Chapter 4 CHAPTER 4.

The event wrapped up around eleven-thirty.

The guests started filing out toward the exit, cheeks still flushed from the alcohol and hands full of gala souvenirs. The staff was rolling up cables, taking down lights, lowering panels.

I was still standing exactly where Clara had left me, like a statue. My feet ached and my makeup was starting to give up.

“Moreno.”

The voice came from behind me—low, steady. It wasn’t Clara.

I turned.

A man in a dark suit, different from the usual security guys, was watching me with a neutral expression. He had a white pin with the Vega Group logo and a name I didn’t quite catch.

“Yes?” I asked, trying to hide how much my knees were shaking.

“Mr. Vega would like to see you,” he said, in the same tone someone uses to announce the dentist is ready to pull four of your teeth. “Now.”

I swallowed. Gulp.

“Here? Backstage or…?”

“I’ll escort you,” he said simply, turning down a side hallway.

Every step I took behind him sounded too loud in my head. Tap, tap, tap.

My heels protested. My nerves screamed. My brain offered helpful suggestions like “run,” “fake a fainting spell,” or “pretend to be someone else.”

The man opened the door to a private room. Inside, the noise from the gala was just a distant murmur. There was a small meeting table, a couple of armchairs, and a huge window overlooking the city.

And standing in front of that window, hands in his trouser pockets, was him.

Adrian Vega.

No cameras. No audience.

Just him.

The man with the pin stepped out, closing the door behind me with a click that sounded exactly like a sentence being handed down.

I stayed where I was, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Adrian turned around slowly.

I’d seen him before, but never this close.

In the intranet photos he looked cold. In person, he was more than that. He was… precise. As if every line of his face, every fold of his suit, had been calculated. Dark, serious eyes that landed on me without a single flicker.

Silence.

I breathed. He breathed. The clock on the wall went tick-tock.

“Mr… Vega,” I managed, with a smile that felt like it had been glued on badly. “I, uh… good evening.”

“Good evening, Ms. Moreno,” he replied, without a smile. “I see you’ve already become familiar with my heart temperature.”

If the earth had had a “quit game” button, I would’ve slammed it.

“The whole… freezer thing was…” I dragged in air. “A very bad joke. I know. I’m really, really sorry. I thought the microphone wasn’t connected to the hall and—”

“I don’t usually handle technical issues,” he cut in, taking a couple of steps toward me. “But I do like to understand who creates them.”

Every step he took made my brain scream error, error, error. I could smell his cologne—clean, expensive, one of those you can’t describe but would recognize anywhere.

“I never meant to disrespect you,” I blurted. “Really. I understand if this means I’m fired, but I just wanted to clarify it wasn’t planned or anything like that. It was… it was just my mouth… working overtime.”

Seriously, Lia? Your mouth “working overtime”?

Adrian narrowed his eyes slightly. He did not look particularly amused.

“I’ve seen the video,” he said. “Half the internet has.”

My stomach did a triple backflip.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, because my brain had officially run out of other lines.

“Interesting,” he went on. “An entire public relations campaign has failed to create as much impact as thirty seconds of you speaking without a filter.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment, a threat, or both at once.

“I can give a statement,” I rushed out. “Say it was a misunderstanding, that I admire you a lot as a boss, that we have an excellent work environment…”

“Would that be true?” he interrupted, tilting his head slightly.

Busted.

“The part about… admiring you as a boss…” I stammered, “I don’t know you well enough to… uh… but I’m sure you’re… very… efficient.”

I wanted to slam my forehead against the nearest table.

The corner of his mouth moved a millimeter. It didn’t quite become a smile. Maybe a micro-glitch in the system.

“Tell me, Ms. Moreno,” he said. “Are you unhappy with your job?”

“I’m unhappy with my bank account,” I blurted, before I could stop myself.

Silence.

My eyes went wide.

“I mean, not with the job itself,” I corrected quickly, waving my hands. “I love… editing press releases… and… moving commas around. It’s my passion. It’s just that… well… the paycheck could be a little less… symbolic.”

I wanted to die.

Literally, physically, emotionally.

Adrian watched me for a few seconds, like he was trying to file me into the correct category.

“Your direct supervisor tells me you’re competent,” he said at last. “And also reckless.”

An image of Clara breathing smoke flashed through my mind.

“I try not to be reckless,” I muttered. “It’s just that sometimes… the words escape. Like… inmates on the run.”

Another excellent phrase to have tattooed on my forehead.

He didn’t look impressed. He walked over to the table, picked up a tablet and turned it on. I caught a glimpse of the video playing on the screen before I dropped my gaze.

My voice filled the room again:

“Our supreme leader is harmless as long as you don’t smell like human error, misplaced commas or unauthorized emotion…”

I closed my eyes for a moment. Thump, thump, thump.

“It’s interesting how specific you were,” he said, pausing the video. “It almost sounds like you’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about me.”

“In my defense,” I whispered, “I think weird things about everyone. It’s not personal.”

For some reason, that made him let out a short breath. Not exactly a laugh, but no longer that icy silence from before.

“All right, Ms. Moreno,” he concluded, setting the tablet down. “I’m not going to fire you. Today.”

My eyes flew open so wide it hurt.

“You’re not…?”

“Your mistake can’t be hidden anymore,” he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It’s on social media, in employee group chats, probably in my partners’ chats as well. Firing you would only feed the story.”

Cold CEO fires employee for telling the truth would make a fantastic headline. He didn’t say it, but it was hanging in the air.

“So… what’s… what’s going to happen to me?” I asked, feeling my legs starting to shake again.

Adrian moved to the back of a chair and rested his hands on it.

“Tomorrow, at eight sharp, I want to see you in my office,” he said. “Fifteenth floor. Ask for me at reception.”

“At eight… in the morning?” I repeated, like an idiot.

“That’s when people who want to keep their jobs start their day,” he replied, not blinking.

Ouch.

I nodded so fast I almost snapped my own neck.

“Yes. Of course. Eight on the dot. Earlier if you want. I can sleep in the elevator, no problem…”

I had no idea why I said that.

Something like a strange glint flickered in his eyes.

“Arriving on time will be sufficient,” he said.

He straightened up. Conversation over, apparently. He didn’t yell. He didn’t humiliate me. He didn’t ask me to hold a press conference about how wonderful the company was.

He just gave me one last look.

“And, Ms. Moreno,” he added, just as I was reaching the door.

I turned, heart back in my throat.

“Yes?”

“If you decide to turn on a microphone again tomorrow,” he said slowly, “try to make sure it’s in the company’s favor.”

I didn’t know whether to say “yes, sir,” “sorry again,” or “I’m going into exile.” What came out was some weird combination:

“Yep, sure, sorry, thank you.”

I left the room on shaky legs, heart lodged in my mouth and only one thought in my head:

Tomorrow, at eight a.m., my work life could end once and for all…

…or get even more ridiculous.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.