The Desk

***POV: Hazel***

The shrill, demanding scream of the telephone slices through the pristine silence of the lobby at precisely 7:58 a.m. It happens at this exact minute every single morning, ringing out as if it knows the building is finally awake and ready to have its peace shattered. My primary job is to ensure that this noise, and the entitled people behind it, do not ruin Gideon Thorne's meticulously structured life.

My fingers are already flying across the keyboard as I answer the line. I keep my eyes locked on the sleek metallic elevator bank across the vast marble floor, treating the polished steel doors like a countdown clock ticking toward inevitable impact.

“Thorne Industries, good morning,” I say, projecting the polished, untouchable voice they pay me a premium for. “How may I direct your call?”

“I need Mr. Thorne. Immediately.”

The voice on the other end is sharp, dripping with the kind of condescension that comes from years of unchecked privilege. It is Councilwoman Sinclair. Callers like her always believe their name is a skeleton key, completely forgetting that there is a living, breathing person standing right here with the ultimate authority over access. Me.

“I am aware of who you are, Councilwoman,” I say. My voice flattens, intentionally designed to sting as I inform her of reality. “Mr. Thorne is unavailable at the moment. I can take a message.”

Sinclair balks. She practically scoffs into the receiver, citing that it is barely eight in the morning and demanding to be put through.

“He begins his day at nine,” I lie with silken smoothness. I know full well Gideon Thorne begins his day whenever he deems the world worthy of his presence, but the Councilwoman does not need to know that.

Sinclair snaps. She warns me in a low, dangerous tone that he is making a powerful enemy by ignoring her.

I reply with a completely unflinching, “Noted,” before abruptly hanging up the phone.

I file the call log away without a second thought. Gideon does not fear threats. He collects enemies as tangible proof of his boundless leverage, wearing their hatred like a tailored suit. The phone rings again seconds later. Another arrogant man demands to be put through, refusing to leave a message. I coldly disconnect him too, protecting the fortress.

Then, the digital screen on my console flashes a terrifying sequence of letters: REHABILITATION CENTER.

A sickening tightness grips my stomach. The sterile, quiet wealth of the glass and marble lobby suddenly feels suffocating. I force myself to pick up the receiver.

“This is Hazel Hayes.”

“Ms. Hayes,” a woman says. Her tone is a clinical, detached voice that delivers bad news for a living. “We need to discuss your mother’s outstanding balance.”

I grip the edge of the desk. She states flatly that the next payment is due today by five p.m., or her placement will be reviewed. Reviewing her placement is just a polite, corporate way of saying they will throw her out onto the street. The financial number she quotes lands against my ribs like a physical punch. It knocks the air straight from my lungs.

I glance down past my gleaming reflection in the pristine desk surface to a brightly colored sticky note hidden beneath my monitor: *MISSING: OWEN HAYES*.

My brother’s smiling, vanished face stares silently back at me from the faded photograph. He is gone. The unresolved trauma of his disappearance is a heavy anchor around my neck, grounding me in the grim reality of my life while everyone else in this building walks around oblivious to real pain.

“I’ll handle it,” I force out. My throat feels tight, burning with unshed stress.

Panic is an extravagant luxury reserved for people whose survival doesn't depend on standing upright. I sever the connection and dive right back into the fray. The switchboard lights up, and I systematically intercept the next call, and the next. The morning rush is a relentless wave I am forced to survive without a life vest. By 8:20 a.m., I have successfully blocked top-tier executives demanding unscheduled face time, ruthlessly rerouted impatient investors to voicemail, and intercepted stray deliveries trying to sneak past the front desk. I explicitly avoid checking my bank account on my phone because the math is already a foregone conclusion. Looking at the pathetic numbers will not conjure the massive sum I need by five o'clock.

At exactly 8:35 a.m., Blair Kensington saunters in. She radiates the scent of expensive perfume and stress-free confidence. Her designer heels click sharply against the floor, a stark contrast to the crushing weight resting on my shoulders.

Without breaking my gaze from the glowing screen, I coldly inform her of her schedule shift. “Your nine o'clock meeting was bumped to ten because Gideon demands marketing on standby.”

Blair stops in her tracks. She practically pouts, her immaculate makeup shifting into a frown as she whines that I could have texted her the update before she rushed in.

“I don’t text reminders to adults,” I reply, keeping my focus locked on the incoming emails.

Blair huffs. She leans against the counter, issuing a petty warning that Gideon is in a terrible mood based on an overheard phone call from the night before, before she struts away acting as if she owns the building. She does not.

The lobby falls quiet again, but the tension in the air only thickens. At 8:42 a.m., Jocelyn strides across the lobby. She offers me a subtle, knowing lift of her chin as she passes.

I return a sharp look that unequivocally screams *not now*.

I cannot afford distractions. I cannot afford to breathe. Because right at that moment, the polished metal doors of the elevator suddenly ding.

Gideon Thorne hasn’t even arrived yet—and my chest tightens anyway.