NUMBER SEVEN
The taxi rolled to a slow stop in front of the building, brakes sighing against the curb.
She didn’t move.
Through the tinted glass, she stared at the tower, taller now, sleeker, sharper. The sunlight bounced off its mirrored panels so fiercely it was almost hostile, like it wanted her to squint, to turn away.
And there it was. The name she’d promised herself she’d never see again:
ASHFORD & CO.
The gold letters glistened above the revolving doors, polished to a smug perfection.
Her jaw clenched.
Five years. Five long years away from this city , from its choking traffic, its neon billboards, and especially from this building. She had left with nothing but a vow to return and take everything from them. Now here she was, with the weight of the past pressing hard against her ribs.
A flicker of memory tried to claw its way up.
A younger her in the same spot, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. That day, she had walked out with nothing but a shattered dignity and her pride in pieces.
She inhaled slowly, forcing the memory back into its corner.
“You gonna sit there all day, or are you trying to make the taxi driver your new best friend?”
The voice in her right ear was warm, teasing. Jay.
Her lips twitched. “Keep it up, and I’ll switch you off before we even hit the elevators.”
“Please,” he drawled, mock-offended. “Without me, you wouldn’t even make it past the front desk.”
Jay wasn’t in the building. He was three blocks away, holed up in a cramped van lined with glowing screens and tangled cables. Officially, he was her tech handler. Unofficially, he was the guy who could dance through firewalls like they were hopscotch squares — and who believed sarcasm was essential to good health.
She glanced at the driver in the mirror. His eyes flicked up, curious but silent. She handed him the cash. “Keep the change.”
The cool morning air wrapped around her as she stepped onto the pavement. The tower loomed overhead, casting a long shadow that cut across the street.
It had been impressive before. Now, it was something else entirely.
Five years ago, Ashford & Co. had been a respectable glass-and-steel high-rise all polish, no personality. Now, it looked like a weapon: sleek steel panels catching the light in precise angles, every surface screaming money and power. Even the revolving doors spun more smoothly, as if the building had been trained to move with quiet arrogance.
Her stomach knotted.
She let her gaze linger on the logo, its gleam almost daring her to look away.
Across the street, people flowed in and out — crisp suits, designer heels, coffee cups in hand. Security guards scanned IDs with the detachment of men who had seen every kind of face and forgotten them all.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. This place had once been her world, until it spat her out without a backward glance.
She crossed the street when the light changed, boots clicking against the pavement. As she approached the glass doors, a faint whiff of roasted coffee and something sterile — floor polish, maybe — drifted out.
The lobby had transformed.
The beige tiles and potted plants she remembered were gone. In their place, black marble stretched across the floor, glossy enough to reflect the ceiling’s chrome light fixtures. A massive digital wall flickered with looping slogans:
Efficiency. Innovation. Excellence.
She almost laughed. Different packaging, same poison.
The receptionist behind the desk was young, her hair pulled into a perfect bun, her smile so well-practiced it looked laminated. “Good morning. Name, please?”
There was the briefest pause. A fraction of a second where she felt the weight of her real name pressing against the inside of her mouth.
“Elena Cross,” she said smoothly.
The receptionist’s fingers tapped across the keyboard. “Ah, you’re candidate number seven.”
Jay chuckled in her ear. “Perfect. Step one complete.”
The receptionist handed her a visitor badge. “Level eighteen. Elevators to your left.”
She clipped the badge onto her jacket and headed for the elevators.
The doors slid open with a soft chime. Inside, she pressed the button for eighteen. A glowing green 7 pulsed briefly on the display before the number changed.
Her brows lifted. “Subtle, Jay.”
“What?” His tone was pure innocence. “Just planting seeds. Maybe the other candidates will start thinking you’re lucky.”
The elevator stopped on level ten, letting in two people with the same faintly nervous posture she had. Their eyes flicked to her badge, pausing at the printed 7.
When the doors opened again, the waiting area greeted her with sunlight spilling in through tall windows. The skyline spread out in sharp detail, glass towers and cranes carving into the horizon. Chairs were arranged in a neat row; she picked one in the center.
A small sticker on the armrest read: Seat 7.
She smirked. “Really, Jay?”
“Oh, it gets better.”
On the wall, a muted TV played the company’s promotional video. In the corner, the date flickered: 07/07 but she knew today was the 12th.
A man two seats away frowned at it too. “That’s… weird.”
She didn’t answer. In a place like this, the less you spoke, the better. Her training had taught her how to blend in — approachable but unremarkable, visible but forgettable.
Ten minutes later, a sleek HR woman appeared, clipboard in hand. “We’ll be calling you in one at a time. First up… number seven. Elena Cross.”
She rose, catching the brief flicker of surprise from a tall woman who had arrived earlier.
The interview room was cool and sterile, the glass table stretching between her and three panelists she didn’t recognize.
Good. That meant he wasn’t here. Yet.
The questions came, and she answered with precision. Every piece of her résumé had been fabricated, every reference built by Jay in some quiet corner of the internet. Her “time abroad” was just a polite cover for the years she had spent doing things that would never make it into polite conversation.
Between questions, Jay murmured updates in her ear. “They’re calling your old boss. I just made him send a glowing recommendation.”
“Try not to get caught,” she murmured.
“Please. I’m a professional.”
The panelists nodded, jotting notes. She could almost feel the job sliding into her hands.
Just then the door opened.
A slow, deliberate rhythm tapped across the floor, the click of polished leather against marble. Each step was measured, deliberate, the sound echoing like a metronome of control.
She didn’t look up right away. But she felt him before she saw him, the air tightened, as though someone had closed an invisible door.
When she did lift her gaze, there he was.
Tall. Sharp suit, navy so deep it drank the light. A silver tie pin catching glints with every step. Dark eyes sweeping the room with an unhurried precision, as if cataloguing weaknesses.
Then the scent reached her, faint, clean, and cruelly familiar.
Five years ago, the same scent had filled the narrow, stale air of the prison visiting room. The fluorescent lights had buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make her temples throb. She had been in a grey jumpsuit, wrists chained to the cold metal table. The guard had stood just outside the door, arms folded, watching.
He had walked in exactly the same way, shoes clicking against the scuffed concrete floor, no rush, no hesitation. He didn’t sit immediately. Just stood there, looking at her like she was an exhibit behind glass.
“You killed my brother,” he’d said, his voice steady, almost soft. Too soft.
“He attacked me,” she’d shot back, her voice rough from nights without sleep. “It was self-defense.”
He hadn’t argued. Hadn’t raised his voice. He’d only leaned forward slightly, his cologne sharp in her lungs, and whispered something she would never forget.
“Self-defense or not, you’re going to pay for it.”
The memory slammed shut, and the present rushed back.
“Mr. Ashford,” the lead panelist began, caught off guard. “We didn’t—”
“Continue,” he said smoothly, his eyes never leaving hers.
His gaze locked on her, unblinking, as if he could still see her in chains.
Her nails pressed into her palms beneath the table. She could feel the weight of that day like it was stitched into her skin.
Jay’s voice crackled in her ear. “…You okay?”
She didn’t answer.
Because this wasn’t just an interview anymore.
It was round two.
And Elena Cross couldn’t afford to flinch.
