His Most Dangerous Asset

Layla

“I’m sorry, but the payment was declined.” The voice on the phone is professionally flat, devoid of any real sympathy. It’s the third call this morning.

I press the phone harder against my ear, as if proximity can change the words. “There must be a mistake. Can you please try running the card again?” My own voice is tight, a thin wire of control pulled taut over a pit of panic.

“Ma’am, I’ve run it twice. The system is showing insufficient funds.”

My eyes squeeze shut. I picture my mother on the other end of the line from me, standing in the fluorescent glare of the pharmacy, my little sister Maya sitting in a worn out plastic chair, her breathing just a little too shallow. The image fuels the fire in my gut.

“It’s for an Albuterol refill. My sister needs it. Her current inhaler is almost empty.”

“I understand, but there’s nothing I can do without payment. The total is two hundred and forty three dollars.”

Two hundred and forty three dollars. It might as well be a million. That’s food for three weeks. That’s the electric bill and the internet I need for my classes. My fingers tremble as I clutch the strap of my second hand purse. It’s the nicest thing I own, and the clasp is broken.

“Okay,” I say, my voice cracking just a little. “Okay, thank you.”

I hang up before she can offer any more useless platitudes. A deep, shuddering breath escapes me. I can’t fall apart. Not here. Not now.

I stand on a sidewalk paved with what looks like polished granite, staring up at a skyscraper that pierces the clouds. The Veleno Corp headquarters isn't just a building; it's a monument to a level of wealth I can’t comprehend. The sun glints off a thousand panes of glass, a blinding, indifferent glare.

This is it. My first day. The internship that’s supposed to be the first step toward fixing everything. The one I beat out three hundred other applicants for, the one my professors said was a golden ticket.

Right now, it just feels like another world I don’t belong in.

My phone buzzes. It’s my mom. I know what she’s going to ask. I hit ignore, my thumb hovering over the screen. I type out a text instead.

*Don’t worry. I’ll transfer the money in a few hours. Just get her home. I love you both.*

It’s a lie. I have thirty seven dollars in my account. But it’s a necessary one. It buys her a few hours of peace. It buys me a few hours to figure out how to make it true.

Taking another breath, I push through the massive, revolving glass doors. The air inside is different. It’s cool, crisp, and smells faintly of citrus and clean money. The lobby is a cavern of white marble and gleaming steel. A waterfall cascades down a black stone wall behind a reception desk that’s longer than my entire apartment. Men and women in impeccably tailored suits glide across the floor, their conversations a low, confident murmur. Their shoes make no sound.

My own sensible black flats suddenly feel like clown shoes. The blazer I found at the thrift store, the one I so carefully steamed this morning, feels cheap and flimsy.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s smile is perfect and practiced. She looks like a model, not a scratch on her flawless makeup.

“I’m Layla Hassan,” I say, my voice coming out smaller than I’d like. “It’s my first day. I’m an intern in the finance department.”

Her fingers dance across a keyboard embedded in the desk. “Ah, yes. Chad will be your supervisor. He’s been notified. You can have a seat over there. Someone will be down to collect you shortly.”

I thank her and walk over to a set of low leather couches. Sitting on the edge, I clutch my purse in my lap. I feel like an exhibit. The scholarship kid from the state school, on display in the lion’s den.

I try to focus on the numbers. Numbers are my sanctuary. They make sense. They follow rules. I mentally calculate the amortization schedule for my student loans. I estimate the building’s probable maintenance budget based on its square footage. It’s a game I play to calm my nerves, to turn the world into a puzzle I can solve. But today, the numbers are just swimming in my head, drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

“Layla Hassan?”

The voice is sharp, impatient. I look up to see a man in his late twenties. His blond hair is perfectly coiffed, his suit is a shade of blue so dark it’s almost black, and his watch probably costs more than my tuition. He holds a tablet in one hand and doesn’t offer the other.

“I’m Chad. Senior Analyst. Follow me.” He turns before I can even get a word out, clearly expecting me to keep up.

I scramble to my feet and hurry after him. He moves fast, navigating the maze of cubicles and glass walled offices like a shark in its home waters. I get flashes of activity, tense meetings, people staring intently at glowing screens, the air humming with quiet, focused energy.

“The finance department occupies the entire thirty fourth floor,” Chad says over his shoulder, not bothering to check if I’m still there. “Our team handles portfolio reconciliation. The work is precise. There is no room for error. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.”

He stops abruptly at a small, empty desk wedged between a massive printer and a filing cabinet. My desk. It’s the only one in the entire open plan office that looks like an afterthought.

“This is you,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair. He still hasn’t made eye contact. He’s looking at his tablet, swiping through something with an annoyed flick of his thumb.

“Thank you. I’m really excited to be here and ready to learn whatever…”

He cuts me off with a sigh, finally lifting his eyes from the screen. They’re a cold, dismissive blue. He scans me from head to toe, and I feel his judgment like a physical slap. The thrift store blazer, the slightly worn purse, the nervous energy I can’t seem to hide. His lip curls in a faint, almost imperceptible sneer.

“Right. We’ll start you off easy. This is a backlog of quarterly expense reports.” He drops a stack of binders on the desk that makes the whole thing wobble. “I need you to manually verify the receipts against the line items and then scan them into the archive server. The instructions are on a sticky note. Try not to delete the entire server.” He smirks, as if he’s just made the cleverest joke in the world.

My mind, the one that aced advanced calculus and can spot a flawed algorithm from a mile away, reels. Data entry. He’s giving me busy work. It’s a test and a dismissal all in one.

“Of course,” I say, my voice steady despite the fury and humiliation coiling in my stomach. I need this job. I can’t afford a conscience or a backbone. Not yet.

“Good. My desk is over there.” He points to a large, corner workspace with three monitors. “Don’t bother me unless the building is on fire. And even then, send an email first.”

He walks away, already absorbed in his tablet again, leaving me standing by my sad little desk with a mountain of paper. I can feel the eyes of the other analysts on me. I am the intern. The charity case. The one who doesn't belong.

I slide into the chair, the cheap plastic groaning under my weight. My reflection is a pale, distorted ghost in the dark screen of the monitor. For a moment, my mom’s frantic face flashes in my mind. Maya’s wheezing breaths. The pharmacy’s cold rejection. The two hundred and forty three dollars.

I will not fail. I can do this. I can swallow my pride and scan these stupid receipts. I can be invisible. I can survive Chad. I can survive anything for them.

I take a deep breath and power on the computer. As the screen flickers to life, I feel a shift in the atmosphere of the office. The low hum of conversation drops. People are standing, their postures subtly more attentive. I look up, following their gaze toward the main elevators.

The doors slide open with a soft chime.

And he steps out.

I’ve only seen him in magazines and on business news channels. Adrian Veleno. The CEO. The man who inherited an empire at twenty five and tripled its value in a decade. In person, he is a force of nature. He wears a charcoal gray suit that fits him like a second skin, but it’s the way he holds himself that commands the room. A quiet, dangerous stillness. An aura of absolute power that seems to bend the very air around him.

He’s flanked by two other men, but they’re just shadows. All light seems to gravitate toward him. His hair is jet black, his jawline sharp, and even from across the massive floor, I can feel the intensity of his presence. He’s speaking to one of the men beside him, his voice too low to hear, but the authority in it is unmistakable.

Chad is practically standing at attention near his desk, his earlier arrogance replaced by a fawning eagerness. He looks like a puppy hoping for a scrap from the master’s table.

I should look away. I should focus on my mountain of binders. I am a nobody, a piece of office furniture. He would never have a reason to look at me.

But I can’t.

And then, he does. As he walks through the center of the office, his head turns slightly. His gaze sweeps across the room, a king surveying his domain. It’s a brief, cursory glance, but it stops when it lands on me.

It’s only for a second. Maybe not even that long. A single beat of a heart.

But in that second, the entire, cavernous office disappears. There is only the silent, electric connection between his eyes and mine. They are the color of a stormy sea, deep and turbulent. They don't just see me. They feel like they excavate me, stripping away the cheap blazer and the practiced composure, and laying bare the raw, desperate hunger underneath. He sees the fear, the fight, the crushing weight of the two hundred and forty three dollars I don’t have.

There is no warmth in his gaze. No pity. Just a flash of something unreadable. A flicker of cold, calculating curiosity.

My breath catches in my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. A hot flush creeps up my neck. I feel completely, utterly exposed.

Then, just as quickly as it happened, it’s over. He turns his head, continuing his conversation as he walks toward the corner offices, the moment broken. He’s gone. The spell is shattered.

The office slowly returns to its normal rhythm. The low hum of work resumes. But I can’t move. I sit frozen at my little desk, my hand hovering over the mouse.

Chad made me feel small. Adrian Veleno, with a single, fleeting glance, made me feel like I don’t exist at all, except as a momentary puzzle he has already solved and forgotten.

I look down at the first binder. The name on the expense report is Chad’s. I stare at the columns of numbers, but they’re just meaningless symbols. All I can see are those stormy eyes. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the office air conditioning.

This place is more dangerous than I ever imagined. And I just walked straight into the center of the storm.