By Thursday morning, Vanic had mastered the art of breathing quietly when Lorenzo was near.
He kept his shoulders squared, his tie perfect, his notes precise. He repeated names, dates, instructions in his head like prayers carved into stone. Don't mess up. Don't mess up. Over and over until the words blurred.
It almost worked.
Until it didn't.
---
The mistake was so small it shouldn't have mattered — a single email, a minor typo in a figure on a client's summary report. But at L&A, small didn't exist. Not in Lorenzo Atlas's world.
Lorenzo spotted it immediately — because of course he did — while skimming the page during a brief moment of quiet between back-to-back investor calls. His eyes froze on the number, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
Vanic felt the air shift before the words came.
"Mr. Rov."
His name, sharp as a blade.
Vanic stepped forward. "Yes, sir?"
Lorenzo turned the page, pushed it back at him. His voice was soft — always worse than when he raised it. "Read it."
Vanic's throat bobbed. He scanned the line. His stomach dropped. He knew instantly where he'd gone wrong — one decimal point out of place. It changed everything.
"I'm— I'm sorry, I'll fix—"
"How many times do I have to tell you?" Lorenzo's tone didn't rise. It fell — soft and deadly, the hush before the guillotine drops. "Do you think my clients enjoy seeing sloppy mistakes? Do you think they pay for incompetence?"
"No— I don't— I'm sorry, Mr. Atlas, I—"
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair, studying him like a stain on his perfect desk. "Get out of my sight before you ruin something else."
Vanic's lips parted. He wanted to say please. He wanted to say I didn't mean to. But the words turned to ash behind his teeth.
He bowed his head and fled.
---
He didn't get far.
Half an hour later, Claire found him outside the executive lounge, wiping at the corner of his eye with a trembling wrist. She pressed a folder into his hands.
"Mr. Atlas needs this signed by the end of the hour," she said, voice carefully neutral.
Vanic nodded. "Yes. Of course."
He straightened his tie again — like that would fix anything — and pushed the door open.
Inside, the hush of Lorenzo's private office closed around him. It was the only space in the entire tower that didn't feel corporate — bookshelves lined with rare editions, a fireplace that was never lit, thick rugs that muffled footsteps.
And Lorenzo behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled back just so, wrists bare — power and distance wrapped into one perfect frame.
But Lorenzo wasn't alone.
A man lounged half-sitting on the corner of the desk — young, expensive-looking, with careless dark hair and a lazy grin that spoke of nights spent in back rooms and silk sheets. His gaze flicked to Vanic, dismissing him in an instant.
Vanic's steps faltered. Something in his chest flickered, then twisted.
"Mr. Atlas, I—" His words stuck as he realized exactly where the stranger's hand was — resting lightly on Lorenzo's knee. Possessive. Familiar.
Lorenzo didn't look at Vanic. Not at first. He leaned back, letting the man's fingers drift higher, spreading his knees just enough to make his intent clear.
"Leave it on the desk," Lorenzo said flatly, voice dipped in frost.
Vanic stepped forward, forcing his hands to stay steady as he placed the folder down. He didn't mean to look up — but he did.
He met Lorenzo's eyes for a heartbeat. Cold. Indifferent. Daring him to say a word.
The stranger let out a low laugh and pressed his mouth to Lorenzo's throat — bold and claiming — and Vanic's heart stuttered.
"I— I'll wait outside," he managed, voice cracking.
Lorenzo didn't reply. He just tilted his head back slightly, giving the other man's lips more skin to bite. His eyes stayed on Vanic — flat and unbothered — as if this was just business too.
Vanic's hands trembled. He stumbled back, the door slipping from his sweaty fingers. He didn't hear it close behind him over the blood rushing in his ears.
---
He sat frozen at his tiny desk for the next ten minutes. Maybe it was longer — time stretched and split like glass under pressure.
Every so often, the door cracked open. A faint noise drifted out — a choked laugh, a soft moan. Vanic flinched every time, breath stuttering in his chest like a broken engine.
He felt like he was being split open in slow motion. This wasn't just hate. This wasn't indifference. This was cruelty. And he didn't know why he deserved it.
He pressed a hand to his chest, willing his heart to slow down, but it kept hammering like it wanted to break through his ribs and run far away.
When Claire approached an hour later, she paused, taking in the look on his face — the way his shoulders curled in, the raw wet shine in his eyes.
"Vanic—"
"I'm leaving," he croaked. His voice didn't sound like his own. "I need— I need two days. Please. Just two days."
Claire's expression softened — pity, maybe anger buried under it too. She just nodded. "I'll handle it."
He grabbed his bag, fingers fumbling with the zipper. He didn't look back at the door to Lorenzo's office. Couldn't. If he did, he'd shatter right there in the middle of the marble hallway.
---
Outside, the city air slapped him across the face. He barely felt it. He made it to the sidewalk before the tears came — hot and silent, streaking down his cheeks as he ducked his head and forced his feet to keep moving.
---
Benthy didn't even ask when he showed up at her apartment door, wild-eyed and trembling. She just dragged him in, wrapped him in the biggest blanket she owned, and shoved a cup of tea into his frozen hands.
"What did he do?" she asked.
Vanic didn't answer. He couldn't find the words to explain how it felt — to be invisible, yet watched. To be unwanted, yet broken all the same.
She didn't press him. She just sat beside him on the couch, arm looped tight around his shoulders, her chin resting on his hair as he shook.
---
Back at the tower, Lorenzo finished what he'd started. The man on his desk left with a lazy grin and money folded into his coat pocket. Lorenzo didn't watch him go.
When the door shut, Lorenzo sat alone in the hush of his office. His shirt was half unbuttoned. His throat burned with the ghost of hands that didn't matter. He wiped at his jaw with the back of his hand, erasing a smear of lipstick that wasn't Vanic's.
For one long moment, he stared at the empty chair across from his desk — the one where Vanic always perched like he might be scolded at any moment.
He told himself he felt nothing.
But the silence pressed at him — a needle prick behind his ribs that refused to dull.
He picked up the folder Vanic had left. Ran his thumb over the neat handwriting that marked every page.
Useless, he told himself.
Replaceable.
So why did the thought feel like a lie?