***Violet***
The phone starts screaming at 7:58 a.m., which is exactly when it always does—like it knows the building is awake and it’s time to ruin someone’s life.
It’s my job to make sure that someone isn’t Rowan Ashcroft.
“Ashcroft Industries, good morning,” I say, already typing with my free hand, already scanning the calendar, already watching the elevator bank like it’s a countdown clock. “How may I direct your call?”
“I need Mr. Ashcroft. Immediately.”
Of course you do.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Councilwoman Hargrove. He knows who I am.”
Everyone thinks their name is a key. Everyone thinks urgency bends rules. They forget there’s a person standing here with access, authority, and a security system that listens to me—not them.
“I’m aware of who you are, Councilwoman,” I say, polite enough to pass, flat enough to sting. “Mr. Ashcroft is unavailable at the moment. I can take a message.”
“Unavailable? It’s eight in the morning.”
“He begins his day at nine,” I lie smoothly. Rowan Ashcroft begins his day whenever he decides the world deserves him. “If this is time-sensitive, I can schedule a call for later today.”
“I’m not scheduling a call. I’m calling.”
“And I’m answering.” I smile even though she can’t see it. Smiles are weapons if you know how to use them. “Would you like to leave a message?”
Silence. Then, sharp and offended:
“Tell him he’s making an enemy.”
I don’t flinch. I don’t react.
“Noted,” I say, and hang up.
I tag the call HIGH PRIORITY and slide it beneath three others marked the same. Threats don’t scare Rowan Ashcroft. He collects enemies the way rich men collect watches—not for function, but for proof of what he can afford.
The phone rings again.
“Ashcroft Industries.”
“Is he in?” a man snaps.
“Who’s calling?”
“Waters. He’ll take it.”
“Mr. Ashcroft is unavailable,” I repeat, because I’ve said some version of that sentence enough times it could be etched into my spine. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“I don’t leave messages.”
“Then you don’t get Mr. Ashcroft,” I say calmly. Calm makes people angrier. “Have a good morning.”
Click.
The next call hits before I can breathe. The screen flashes REHABILITATION CENTER and my stomach tightens.
Not now.
I answer anyway. “This is Violet Pierce.”
“Ms. Pierce,” a woman says, her voice clinical and tired—the voice of someone who delivers bad news for a living. “We need to discuss your mother’s outstanding balance.”
The lobby gleams around me. Marble floors. Glass walls. Quiet wealth. I glance at my reflection in the desk—professional, composed, uncracked.
“I paid last week,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies, unimpressed. “And we appreciate that. However, your next payment is due today. If we don’t receive it by five p.m., we’ll need to review her placement.”
Review her placement.
That’s what they call it when compassion becomes conditional.
“How much?” I ask.
She tells me. The number lands like a punch.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
A pause. “Are you sure?”
My eyes drop to the sticky note beneath my monitor.
MISSING: DREW PIERCE
My brother’s face stares back at me from an old photo—smiling, alive, gone.
“I said I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Pierce.”
The call ends. Another line lights up instantly.
Panic is a luxury. Panic is for people whose lives don’t depend on staying upright.
I answer. Then the next. Then the next.
By 8:20, I’ve blocked four executives, rerouted two investors, rescheduled legal, canceled a surprise visit, and intercepted a delivery headed for the wrong floor. I haven’t had water. I haven’t checked my bank account.
I don’t need to.
Not enough.
At 8:35, Avery Quinneth arrives smelling like money and confidence, stress-free in heels that cost more than my weekly groceries.
“Mornin’,” she sings, smoothie in hand.
I don’t look up. “Your nine moved to ten.”
Her smile falters. “What? Why?”
“Theo’s press interview moved up. Rowan wants marketing on standby.”
She blinks. “Rowan wants… marketing?”
“Yes,” I say. “Adapt.”
She pouts. “You could’ve texted me.”
“I don’t text reminders to adults.”
She leans in. “He’s in a mood today. I heard him on the phone last night.”
“I’m sure,” I say.
She walks away like she owns the place.
She doesn’t.
At 8:42, Camille crosses the lobby, tablet tucked under her arm. She doesn’t wave—just lifts her chin slightly.
*I see you.*
I give her a look that says *not now.*
Because the elevator dings.
Rowan Ashcroft hasn’t even arrived yet—
—and my chest tightens anyway.
