The word "fired" hung in the pressurized air of the penthouse suite like a guillotine blade that had finally dropped. For a several long, agonizing heartbeats, the only sound in the room was the hum of the climate control and the distant, muffled thrum of London traffic sixty stories below.
Smiling's grip on the silver folder loosened, the metallic edges digging into her palms. Her mind, usually a whirlwind of bright ideas and optimistic plans, suddenly went blank. She saw her father's tired eyes, her mother's hopeful smile, and Leo's stack of unshelved college brochures. It wasn't just a job; it was a lifeline, and Xavier Brights had just cut it with a single, cold sentence.
"You... you cannot be serious," Smiling whispered, her voice cracking. Then, as the reality set in, her volume rose, fueled by a desperate, raw panic. "You cannot be serious! Sir! You're taking away my entire career—my family's future—just because of a little talk? Because I thought you were human enough to have a conversation?"
Xavier didn't look up from his tablet. His expression was as unmoving as the obsidian desk he sat behind. "Precision, Miss Peters. Discipline. Those are the pillars of this company. Your 'little talk' proved you respect neither. Now, please, leave before I have security assist you."
It was the coldness—the sheer, immovable indifference—that did it. Smiling didn't just cry; she erupted.
A sob, jagged and loud, tore from her throat. It wasn't a dainty, cinematic tear rolling down a cheek; it was a full-scale emotional collapse. She burst out crying so loudly that the sound seemed to vibrate the glass walls of the office.
"Sir! Please!" she wailed, her hands flyng to her face. "Don't do this! Don't ruin me! I worked so hard to get here! I stayed up all night for that project! Please, have mercy!"
Xavier finally looked up, his grey eyes widening in genuine, unfiltered shock. In all his years of cold firings and corporate takeovers, he had dealt with silent anger, professional pleas, and even the occasional threat of a lawsuit. He had never, in his life, dealt with a woman having a total emotional breakdown in the center of his sanctum.
"What a girl..." he muttered under his breath, leaning back as if the sheer volume of her grief was a physical force pushing him away. He felt a flicker of something he couldn't name—was it annoyance? Or was it a terrifyingly sharp pang of guilt?
"Miss Peters, stop this at once," he commanded, though his voice lacked its usual iron authority. "You can take your crying to your house. Do not act like a dummy in my office. This is a place of business, not a theater for high drama."
But Smiling was past the point of hearing reason. The weight of her family's expectations and the fear of returning home as a failure crashed down on her. To Xavier's absolute horror, the girl didn't move toward the door. Instead, her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the grey marble floor.
She began to roll, her vintage blazer picking up dust as she sobbed, raising and lowering her head in a rhythmic, desperate gesture of plea—almost like a worship method directed at the man behind the desk.
"Sir, I beg of you! Spare me! Have mercy!" she shrieked between gasps for air. "I'll be quiet! I'll never talk again! I'll be a robot! I'll be whatever you want, just don't fire me!"
Xavier stood up, his chair skidding back with a sharp screech. "Are you going to stop now, or am I going to have you kicked out of this building by force?"
Smiling didn't answer with words. Instead, she crawled.
Like a wounded soldier on a battlefield, she scrambled across the marble, disappearing under the shadow of the massive obsidian desk. Before Xavier could react, he felt two small, trembling hands lock around his ankles. Smiling had grabbed hold of his polished Italian leather shoes, her forehead pressed against the top of his laces, her tears soaking into his expensive socks.
"Please... please..." she sobbed, her voice muffled by his trousers. "I can't go home and tell them I failed. I can't let my brother lose his school. Please, Mr. Brights. You're not as cold as you pretend to be. I saw the flowers. I know you're in there!"
Xavier froze. He felt the warmth of her hands through the fabric of his suit, the frantic shaking of her shoulders, and the raw, honest desperation of her plea. For the first time in his existence, the "Ghost Heir" felt completely and utterly out of his depth.
He looked down at the top of her head. Her hair was a mess, her blazer was wrinkled, and she was currently clinging to his feet as if he were a god who held the keys to her soul. The silence that followed was long. Xavier looked at the white roses on his desk. He thought about his mother's cold dinners and Bianca's fake smiles.
Then he looked at this girl—this "lowly" recruit who wore her heart on her sleeve and wasn't afraid to ruin her dignity for the sake of the people she loved.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. The iron wall he had built around himself for twenty-eight years didn't crumble, but a door had been pushed open.
"Stand up," he said. His voice was no longer cold; it was exhausted.
Smiling's sobs hitched. She didn't let go of his shoes. "Only if you say I can stay."
Xavier closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Stand up, Miss Peters. Go back to your office. Take the rest of the hour to... compose yourself. And for heaven's sake, stop crying."
The change in Smiling was instantaneous. She didn't just stand up; she shot up like a spring. Her face was a disaster of smeared mascara and red blotches, but her eyes were shining with a light that nearly blinded him.
"Really? I can stay? You're not firing me?"
"If you don't leave my sight in the next ten seconds, I might change my mind," Xavier warned, though there was no real bite in his words.
Before he could draw another breath, Smiling lunged. She didn't just thank him; she threw her arms around his neck in a fierce, crushing hug.
Xavier went rigid. His arms stayed pinned to his sides, his breath hitching in his throat. No one had hugged him since he was a small child. The scent of her—something like vanilla and cheap laundry detergent—filled his senses. She was warm, soft, and vibrantly alive. She was pressing the very life into his cold, stiff suit.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she chirped, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "You really are the best, Mr. Brights! I knew it! I knew you were a good man!"
Xavier stood there, his heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with business. He felt a strange, terrifying urge to lift his arms and hold her back, but he suppressed it with everything he had.
"Are you going to let go or not?" he asked, his voice sounding raspy even to his own ears.
Smiling pulled back, her face beaming despite the tear tracks. She wiped her eyes with her sleeves, giving him a cheeky, watery grin. "Going! I'm going! I'll be the best analyst you've ever had! You won't even know I'm there! Well... you will, but I'll be quiet! Bye, Mr. Brights!"
She snatched up the silver folder and practically danced out of the office, leaving a trail of chaotic energy in her wake.
Xavier remained standing behind his desk for a long time after the door clicked shut. He looked down at his shoes, now damp with the tears of a girl who had no business being in his world. He touched the spot on his neck where her warmth had lingered.
"Crazy girl," he whispered to the empty room.
But as he sat back down and looked at the white roses, the office didn't feel quite so cold anymore. The Ghost had been besieged, and for the first time, he didn't mind the defeat.
"Such a horrific girl!" he laughed to himself...
Is smiling really going to change Xavier's world??