Damage Control

POV Hazel

I storm into my cramped apartment like an erupting volcano. The cheap front door slams shut behind me, rattling the flimsy frame and shaking our extra keys off their metal hook. I kick off my cheap work heels, letting them clatter loudly against the worn floorboards, and throw my blazer blindly across the room. It lands in a heap over a dining chair, but I do not care. I pace the narrow stretch of the living room like a caged animal, unable to hold the boiling rage and humiliation inside my chest for one second longer.

Maya is sprawled lazily on our thrifted couch. Her legs swing over the armrest, and she scrolls through her phone with an infuriatingly blank expression. She barely blinks an eye as I march back and forth in front of the television screen.

"I just found out that the guy I slept with two nights ago, the one Nora dared me to flirt with, is my new boss. Dorian freaking Blackwood. The tyrant and new CEO of Vertex Corporation." I announce to the room, my voice cracking into a high-pitched, hysterical laugh that sounds far more like a physical threat than a joke.

Maya’s jaw drops open in shock. Her phone slips from her grasp, tumbling onto the sagging couch cushions. The apartment falls into a dead, suffocating silence. She blinks once, sits up straighter, and blinks again, processing the sheer disaster of my words. But instead of offering any shred of comfort or sympathy for the nightmare I am living, she leans forward and smugly places the blame squarely on my shoulders.

"Well, you didn’t have to go all the way with him. Maybe next time don’t throw your career trajectory into a random one-night stand." Maya shrugs dismissively, picking up her phone and twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"It wasn't exactly written in neon lights on his forehead!" I fire back defensively, my hands curling into tight fists at my sides. The sting of her profound lack of empathy burns hot in my chest.

Maya simply rolls her eyes, grabs her device, and retreats to the sanctuary of her bedroom without another word. The heavy click of her closing door echoes through the quiet space. My other roommate, Nora, quietly stays behind in the living room. She shuts her laptop and watches me with a steady, grounding gaze. I sink heavily into the sagging cushions of the couch, burying my face in my hands. I feel like the single biggest idiot alive. I let him touch me. I let him ruin me. And now he looks at me like I am dirt beneath his expensive shoes.

Nora scoots closer, reaching over to give my trembling hand a firm, grounding squeeze. "We are going to figure out a way to fix this disaster. I promise." She says softly, offering the exact anchor I need to keep from spiraling further into panic.

Later that evening, the heavy air of the city offers a brief reprieve. Under a smoggy, starless Las Vegas sky, Nora joins me on the concrete rooftop of our apartment building. She pulls a hoodie tight over her shoulders. We sit side by side on the cold ground. The distant neon glow of the casino strip flashes in the background, a bright, glaring mirage that mocks my current misery.

"Do you want to quit?" Nora asks softly, her voice barely carrying over the cool wind sweeping across the roof.

I let out a laugh. The sound is wild, ragged, and deeply bitter against the night air. "Quit? Nora, I’ve been studying and clawing my way toward this specific internship for two agonizing years. I am not letting an emotionally stunted man scare me off my own path."

I stare out at the jagged, glittering skyline and make a fierce, desperate vow to myself. If he wants to treat me like dirt, I will treat him like he doesn’t matter at all. I will build a wall of ice around my pride. I will be a machine. Strictly professional. Unbothered. I desperately convince myself that I can handle his cruelty.

I cannot, in fact, handle it.

The very next morning is a masterclass in pure, concentrated humiliation.

I arrive at the Vertex building early, determined to execute my new strategy. I smooth down the skirt of my navy shirt dress—tailored, tasteful, and strictly office-approved—before carefully preparing a perfectly measured cup of coffee. It is meant to be a silent, professional peace offering. I walk into his sprawling office, keeping my eyes firmly averted from his imposing figure behind the desk, and lean forward to place the steaming ceramic mug on the glass surface.

He picks it up and takes exactly one tiny sip. His handsome face twists into a vicious scowl.

He slams the ceramic mug down onto the desk so hard the dark liquid sloshes over the rim, splattering against the pristine glass. "Then you weren’t listening to my instructions. Try again. And this time, use your ears instead of your ego."

I swallow the sharp retort clawing its way up my throat. I grab the ruined coffee and practically flee the room.

What follows is an agonizing string of panicked attempts in the employee breakroom. The hissing espresso machine becomes my personal torture device. I try a different roast. I add an extra shot. I burn my fingers on the scalding milk pitcher. It takes the pitying help of a senior coworker named Eleanor and a shaky, tearful breath in a bathroom stall before I finally manage to get his complex, ridiculous order exactly right. My nerves are frayed to the breaking point.

When I return to his office and place the final cup down, he barely even looks at me. He grabs a stack of files from his desk and stands up in one fluid, intimidating motion.

"Meeting. Come." He barks the order without a single glance in my direction.

Like a pathetic idiot with zero spine left, I grab my notepad, clutch it tightly against my chest, and follow him out the door.

We ride the private elevator in a heavy, suffocating silence and eventually arrive at a stupidly fancy, exclusive restaurant downtown. The establishment drips with quiet wealth. White marble columns reach up to vaulted ceilings, glittering crystal chandeliers cast a low, amber glow, and waiters in pristine uniforms glide across the floor. I trail behind Dorian’s broad shoulders, feeling like a massive fraud in my sensible work clothes.

He speaks briefly to the elegant hostess at the front. He secures a lavish private dining room in the back of the restaurant and turns to me with a dismissive wave of his hand. He sharply instructs me to wait outside in the public seating area like a glorified guard dog.

I nod curtly, swallowing my pride, and step away toward the bar area. I stand near a towering marble pillar, awkwardly soaking in the opulence of the gold fixtures and velvet seating, trying to make myself as invisible as possible.

"Hazel Kensington?"

A loud, deeply familiar voice suddenly calls out my name, shattering the quiet hum of the restaurant.

I turn around and see Bryce. Maya’s goofy, endlessly energetic ex-boyfriend and my old college drinking buddy is striding toward me. He is wearing a crisp blue button-down shirt, flashing a grin big enough to light up the dim room. A massive wave of relief washes over me. The tension in my shoulders instantly melts away.

We close the distance and hug warmly. We lean against the polished mahogany of the bar, falling into an easy, comfortable rhythm. We laugh loudly, swapping embarrassing stories about our terrible tequila choices back in college and catching up on Maya's latest drama. For the first time in days, the suffocating weight lifts off my chest. I feel lighter. The corporate nightmare fades into the background.

"So, what’ve you been up to these days?" Bryce asks, giving me a wide, genuine smile as he takes a sip of his drink.

"Inside."

The single word cuts through the warm air between us like a physical blade. The voice is deep, gruff, and sharp as broken glass.

I freeze. The blood drains from my face.

Mr. Blackwood is standing directly behind me. The sheer, terrifying mass of his presence obliterates all the oxygen in the room. The temperature drops instantly.

"But... you said I should stay outside for the private meetings." I stammer, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs as I slowly turn to look up at his towering frame.

"I changed my mind." He says, his voice a low, lethal hum that vibrates straight through my bones.

His cold, slate-gray eyes flick toward Bryce for just a fraction of a second. It is a brief, terrifying glance, but I catch it. There is a weird, dangerous twitch of the muscle in his jaw. A sudden flash of something dark, possessive, and unhinged burns in his stare as he assesses the man standing next to me. The raw jealousy rolling off his broad shoulders is suffocating.

I swallow hard, my pulse racing in my throat. I whisper a quick, mortified apology to a deeply confused Bryce, grab my notepad, and hurry after Dorian’s retreating back. I follow him away from the safety of the public bar and into the wolves' den of the private dining room, utterly unable to figure out what the hell is wrong with his volatile mood now.