TINSELS POV...
The name plate stops me cold.
T. Monroe.
Frosted glass door. Silver letters. Clean. Official.
No one's called me T. Monroe in two years. Aunt Christine called me 'girl'. The fire department called me 'victim'. Gregory Hale called me 'you' for six days.
T. Monroe was twenty. T. Monroe had parents. T. Monroe slept through the night.
"Problem?" Gregory's voice cuts through the hall. He's already ten feet ahead, at his own office door. He doesn't look back.
"No." I lied. My throat's tight.
"Then move. You're blocking the hall."
I move. Because that's what you do with Gregory Hale. You move when he says move.
My hand shakes when I touch the door handle. It's not locked. It gives.
The office is… quiet.
Not big. Not a CEO suite. But it's not a corner. It's a room. Walls. Window. Desk — real wood, not the folding table I had before. Chair. Leather. Bookshelf, empty. Filing cabinet. And on the desk: a Hale Industries laptop, closed. A phone. A keycard with my face on it. My new face. The one I have at twenty-two.
And a lamp. Small. On the corner of the desk. On. Warm light.
No one turned it on. It was on when I opened the door.
I step inside. The door shuts behind me on its own. Soft close. No slam.
I sit in the chair. It doesn't creak. It fits. Like someone measured me.
There's a note under the laptop. Folded. Plain white paper. No letterhead.
I opened it.
Door locks from the inside.
Panic button under the desk, left side.
Don't use it unless you mean it.
—G.
Not Gregory. Not Hale. G.
I slide my hand under the desk. Left side. My fingers find a button. Small. Recessed. I pull back like it burned me.
He gave me a panic button. In my own office. On the 27th floor of Hale Tower. Opposite him.
What the hell does he think is coming?
My keycard buzzes. A message pops up on the laptop screen. It's already logged in.
*[Internal Message – G. Hale]*
*8:22 AM*
*My office. Now.*
I don't know how he knew I sat down. There are no cameras here. I checked. First thing.
I stand. The hoodie — his hoodie slides down to my thighs. I'm still in it. I should change. There are clothes in a garment bag hanging on the back of the door. Black slacks. White blouse. My size. Tags still on.
He bought me clothes.
I leave them. Walk out in the hoodie.
His office door is open. He's at his desk, phone to his ear, three screens lit up. He doesn't look up when I walk in. Just points at the chair across from him.
I sit.
He hangs up. "You're late."
"It's been two minutes."
"You were standing in your office for two minutes." He says it like he watched. "That's late."
"I was…" Processing that you gave me my name back. "Looking."
He nods. Open a folder. Slide it across the desk. "You're on the Monroe acquisition now."
I frown. "Monroe acquisition?"
"Monroe Holdings. Property development. Your father's company."
The air leaves the room.
I'm twenty-two. My father's been dead for two years. Monroe Holdings died with him. Burned with him.
"What?"
How did he even know!!??
Gregory's eyes flick up to mine. Then back down. "It didn't burn. The building did. The company went into probation. Someone by the name Christine Sola was the executor. She sold it to a shell corp six months ago. For under market."
My hands go cold. "Aunt Christine sold my dad's company?"
"You know her?." He asked. Like it's just facts.
"Yeah, that's my aunt."
"She sold it to a shell corp owned by Finson Group."
Finson.
Zack Finson.
The room tilts.
"Zack—"
"Not him." Gregory cuts me off before I can finish. "His father. Richard Finson. Zack's been working for me since college. He doesn't own anything."
But he knew. He had to know. Six days. He sat across from me. Got me coffee. Real coffee, not chamomile. Asked if I was "settling in okay."
I stand up too fast. The chair scrapes. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Gregory leans back. Study me. "Because you were 22 and working in my lobby and flinching every time the elevator dinged. You weren't ready."
"And I'm ready now?"
"No." He says it honestly. "But your apartment's gone and you're living in my tower and the press knows your face. So now you get to be ready."
He slides another paper across the desk. A legal document.
_Petition to Contest Sale of Monroe Holdings Due to Executor Misconduct._
My name is already typed at the bottom. _T. Monroe._
"Sign it," he says. "Or don't. But if you don't, Finson Group owns everything your father built. Legally. Forever."
I stare at the paper. At my name. At the word 'Executor'. Aunt Christine. Yellow room. Lock on the outside. "For your own good, girl."
She sold it. While I was locked up. While I was twenty-one and thinking I had nothing left.
"Why are you doing this?" My voice shakes. I hate it. "Why do you care about my dad's company?"
Gregory stands. Walk to the window. His office is in the corner. Whole city under him. He owns half of it.
"Because I don't like Richard Finson," he says to the glass. "Because he's a snake. Because he buys companies from broken kids and calls it business."
He turns. "And because you're not broken."
He says it like it's a fact. Like he decided.
My eyes burn. I don't cry. I haven't cried since I was twenty.
"Sign it," he says again. Quieter. "Then go home. Sleep. Or don't. I don't care. Just don't go to work today if you're gonna be in over your head."
There it is. _Don't go to work if you're not okay._ But he's already dressed. Already at his desk. Already at war.
He's not staying home for me. He's making room for me to fall apart.
I pick up the pen. Hale Industries pen. Heavy. Expensive.
I signed. _T. Monroe._
The 'T' is shaky. The 'Monroe' is not.
Gregory nods. Take the paper. Doesn't say 'good girl' or 'proud of you' or any of that garbage. He says, "Legal will file it today. You'll be deposed in two weeks. You'll need a suit."
He nods at the garment bag I left in my office. Like he knew I didn't put it on.
"Go home," he says. "Car's downstairs. Same driver. He'll wait."
"I can work."
"No, you can't." He sits back down. Opens his laptop. Done with me. "You're gonna go to your office. You're gonna lock the door from the inside. You're gonna sit in that chair I bought because your back was gonna give out in six months in that corner. And you're gonna breathe. That's your job today."
He's not looking at me. He's typing. But his jaw's tight. Like it costs him to say it.
I walk out. Don't say thank you. He wouldn't want it.
My office is still warm. Lamp still on. Door shuts behind me. I turn the lock. Click. Loud in the quiet.
I sit in the chair. Put my hands on the desk. Real wood. Mine.
Then I do what he says.
I breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.