THE GET-TO-GATHER HALL
The hall was an absolute showstopper — the kind of place designed to make you feel like you were either about to receive an award or get dramatically fired. The ceiling stretched so high it could've had its own weather system, and the chandeliers sparkled as if they were personally offended by anyone not staring at them.
Soft golden lights bathed the room in a glow that screamed old-money elegance, while sleek modern decor kept it from veering too far into rich-grandma's-parlor territory. Polished marble floors reflected everything — the lights, the nervous shifting of feet, and the occasional sneaky side-eye exchange.
Rows of chairs were lined up so perfectly, it was like someone had measured them with a laser. On the right side of the room sat Danica's team — all sharp suits, bold lipstick, and the barely restrained chaos of people who knew they were here for blood. The left side belonged to Alfred's team, who, bless them, had no idea they'd just walked into a Corporate Hunger Games.
Directly behind the neatly divided factions sat the media — a collection of eager reporters, bloggers pretending to be reporters, and a couple of influencers who were mainly here for the complimentary wine. Laptops open, cameras ready, and noses already twitching for drama.
In the front row, Mr. Paul sat with the posture of a man trying to pretend he wasn't about to hurl. Excited? Sure. Nervous? That too. Probably regretting every life choice that had led him to this chair? Most definitely.
His friend was beside him, utterly oblivious to the mounting tension. He scrolled through his phone, probably looking at memes, while Paul's brain did a full gymnastics routine of anxiety.
After precisely twenty minutes—yes, she was exactly that kind of dramatic—Nina made her entrance.
She didn't just walk onto the stage. No, she materialized, like some sultry sorceress conjured from the depths of a particularly mischievous daydream. The slit in her crimson gown was criminally high, a direct affront to decency, and the way the fabric clung to her curves should've come with a warning label. Her skin, porcelain and flawless, practically glowed under the low, moody lighting. The contrast between her dress and her skin was the sort of thing you'd find in an art gallery captioned "Woman Who Knows She's Winning".
Paul tried to look away.
Really. He did. But it was like telling a moth not to dive headfirst into a bug zapper. His eyes refused to cooperate. There was a gravitational pull between him and Nina's radiant, leg-baring, red-draped form and it was frankly embarrassing.
Then, as if she hadn't already detonated enough havoc, she turned her head ever so slightly, found Paul in the crowd with predator-level accuracy, and winked.
A goddamn wink.
Paul's stomach did a weird flip, his pulse started tap dancing against his ribcage, and he might have actually forgotten how to blink.
Beside him, his friend—the only person on earth with a working sense of reality at this moment—leaned in with a raised brow and a voice low enough for discretion but sharp enough to pierce through Paul's hormone-addled haze.
"Hey, Paul," he murmured, a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. "Any chance you wanna join the rest of us here in Reality? Or should I just leave you in Fantasy Land where Nina's about to write your name on her thigh with lipstick?"
Paul flinched like someone had snapped their fingers in front of his face.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied so badly it should've been a crime.
His friend's grin widened like a cat who'd just found a mouse with a limp.
"Dude. Your face is writing an entirely different story. It's like a billboard over Times Square saying, 'Paul is Doomed'. You got it bad."
Paul shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "What's your problem, man? Stay in your lane. Live and let me…live."
His friend, not one to let go when an opportunity for mockery presented itself, shook his head with exaggerated disbelief.
"I'm just trying to understand the plot here," he said, gesturing between Paul's flushed face and Nina's siren-like figure. "Because unless I'm hallucinating—and honestly, this night's weird enough that maybe I am—you told me you were in love with Danica. Like, can't-breathe-without-her, let's-name-our-kids-after-her-grandmother kind of love."
Paul opened his mouth to argue but his friend cut him off with a raised hand.
"And now," he continued, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion, "one look from that woman and you're one hormone away from proposing marriage. I swear to God, you are the most emotionally confusing human being I've ever met. You're like a walking contradiction in expensive shoes."
"I don't love Nina, alright?" Paul hissed, stabbing a finger into the air like it had personally accused him of something indecent. "I smiled at her. Smiling doesn't mean love. If it did, the cashier at my grocery store would be my wife by now."
His friend, smug as a cat in a sunbeam, crossed his arms. "That wasn't a normal smile, mate. That was the smile."
"What smile?"
"The kind you give when your heart does that weird hiccup thing and you suddenly forget how gravity works."
Paul rolled his eyes so hard it was a minor miracle they didn't get lodged in the back of his skull. They were bickering like two overgrown toddlers with a grudge when a clear voice cut through the room, slicing their argument in half.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," Nina's voice floated through the speakers, silencing the chatter. She looked annoyingly radiant, like someone whose eyeliner always matched and never smudged, even during an apocalypse.
Paul pretended not to notice how his stomach did a polite little somersault.
"As you know, we're gathered here to celebrate the launch of CR Company's latest project and to formally announce our new partnership —" Nina continued, looking poised, sleek, and far too competent for the emotional dumpster fire Paul currently inhabited.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.
"I'd now like to call upon Ms. Danica Clarke, owner and chairwoman of CR Company, to the stage."
The crowd applauded, and Danica entered like a storm dressed as a goddess. Black bandage dress so tight it might have been painted on, legs that went on forever, and she strutted onto the stage like she owned not just the company, but gravity itself. Her long hair cascaded down her back in silky waves, and those stilettos? Weapons-grade.
In one fluid, cinematic move, she slipped off her sunglasses and let them dangle from her fingers like a weapon she might use later.
"Good evening." she purred, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous, "Tonight, I have the immense pleasure of introducing my new business partner to the CR team and our honored guests."
She paused, a master of the dramatic beat.
"Please welcome… Mr. Alfred Brown."
A spotlight swung to the side entrance, and there he was.
And, good God.
Paul's jaw physically unhinged. If sin had a corporeal form, it was probably Alfred Brown in a tailored charcoal suit. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair the color of midnight regrets, and eyes that gleamed like they'd been engineered in a lab for maximum female obliteration.
"Pinch me," Paul muttered.
"Gladly," His friend said, and did. With enthusiasm.
Paul yelped. "Okay, real. Not a nightmare. Definitely wish it was."
He barely had time to recover before Alfred strode onto the stage, charisma radiating off him in waves. Women sighed. Men bristled. Danica looked like she'd forgotten what breathing was.
Danica, despite being the queen of control, was visibly flustered. Her legs did a little stutter-step, and for a horrifying moment, Paul thought she might trip over her own designer confidence. She recovered, of course — she was Danica Clarke — but the tremble hadn't gone unnoticed.
Nina caught it too, one brow arching as if to say, Girl, don't even try to hide it.
As Alfred took the mic and spoke, voice rich and smooth enough to make Paul want to commit minor acts of arson out of pure envy.
"It's an honor to join CR Company in this new venture. I look forward to working alongside Ms. Clarke and her exceptional team. Together, I'm confident we'll reach remarkable new heights."
Cue polite applause. Cue internal screaming.
And then, because this was Paul's life and the universe had a deeply twisted sense of humor, his vision swam, the room tilted, and he… fainted.
His friend glanced down at him, "Seriously?" he muttered, nudging Paul's motionless side with his shoe. "Guy can't handle a little corporate partnership reveal. Pathetic."
The rest of the evening blurred by in a whirl of champagne flutes, fake laughs, and whispered office gossip. Paul remained blissfully unconscious for most of it, slumped against a potted plant, face slack in the way of someone whose body had fully given up.
It wasn't until his buddy dumped a glass of cold water on his face — because friendship — that Paul bolted upright with a gasp.
"Am I dead?"
"Unfortunately, no," His friend sighed.
Reality came crashing back. Paul wiped his soaked face with a handkerchief that might've once been white, his mind already spinning with a thousand increasingly ridiculous escape plans.
I need a strategy. A plan. Maybe I fake a family emergency. Or join a monastery. Or…
"Let's go," his friend said, tugging at his sleeve.
On the other side
Danica stood beside Nina, both of them nursing champagne flutes they weren't drinking, mostly because the bubbly tasted like carbonated despair. The room was one of those swanky hotel lounges that screamed networking event, where the chandeliers sparkled too much, and people smiled like their teeth were on commission.
And Nina was halfway through recounting some scandalous office gossip when a voice cut through the hum of the room like a rusty saw.
"I just realized," Alfred announced, striding toward them with the smugness of a man who'd never known a bad hair day. "I forgot to introduce my manager."
Danica arched a brow. Nina's mouth froze mid-sentence.
He gestured to the man standing slightly behind him. "This is my manager, Mr. Sean Baker."
Time slowed. Literally. Danica was pretty sure one of the chandeliers flickered ominously. Her heart somersaulted, then faceplanted.
What the ever-loving hell? Did he just say Sean Baker? Her eyes widened like saucers, and she felt her stomach perform the kind of gymnastics routine that would've earned a gold medal.
Beside her, Nina audibly choked on air. She leaned in, her voice a dramatic whisper. "What the hell is Sean doing here? As in—Sean, your ex-boyfriend, Sean?"
Danica's lips curved into something between a grimace and a smirk. "I have no clue," she muttered, holding her glass up to shield her face like it was some kind of forcefield. "It's the worst best surprise ever."
"Nice?" Nina hissed, looking personally offended by the choice of word. "What's nice about this?"
Danica's grin turned downright wicked. "When your sleazeball ex-boyfriend ends up working under your business partner? I mean, that's the kind of poetic justice Shakespeare would've written sonnets about."
Nina let out a snort. "You're such a bitch."
"I try."
Nina grinned, her eyes gleaming. "Let's make him suffer. I want my ears blessed when he's forced to call you 'boss.'"
Danica's smirk broadened. Oh, she was so ready for this.
Sean, poor clueless Sean, finally noticed her presence. His face did this thing where it tried to hold five expressions at once: shock, horror, panic, regret, and the realization that karma was, indeed, a flaming bitch in stilettos.
"Mr. Sean Baker," she greeted, her voice honey-sweet and deadly as a loaded syringe. She extended her hand like a queen bestowing a handshake upon a peasant.
Sean hesitated but finally took it, his grip limp and clammy. Danica's fingers tightened like a vice, and his face contorted, a silent yelp lodging in his throat.
"We haven't met before, have we?" she asked, squeezing just a touch harder.
He barely managed a strangled, "I… don't think so."
She released his hand, watching him subtly flex his fingers like he was checking for fractures.
"Let me introduce you to my manager," Danica said brightly, as though this were just another Tuesday.
Enter Paul.
Paul, who should've been on America's Most Wanted: Cowards Edition, approached like a man condemned. He was doing this thing where he sort of half-hid behind his friend, probably hoping he could pull a Gandalf and declare, You shall not see me.
What is this idiot doing? Danica seethed internally. Mr. Alfred was watching the whole thing, his brow furrowed like a man doing complex algebra. Danica gritted her teeth and muttered under her breath, "Show your goddamn face, Paul, or so help me, I will end you right here in front of this chandelier."
Paul, sensing imminent death, slowly straightened, his face a mask of forced cheerfulness, like someone trying to pretend they weren't being held hostage at a family reunion.
And now—there they were.
Six people, awkwardly clustered together by the twisted, maniacal hand of fate.
Is this a fever dream? Alfred was confused, shocked and amused at best to witness Paul as Danica's manager. Isn't Paul the owner of Phoenix Company? What's he doing here managing for Danica? Did he go bankrupt? Is this a tax evasion scheme?
While, Paul was basically awaiting public execution. This is it. This is how I die. By awkward social interaction. Oh God, just strike me down now.
Sean had resigned to the knowledge that life was a cruel, petty mistress who'd just served him up on a silver platter to his ex. If someone had told me I'd be working under Danica, I would've accepted that job in Siberia. Or jail. Either would've been preferable.
Nina was Lowkey loving the drama, high-key wondering why the hell she was still into Paul, and philosophizing about how life really is just a series of awkward run-ins with people you hoped were dead. Wow. The world is tiny, and fate is a sadistic little troll. Neat.
Danica was thriving, smirking inside and ready to play this like a grandmaster chess champion with absolutely no mercy. This. Is. Delicious. Time to start the show.
Paul's friend, poor soul, was still trying to puzzle it out. Why is everyone so quiet? Did I miss something? Is this a cult? Should I start chanting?
And somewhere, in the cosmic expanse, Fate snorted into its drink and whispered, "Watch this."
Because sometimes, life is a sitcom without a laugh track. And all of them? They were stuck under the same metaphorical roof, courtesy of the universe's twisted sense of humor.
The game had officially begun.