Phoenix
Charlotte stepped into the office, offering the barest nod to the security guard before passing the lifts in favour of the stairs. She always climbed to the fifth floor on foot. Three times a week, she made it to the gym—any more, and time simply vanished. Even her fifteenth-floor flat often saw her trudging up the steps when she had energy left at the end of the day.
The sharp click of her heels against the marble lobby tiles soon faded into the stairwell’s hush, as though she’d taken flight. Behind her back, they called her a witch, an ice queen, ruthless. At thirty-six, she could pass for a woman ten years younger—only her eyes betrayed the truth. Sharp, assessing, they belonged to someone who’d lived. Her suits were immaculate, her makeup an artful enhancement of natural beauty.
“Who was that?” asked a young man sidling up to the guard, who gave him a sceptical once-over.
“Director of Phoenix Auditing,” the portly guard said with unmistakable respect.
The woman had long since vanished, but the faint trace of her perfume lingered in the air.
“Not married, then?” The man skimmed the business centre’s directory, searching for Phoenix’s office.
“What’s your business, son?” The guard’s tone turned wary.
“Interview at Norton.”
“Name?” The guard already had the internal line halfway to his ear.
The young man gave it.
“Seventh floor, office 717.”
James moved toward the lifts, aware of the guard’s watchful gaze. He memorised Phoenix’s location: fifth floor. Riding up to seven, he doubled back down the stairs. The bold red lettering above the glass doors left no room for doubt—Phoenix Auditing. Inside, a young receptionist greeted him with a practised smile.
“Hello. How can I help?”
“Is the director in?” James delivered the question like a man who belonged.
“Do you have an appointment?” She flipped open the ledger.
“Well—no. But I’d like to speak with her.”
“I’m afraid she only sees scheduled clients.” The pen was already in her hand. “Shall I book you in?”
The staccato of heels cut through the room, and James turned to see a striking woman striding toward them. His posture sharpened, like a predator spotting prey.
“Miss Charlotte,” the receptionist said, “this gentleman doesn’t have an appointment.”
James flashed a boyish grin. “I was just at Norton for an interview. Thought I’d try my luck here.”
Charlotte’s sharp gaze swept over him.
“Economics degree?” Her voice was low, smooth.
“Law, actually.” He poured charm into the words.
She considered him for a breath. “Come with me.”
He followed, taking in the elegant cut of her grey blazer, the slender skirt ending just above her knees, legs elongated by killer heels. The scent of expensive perfume clung to her.
“Jenny, hold my calls for ten minutes.” She pushed open an oak door. “Sit.”
Plush carpet swallowed their footsteps as she took her place at the head of a gleaming conference table.
“What position are you after?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, flashing an apologetic smile.
“Then perhaps Norton’s the better fit.” Her tone frosted over.
“Truth is, I’ve never worked in auditing. But I learn fast. Give me a shot.”
She studied him again.
“One of our senior staff retires next month. He’ll train you. Full salary kicks in after probation—two months. Agreed?”
“Absolutely.” Joy lit his face. “You won’t regret it.”
“Documents?”
James reached for his folder, but she waved him off.
“HR will handle it. Jenny will show you. Security vetting is thorough. Questions?” She glanced at her papers, a clear dismissal.
As he left, the weight of her stare prickled between his shoulder blades.
“Tough cookie,” he murmured to Jenny outside.
The secretary didn’t smile. *Well-trained*, he noted.
Luck was on his side—landing a job *and* a boss like that? “Easy does it,” he reminded himself, trailing Jenny through the maze of beige corridors.
“Why leave your last firm?” The HR manager flipped through his employment history.
“My sister’s in London. Saw your company—liked the name.”
No need to mention the Manchester incident—seducing the director’s daughter, the pregnancy scare, barely escaping her father’s wrath.
She slid a form across the desk. As he filled it out, his thoughts circled Charlotte. *Young for a director. Connections, no doubt.*
He wasn’t wrong. She’d grown up in a mill town choked by factory smoke, watched her mother cough herself to death after twenty years on the line. A-levels in hand, she fled to London.
There, she met Daniel—older, university-educated. He guided her until she announced the pregnancy. Then he vanished. Abortion felt inevitable. *Plenty of time for children later.* Except there weren’t any.
Men became incidental. At a business dinner, she met Phoenix’s founder—twenty-two years her senior. When he proposed marriage and partnership, she accepted without love. She could wait. Ten years later, his death left her in full control—ruthless, precise.
Two weeks on, the office gathered to honour their longest-serving employee. Charlotte spoke warmly, presented an envelope thick with cash and a luxury Caribbean holiday. The buffet flowed; music swelled.
Slipping out, she felt James catch her wrist.
“Dance with me?”
He whirled her onto the floor before she could refuse. At the song’s climax, he dipped her low—a breathless pause, eyes locked. Applause broke the spell.
Flushed, a strand of hair loose, she righted herself and left without a word. He ached to follow but resisted. *Patience.*
After that, he avoided her—feigning work whenever she appeared. The game worked. A summons came via Jenny.
He entered without grovelling, pausing at the threshold.
“Your trial period ends tomorrow,” Charlotte said evenly. “You’re in.”
A week later, he “accidentally” met her leaving the building.
“Your driver’s late. Let me.”
A beat of hesitation. Then she slid into his car.
At her flat, he feared she’d shut him out, but silence was consent. The lift’s whisper carried them upward. Her penthouse was sterile—a place to sleep, not live.
Male slippers in the entryway hinted at past lovers. The coffee machine hummed; rich aroma filled the kitchen.
They traded trivialities over the counter. When she turned to the sink, he caught her, kissed her hungrily…
Morning came. He brought coffee, already showered, mint on his breath.
“I’ll go. No need for gossip.”
No kiss. Just departure. The door clicked shut. Charlotte sank back, pulse racing. Daniel had been old, sour-stomached. James was fire.
At the office, she smiled at the guard for the first time, baffling him. James played oblivious—fuel to her longing. Only in darkness did his tenderness emerge.
Two months later, she collapsed at work. Ambulance. Hospital.
The doctor beamed. “Congratulations.”
*No. After the abortion, they said…*
“Given your age, I recommend rest.”
Joy surged. James didn’t answer her calls. That night, she bribed a nurse for her clothes, took a taxi home.
The flat smelled of seared meat—nausea clawed at her. Then she heard James:
“Hungry? Steak’s nearly done.”
“You’re such a hunter,” Jenny giggled.
Charlotte peered around the corner. James stood at the hob in swim trunks and *her* strawberry apron. Jenny perched at the counter in his shirt, bare leg swinging.
Rage tore through her. He’d used her. Promoted, paid, living here—then brought *Jenny* in the second she was hospitalised.
*Storm in. Scream. Throw them out.*
But the baby. The doctor’s warning.
She left silently, fled to her oldest friend’s.
“You’re keeping it?”
“Of course.”
“And him?”
“Never.”
Next morning, soft-soled and pale, she moved through the office like a ghost.
In the lobby, James had Jenny pinned against a desk, whispering. The girl spotted Charlotte first, eyes widening. James spun, faltered, then rallied.
“They said you were out. Jenny messed up the—”
Charlotte walked past. “My office. Now.”
Jenny scrambled in, trembling.
“Type James’s termination—voluntary resignation. Effective today. Then promote Antonia Gleeson.”
James barged in. “You’re firing me?”
“I called. You ignored me. I came home. Saw everything.” Her voice fractured. “Wasn’t I enough?”
Jenny’s pen stilled.
“Too many mistakes.” Charlotte turned to her. “You’re dismissed.”
James spat threats on his way out. The door sighed shut.
At the window, London stretched beneath autumn’s gold. *No man will hurt meYears later, as her daughter played in the garden of their manor, Charlotte watched the sunset, knowing some ashes were meant to rise alone.
