It snatched at her breath, tugged at the hem of her carefully chosen dress, and seemed to mock her attempt at composure. Above her, the Hawtho

ound against the vast, impersonal hum of the city. Ainsworth Press, with its scent of paper and

was silenced, as if sound itself were an unwelcome intrusion. The few figures traversing its expans

ly, almost unnaturally, pristine. Nora felt an almost gravitational pull towards the reception desk – a dark, monolithic slab that seemed to a

Mr. Alexander Hawthorne," Nora stated, the words feeling st

en. "Certainly, Ms. Ainsworth. The express elevator, to your right, will convey you

warmth. The elevator ascended with a disorienting, hydraulic smooth

d open onto the executive floor, the silence was even more profound, a thick

her with cool, indifferent eyes. Another woman, embodying the same serene,

r. Hawthorne is ready for you

t as she walked the wide corridor. Each door she passed was identical, cl

lmost swallowed the light. A single, soft tap, a beat of silence, and then one door swung inward. Nora

almost toy-like from this height. For a disorienting second, Nora felt a touch of vertigo, a

a desk that was itself a marvel of minimalist engineeri

was a quiet force. Not in the way of overt aggression, but in an absolute,

ligence in his eyes – a shade of blue so pale it was almost silver, and just as cool.

ly modulated. It wasn't loud, yet it filled the space, demanding attention. He gestured, a brief, e

chair, sinking into leather that felt cool and unyielding. It was positioned, she no

dable? Or just her imagination, scrambling for purchase? "I prefer

ch relax as occupy it with intent. "I am fully apprised of

he recent, rather desperate leveraging of your backlist. And, of course, the seven-day

detail, uttered in that calm, dispassionate voice, was a fresh stab of cold dread. H

e walls, that made her feel utterly exposed, as if her skin had been peeled back. She could feel

prehensive, Mr. Hawthorne," she managed,

change in his tone, he continued, "Ainsworth Press, Ms. Ainsworth, is an entity with a significant cultural imprint. It has, historically, demonstrated a comme

evoid of sympathy. Yet, it was undeniably true. Nora found h

and complete discharge of all Ainsworth Press's current liabilities, coupled with a substantial infusion of capital. This capital would be earmarked for operational restructuring, technological upgrades, and th

mplete, undreamt-of salvation. A wild, disbelieving hope surged through her, so potent it was almost painful. But the cold, rational part of her brain

ith a terrible, dawning apprehension. "That is... an almost unimaginable offer. I... I don't understand. What co

and perpetual financial security of Ainsworth Press, Ms. Ainsworth," he replied, his vo

rge. It didn't explode; it simply imploded, sucking all sense, all reason, into a black hole of impossibility. Nora'

oat, a strangled, incoherent sound. Her hands flew to her mout

ntract," Alexander Hawthorne elucidated, as if she were

align with my public responsibilities. Upon the satisfactory completion of the two-year term, we would proceed with a mutually agreed-upon, discreet dissolution. The

efficiently managed. And it was this – this bloodless, passionless dismantling of her agency, this casual commodification

urned to ash, her thoughts to a screaming, incoherent void. The fury was a physical force, a violent tremor that shook her from the inside