into the abyss until the abyss stares back.'"
The corner of his mouth curved. "Step one is simple. You will digitize it."
Her stomach sank. "You want me to type all of that?"
"I want you to read all of it," he corrected. "Typing is just an excuse to slow you down."
"That's evil," she said.
"That's thorough." He took another sip of coffee. "You'll create a secure spreadsheet, assign each entry a unique code, and note any patterns you see. Names that repeat. Amounts that cluster. Dates that coincide with public news. I don't care if your comments are messy; I care that they're honest."
"And then?"
"And then," Lucian said, "we discuss what you think I should have done differently."
She blinked. "You want… my opinion."
"I'm paying for your brain, not just your time," he said. "If I wanted a parrot, I'd hire PR."
"That's… surprisingly flattering," she admitted.
"Don't get used to it."
Silence settled, almost companionable.
His eyes drifted to her badge. "How does it feel?" he asked. "Seeing your name over my logo?"
"Like being stapled to a warning sign," she said. "People will avoid me in the elevator."
"Some will," he agreed. "Others will court you. Information flows both ways. Be careful who you let close."
"Do you ever take your own advice?" she asked before she could stop herself.
Something flickered across his face—gone so quickly she almost missed it.
"I did once," he said. "It was inefficient."
She filed that away under questions for a day when she wasn't already drowning.
"If that's all," she said, rising, "I should go start digitizing everyone's worst decisions."
"Not everyone's," he said. "Just the ones who found it useful to owe me."
"Same thing," she muttered.
He let her reach the door before he spoke again.
"Selena."
The way he said her name pulled at something in her chest—not quite gentle, not quite command, but somewhere knife-sharp between.
She looked back.
"You are not here to be ruined," Lucian said quietly. "That happens by accident. You are here to make a choice—with full knowledge of the cost. Very few people get that courtesy. Don't waste it."
Her throat tightened. "Is this your idea of encouragement?"
"This is my idea of honesty," he said. "You did say you liked it."
She almost said it depended on the day.
Instead, she nodded once and left, heart doing that unhelpful flutter against her ribs.
***
The hours blurred.
Selena lost herself in columns and ink, in debts and signatures and notes written in shorthand she had to decode. Her fingers flew over the keyboard; her eyes burned. Still, she didn't stop.
Patterns emerged.
Devereux Holdings stepping in where banks refused. Families on the edge of losing homes. Clinics about to shut their doors. Independent businesses drowning in fees. For every contract that looked predatory, another seemed… almost kind.
Almost.
Because in the margins, the same words appeared again and again.
COLLATERAL ADJUSTED.
COLLATERAL TRANSFERRED.
COLLATERAL TERMINATED.
"What does that even mean?" she murmured, rubbing at her eyes.
"Depends on the collateral," a voice said.
She jolted.
Lucian leaned against the glass wall near her desk, hands in his pockets, watching her screen. She had no idea how long he'd been there. His tie was gone now, top button undone.
She clicked the monitor off on reflex. "Privacy."
He arched a brow. "From me?"
"From your own influence," she said. "If you stand there and narrate, I might start agreeing with you."
"That would be a tragedy," he said, amused. "Explain what you've found."
She hesitated, then sighed and turned the monitor back on.
"Some of these deals look like rescues," she said, scrolling. "People about to lose everything, and you step in, restructure the debt, set terms they can actually meet. They keep their homes, their jobs, their… lives."
"Yes."
"But here—" she pointed to a cluster of entries "—you change the collateral halfway through. They miss a payment, and suddenly the guarantee isn't the house anymore, it's… what? Their business? Their equity? Their silence?"
"Sometimes it is an asset shift," he said. "Sometimes it is a seat on a board. Sometimes it is a favor owed."
"And sometimes," she said slowly, "it's a person."
His expression didn't change. "Is it?"
"These," she said, tapping the screen. "The notes. 'Collateral transferred to related party, non-monetary consideration.' 'Collateral held in trust, off-site.' That sounds like people."
"That sounds like lawyers trying not to incriminate themselves," Lucian said. "Words are masks too, Ms. Beer."
"Do you buy people?" she demanded.
"I invest in talent," he said. "Occasionally, someone offers themselves as payment. I simply make the math work."
"That's not math," she said, heat rising in her chest. "That's ownership."
He studied her, eyes cool. "If a man about to lose his company signs over a year of his son's labor to keep three hundred employees from being fired, is that ownership or sacrifice?"
"It's exploitation," she shot back. "He's desperate. You profit from that."
"So do the three hundred employees who keep their jobs," Lucian said. "So does the hospital that stays open. So does the city that continues to function. There is rarely a clean line between theft and salvation."
"Maybe not," she said. "But you still draw it where it benefits you."
He smiled, faint and sharp. "Of course. Would you prefer your devils honest about their interests or claiming charity while they sharpen their knives?"
"I'd prefer fewer devils," she said.
"Then you chose the wrong city," he replied.
They stared at each other, the ledger's digital reflection flickering between them.
He broke the silence first.
"You're tired," he said. "Go home."
She blinked at the clock. Somehow, midnight had crept up while she'd been neck-deep in other people's bargains.
"My shift…?" she began.
"Is over when I say it's over," he said. "And I say you've done enough for tonight. Hana will arrange a car."
"I can take the bus," she protested.
"Not at this hour," he said. "Not with that ledger in your head."
She hesitated. "I'm not afraid of the city."
"You should be," he said softly. "Fear doesn't make you weak. It makes you careful."
He straightened. "Bring the ledger back tomorrow. Start again. And, Selena—"
She looked up.
"Do not talk about what you read," he said. The calm in his voice was more chilling than any threat. "Not to your friends, not to your professors, not to the mirror. This is not me protecting myself. This is me protecting you from what happens when people realize what you know."
A shiver slid down her spine.
"I signed the NDA," she said.
"And I signed enemies into silence every day," he replied. "Paper is a formality. I'm asking for your trust."
"You stole my rent," she reminded him again, because the alternative was saying something far more reckless.
He smiled, just a little. "And I've already made that theft pay dividends. Go home, Ms. Beer. Dream of cleaner worlds while you still can."
She shut down her computer, grabbed her bag, and stepped into the elevator down.
As the doors slid closed, she caught one last glimpse of him through the glass: a lone figure against the city, sleeves rolled up, looking for all the world like a man counting stars instead of sins.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Laura: U alive? Or did your mysterious "job" harvest your organs already?
Selena stared at the screen.
Then, for the first time since she walked into Devereux Tower, she let herself laugh—quiet, breathless, a little hysterical.
Not yet, she typed back. But I think I met the guy who writes the contracts.
She didn't hit send.
Instead, she erased the message and wrote: Long day. Tell you later.
As the elevator descended, carrying her back toward streets that suddenly felt narrower, Selena realized the real trap hadn't been the contract.
It was the part of her that wanted to come back tomorrow.
The city lights rose to meet her.