POV Floris
The invitation showed up like a bad omen wrapped in expensive paper.
Hand-delivered by some silent maid who looked like she’d been assembled in a corporate laboratory—perfect posture, matte lipstick, the kind of dead-eyed professionalism that screamed “I’ve seen some shit.”
“Dinner,” the card read in elegant script. “Female staff only. Dress accordingly.”
I had no fucking clue what “accordingly” meant until I stepped off the elevator onto what had to be the most psychologically disturbing rooftop in Amsterdam.
The entire space was glass. Walls, ceiling, even the goddamn floor beneath my heels. Like dining inside a fishbowl suspended in the sky, with the city sprawling below us like we were gods deciding which mortals to smite next.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, gripping the doorframe.
“Close,” a familiar voice said. “But not quite.”
Sia was already seated at this obscenely long white table that looked like it belonged in a museum exhibit titled “How Rich Psychopaths Eat.”
She was wearing ivory silk that probably cost more than my student loans, and her lipstick was that same impossible shade—like dried blood mixed with expensive wine.
“Sit, Floris,” she said, not bothering to look up from her champagne. “You look appropriately terrified.”
“Thanks. I was going for ‘moderately concerned,’ but terror works too.”
There were other women scattered around the table—six, maybe seven. All of them had that same eerie composure, like they’d been media-trained to within an inch of their lives.
They smiled without showing teeth, made eye contact for exactly the socially acceptable amount of time, and gave off vibes that screamed “we know where the bodies are buried.”
A waiter materialized—because of course he did—and poured something pale and expensive into my glass.
I didn’t touch it. Call me paranoid, but I’d learned not to drink anything in this building that I hadn’t personally watched being prepared.
“You’re a fascinating little puzzle,” Sia said, cutting her salmon with surgical precision.
“I’m just trying not to die.”
“Admirable. But it's dangerous.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She finally looked at me, and there was something almost sympathetic in her expression. Almost.
“Men like Eric don’t keep what they tame, darling. They play with it until it breaks, then move on to the next shiny thing.”
The words hit like ice water down my spine. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’ve watched it happen before. And because you actually fight back instead of just rolling over like a well-trained dog.”
“Don’t you work for him?”
“I work for his company. There’s a difference.” She sipped her wine like we were discussing the weather instead of my potential demise. “You remind me of the last one.”
“The last what? Assistant?”
“Among other things.” Sia reached under the table and produced a small black box, setting it between our plates like some kind of fucked-up party favor. “She was… talented. Smart. Stubborn as hell.”
“What happened to her?”
“That depends on who you ask. Officially? She completed her contract and moved to our Singapore office. Unofficially?” Sia shrugged. “Some say she’s dead. I think she never left the building.”
My blood turned to actual ice. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I don’t fuck around about disappeared employees, Floris. Bad for morale.”
I stared at the box. “What’s in there?”
“Footage. Of her final performance review, you might say.”
“I don’t want to see it.”
“You should. Because you’re making the same mistakes she did.”
“Which are?”
Sia leaned forward, voice dropping to something that felt like silk wrapped around a knife.
“You’re letting him get under your skin. I can see it in the way you talk to him, the way you react when someone mentions his name. You’re starting to think this is about more than your brother’s medical bills.”
“It’s not—”
“Isn’t it?” She smiled, sharp as winter. “When was the last time someone looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room? When was the last time someone challenged you, pushed you, made you feel like you were worth the effort of breaking?”
I opened my mouth to argue and found I had nothing to say.
“That’s what I thought.” Sia sat back. “Eric doesn’t fall in love, Floris. He gets obsessed. And when the obsession fades—which it always does—he discards people like used tissues.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?”
“Because you don’t take his bullshit. Just like she didn’t, at first. You’re different from the usual corporate climbers he attracts.” She paused, considering. “I see the way he looks at you.”
“Looks at me? Like he wants to drag me to the pits of hell?”
“Yes. While holding your hand the entire way down.”
The silence stretched between us like a tightrope I was afraid to walk.
“I just want you to be careful,” Sia said finally. “I know he’s already had you sign a new contract. Just remember—what he wants from you is temporary pleasure. You’re nothing but a distraction to him. A particularly interesting puzzle to solve.”
“And when he solves it?”
“Then you become yesterday’s news.”
***
I didn’t open that drive until three in the morning, sitting in my gilded cage with the city lights twinkling below like malicious stars.
The file wasn’t heavily encrypted—almost like Sia wanted me to see it, wanted me to know exactly what kind of fresh hell I’d wandered into.
The video clicked on. Low resolution, shaky camera work, like someone filming with their phone in a hurry.
A girl. Maybe twenty-five, blonde, with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from fighting a losing battle for too long.
She was kneeling. Crying. Looking directly into the camera with eyes that had seen too much.
“I didn’t mean to fall in love with him,” she whispered, voice cracking like glass. “I thought I was smarter than that. I thought I could play his game and walk away clean.”
She laughed, bitter and broken. “But Eric Brighton doesn’t let anyone walk away clean. He gets inside your head, makes you think you’re special, makes you believe that maybe this time will be different.”
The video cut off abruptly, leaving me staring at a black screen and wondering if I was looking at my own future.
Somewhere in the building, I was pretty sure Eric was watching me watch it.
And probably enjoying every second of my slow-motion psychological breakdown.