Welcome to the jungle

The elevator ride to the thirty-ninth floor was so silent it screamed. Chrome walls. Black marble floors. The faint scent of citrus disinfectant masked something colder—sterility, calculation. Power.

Each floor that ticked by felt like a test. I stood between two men in nearly identical navy suits, both pretending not to notice me while definitely noticing me. One checked his watch for the third time in under a minute. The other avoided eye contact like it might physically burn him.

Let them underestimate me. I didn’t wear a skirt for their approval. I wore it because I knew how to weaponize elegance.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the executive floor of Statham Enterprise. And suddenly, I understood the term corporate battlefield in a way no textbook ever could.

The floor stretched out like the inside of a spaceship—clean lines, muted colors, glass partitions, the constant hum of low conversation and high ambition. Everyone moved with purpose. There were no slackers here. No one with coffee stains on their shirt or sleep in their eyes.

“Catherine Lane?”

The voice belonged to a red-haired woman behind a minimalist reception desk. Early thirties, perfect posture, clipped tone. A nameplate in front of her read Natalie Williams.

I stepped forward. “Yes.”

“Mr. Graham would like to see you again. Follow me.”

I nodded, adjusting the strap of my black leather bag and keeping my steps even. Calm. Focused. Unshakeable.

We moved through a hallway lined with tinted glass doors. Inside each office, sharp silhouettes moved like shadows—men and women sculpted by stress and status. I could feel it. The pressure. The standard. The message that screamed from the decor and the silence: only the best survive here.

Natalie stopped outside a conference room and turned to me. “Wait here, please. Mr. Graham is finishing up a call.”

I nodded again, thankful for the moment to breathe. I moved to the tall windows and looked out at the city below—steel veins, endless lives, and somewhere down there, my apartment in Brooklyn that suddenly felt very far away.

A low male voice drifted from the partially open door. I didn’t mean to listen, but something about the tone made my spine straighten.

“I don’t care what he said. If they can’t hit the deadline, we find someone who can.”

It wasn’t Mr. Graham. It was colder. Sharper. Like glass wrapped in velvet.

A second later, the door opened wider, and he stepped out.

Erik Statham.

The first thing I noticed was the stillness. Not the calm kind. The coiled kind. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t scan the room. He moved with the quiet authority of a man who didn’t just run the company—he was the company.

Black suit, perfectly tailored. Crisp white shirt. No tie. Slightly undone, yet deliberate. His dark hair was slicked back, but not too neat. Like he’d finger-combed it after pulling his hand through in frustration. His jaw was hard, clean-shaven. Eyes a cold blue, like glacier water and just as dangerous.

His gaze passed over me. Paused.

That second stretched. Measured. Tested.

Then he looked away like I wasn’t worth his time.

And God help me, that pissed me off more than any insult would have.

He turned to Natalie. “I want the Ridley file on my desk in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Mr. Statham.”

He disappeared down the hall, leaving the faintest trail of aftershave and frostbite.

I turned back to the window. Heart pounding.

That was Erik Statham. The man whose signature could bankrupt entire empires. The man who made CEOs cry and investors beg. And I’d just been dismissed like an intern fetching coffee.

Good.

Let him think I’m nothing. Let him think I’m just another overqualified, overly ambitious woman trying to play in the big leagues.

I’ve made a habit of proving people wrong.

The conference room door creaked open again. Mr. Graham waved me in, now free from whatever phone call he’d been finishing.

“I see you met Mr. Statham,” he said, not even looking at me as he moved to the table.

“Met is a strong word,” I replied, taking my seat across from him. “I was graced with two seconds of eye contact.”

That got a chuckle out of him. A small one, but I’d take it.

He sat, folding his hands. “He’s not an easy man to work for.”

“I didn’t come here for easy.”

His eyes flicked up to mine. “Good answer.”

He slid a folder toward me. “This is the onboarding package. You’ll be reporting to me for the first month while we evaluate your performance. After that, if you prove yourself, you’ll be moved up to Strategy and Acquisitions—Statham’s department.”

Straight to the lion’s den. Perfect.

“I understand.”

“You’ll also be working on the upcoming Ridley deal. We’re looking to acquire, but it’s messy. Their CEO doesn’t want to sell.”

“Who’s leading the acquisition?”

Graham smirked. “Statham himself.”

Of course.

I took the folder, stood, and shook his hand. “When do I start?”

“Now.”

An hour later, I was in my new office—if you could call a glass cube with a desk and a single plant an office. The city stretched out below me, as if reminding me how far I had to fall if I slipped.

A message pinged on my new company email.

From: Erik Statham

Subject: Ridley Notes

Message:

Meet me in Conference 2C at 5:15. Come prepared.

No “please.” No “thank you.” No welcome.

I stared at the screen, adrenaline crawling under my skin.

So this is how it’s going to be.

Good.

Let the games begin.