The Los Angeles sun struck like a scalpel, its blinding edge slicing through Olivia Rhodes' pupils as she stood before the Century City Tower. Tilting her head against the glass monolith's glare, she pressed a palm to her ribcage. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Not just another pitch meeting today. The elevator's chrome doors mirrored her tension—jaw clenched, knuckles pale around her tablet. Ten years evaporated in that vertical climb.
Arctic air blasted through the revolving doors, thick with bergamot and oud from passing executives. Olivia tugged her Prada blazer collar. Breathe. Just breathe. Her phone vibrated—a final text from her producer:
Ethan Thorne granted 30 mins. Don't blow it.
ThornInMySide. The old forum handle flashed in her mind like neon. Back when she was SilverScreenDreamer, trading indie film critiques and 3AM confessions with a faceless stranger. Until he vanished mid-sentence.
Ding. Floor 37. The corridor stretched like an interrogation tunnel. At its end, frosted glass doors hissed open, revealing a man silhouetted against panoramic city views. Silver-gray shirt stretched over lean shoulders, fingers dancing across a holographic keyboard. When he turned, Olivia's breath hitched.
Those amber eyes—she'd know them anywhere. Same shade as the emoji he'd always tagged late-night messages with. But now, frost replaced the warmth.
"Ms. Rhodes." Ethan's voice poured like single-malt Scotch over gravel. "My attorneys mentioned your... crusade against algorithmic bias?" A pen twirled in his hand, its metallic cap catching light. The beam landed precisely on Olivia's collarbone—where a pale scar curved like a crescent moon.
Her throat tightened. That damned "Warrior's Mark." Seventeen, rescuing a feral cat from an alley dumpster. She'd bragged to ThornInMySide with a selfie: Battle scar for justice! Now Ethan's gaze lingered there, unreadable.
She slid her tablet across the mahogany table, ignoring her trembling fingers. "Your recruitment AI systematically downgrades female applicants. Here's the data trail." Buried in these spreadsheets—our midnight conversations about workplace predators. Your exact words: "Algorithms shouldn't weaponize prejudice."
Ethan's lashes flickered, casting moth-wing shadows on his cheeks. The tension sparked like live wires until—
Crash! The door flew open. Alexander Vance leaned against the frame, that smarmy Yale smirk plastered on his face. "Olivia! Fancy meeting you here."
Her blood turned to slush. She recoiled as his hand extended—same grip that'd "accidentally" grazed her thigh during their thesis defense. In her periphery, Ethan's pen screeched across paper, tearing a jagged line. Outside, helicopter blades thundered, drowning Olivia's pulse.
Ethan's old message echoed: "If we ever get lost? Just look up at twilight." She glanced at the windows. The sky bled crimson.
"Perfect timing," Vance purred, positioning himself beside Ethan. "Mr. Thorne, about our biometrics partnership—"
Screeeech! Ethan's chair recoiled violently. "Meeting's over." The tremor in his baritone betrayed him. As he pivoted, a yellowed slip fluttered from his inner pocket. Olivia's heart stalled.
Printed forum messages. Her "SilverScreenDreamer" alias bolded in Courier font.
Ethan snatched the paper before it fully landed, shoving it back into his jacket. But not before Olivia saw the coffee stain on the corner—same shape as the one on her own archived copy. His retreating figure blurred with the ghost of that teenage boy who'd disappeared into digital ether. The doors hissed shut behind him, sealing the silence.
Vance chuckled, tapping Ethan's abandoned pen. "Still rattling cages, Liv? Some things never—"
Olivia was already striding toward the elevator, the scar on her collarbone burning like a brand.