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Lena

T he itinerary hits my inbox at 5:42 AM. No greeting. No explanation. Just a subject line— TRAVEL CONFIRMATION —and a series of calendar blocks added without asking. The kind that assume your answer is yes.

I scroll twice to make sure I’m not missing something. It’s short. Blunt. Professionally indifferent. Flight information, hotel confirmation, and one sentence: “Client engagement scheduled—your attendance is expected.” No attachments. No contact person listed. Just a destination and a time.

I pack light. Not because I want to, but because I don’t know what I’m dressing for. Business casual? Executive formal? A creepy but on brand team building experience? I go with the safest outfit I own and tell myself not to overthink it. It’s probably just optics. Some behind-the-scenes meeting with a client who’ll never learn my name. But as I head out the door, I can’t shake the feeling that this is either a test, a reward—or worse, something I might get used to.

The car is already waiting when I step outside. The driver doesn’t introduce himself. Just opens the back door like this is what promotions look like now. No warning. No briefing. Just the soft glide of someone else’s decisions pulling up to your curb.

The airport is a different entrance than I’m used to. No lines. No announcements. Just a discreet sign and a private hangar with a jet parked like it’s been expecting me.

Stewy greets me at the steps, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. “First time flying private?”

“Yep.”

“Well, lucky you. The champagne’s free and HR’s asleep at the wheel.” He grins like we’re at some corporate summer camp, like none of this is weird. I give a half-smile, the kind that says I’m still new enough not to ruin it.

The champagne is real. The silence is awkward. Stewy fills it, cracking jokes and saying things like, “Don’t get used to this. One wrong move and next week it’s coach and crying babies.”

Andra’s already on board. She doesn’t look up from her tablet. She just motions to a seat like I’ve been assigned one. I take it. Buckle in. Try not to touch anything. No one offers an agenda. No one explains what I’m doing here. The only thing clear is that I’m not meant to ask.

We land three hours later. The car waiting on the tarmac is just as silent as the first. The hotel is pristine—polished wood, polished staff, polished smiles that make it all feel rehearsed. It’s nice, sure, but a hotel room is a hotel room. Clean sheets, locked door, minibar I won’t touch. I drop my bag on the bed and stare at the ceiling for a full minute before I unpack, like maybe it’ll tell me what I’m doing here.

Andra texts me the meeting time, followed by a sentence that reads: “You’re there to listen, not speak.”

I text back: “Got it.”

I change. Reapply mascara. Try to look competent but unmemorable. Safe. The elevator smells like citrus, and faint panic. I ride down with Stewy, who’s on a call the entire time, laughing too loudly at something that doesn’t sound funny. When we reach the lobby, he pockets his phone and winks. “You’re gonna do fine,” he says. “And if not, there are other jobs...”

Stewy talks like he’s ten years into a job no one can fire him from.

I haven’t said a word.

Dinner is held in a private dining room at a restaurant so sleek it looks like the set of a dystopian cooking show. Gray walls, one long table, no windows. The client is already there—some important man whose name I haven’t been told. He wears the kind of watch that means something to people who care about watches. Andra does most of the talking. Stewy chimes in when it helps. I sit at the far end, nodding at the right moments, laughing once or twice to maintain appearances. The client doesn’t even glance my way. Which is a relief.

Then the door opens.

Ellis walks in late. Not rushed. Not apologetic. Just… smooth. Like he’s been doing something better than this, and decided to grace the rest of us with his presence.

I catch a shift in the room as he enters—Andra’s posture stiffens ever so slightly, Stewy pauses mid-laugh, and even the client seems to straighten as if he’s suddenly aware of a new power in the room.

He takes the empty seat beside me without asking. Smells faintly like cologne and expensive decision-making. He doesn’t look at me right away. Just joins the conversation in progress, rearranges his silverware like he hasn’t missed a beat.

“Good to see you settling in,” he says eventually, leaning in my direction.

I nod, trying to keep my hands steady. I don’t respond; I just keep pretending I belong here.

The meal unfolds in courses. Words are exchanged that mean everything and nothing. Numbers. Projections. Promises. The client leaves first. Then Stewy. Andra stands, smooth as ever. “Our first meeting is tomorrow at seven,” she says, before turning on her heel. No confirmation. No eye contact. Just the sound of her fading.

Ellis doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look at me—at first.

“There’s something I’d like to discuss,” he says finally. “You’ll stay a bit.”

And just like that, I do.