NOXZERA HEADQUARTERS
(Elizabeth's POV)
The mirrored elevator doors slid open to the top executive floor of Noxzera — sleek marble, soundproof glass, and eyes trained to see more than they said.
I stepped out beside Maverick, and in that moment, everything changed.
Not because of what I wore. But because Maverick Fernández wasn't just anyone. And walking beside him meant people started looking at me like I wasn't either.
I walked like I belonged here. Or tried to. My heels were louder than my heartbeat — barely.
The receptionist straightened. "Good afternoon, Mr. Fernández," she said, tone polished.
Her eyes flicked to me — subtle, but loaded. She didn't ask for a name. Didn't ask for an ID. Just pressed a button and nodded toward the wing beyond the glass panels. "Mr. Fernández is available now."
I nodded politely, but I could already feel it — the shift in posture from the assistants near the glass offices. The tiny murmurs leaking from barely shut doors.
"She's not staff…"
"Wait—is that the one he—?"
"I thought he didn't—"
"—think she's the investor's daughter? Or a PR stunt?"
Maverick walked like he didn't hear it. I walked like I'd never learned to flinch — and prayed my body kept believing that lie.
And then we saw Alex.
He stepped out of the boardroom, dark grey suit jacket draped over one arm, his phone in hand, voice low as he wrapped up a conversation. He looked like precision sculpted into a man. Collected. Unbothered.
But now, in the context of this marble-and-glass kingdom.
Sleeves still rolled, pen clipped to one cuff, phone in hand. He looked like he'd just closed a seven-figure deal without breaking a sweat.
His gaze swept forward — past Maverick — and landed on me.
No surprise.
We'd seen each other this morning, after all. Breakfast, quiet nods, his usual "eat something" routine.
But here — in public — the way he looked at me was different.
He strode forward, handed off his phone to a waiting assistant without breaking stride, and reached me.
Then — in front of the watching office — he pulled me into a brief, deliberate hug.
It wasn't long.
Wasn't dramatic.
But it said one thing very clearly: She belongs here.
I felt it — the ripple of confusion down the hall. The reshuffling of assumptions. The murmurs trying to recalibrate who I was and why the CEO of Noxzera had just acknowledged me that personally.
He didn't smile much — Alex never did at work — but the corners of his mouth twitched. "You're on time."
"You said when I'm done."
"I said don't be late," he corrected dryly, then turned to Maverick. "And you brought her here without a detour to anywhere insane. I'm surprised."
Maverick only shrugged. "We stopped at the mall. She wanted to look good."
"It's about time someone noticed."
(then to Elizabeth, dryly)
" I hope you didn't let him pick it."
Alex said, then motioned with two fingers.
"No" I said smiling.
"Come on. Let's get started. We'd be using my office."
And just like that, I was being ushered into the heart of Noxzera.
Not as a visitor.
But as someone being introduced without words.
And behind us, silence tried to settle. But glass halls were terrible at keeping secrets.
-*-*-*-*-*-*
ALEX'S OFFICE
(Elizabeth's POV)
The office door shut behind us with a soft hiss — soundproof, like everything else here. The space was everything I expected and nothing I was prepared for.
Minimalist. Monochrome. Exact.
Books aligned like they'd been measured. Glass table, not wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a skyline that didn't care about feelings. It was the kind of room built for answers — not ideas.
And yet, here I was, with a head full of maybes.
Alex shrugged off his jacket and folded it over the back of a leather chair before gesturing for me to sit across the table. Not the couch. The table.
Maverick didn't sit immediately. He wandered to the sideboard, poured water into three tumblers, handed me one without a word.
"You brought the proposal?" Alex asked, already unlocking a tablet.
I nodded and slid the folder toward him. Printed. Stapled. Basic.
I hated how suddenly insecure it looked under the weight of his gaze.
He flipped it open. Skimmed.
And said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Maverick pulled out a seat beside me, finally. "She's not looking for a loan or a pity brand," he said. "She's building something."
Alex raised a brow without looking up. "If she were looking for pity, she'd be in the wrong office."
Then he closed the folder, tapped the table with one finger.
"Let's start from the beginning."
I blinked. "I thought you just read it."
"I did," he said. "Now I want to hear it."
Pause.
Then—
"Why Whisparé?"
His tone was level. Not unkind. But sharp. Dissecting.
I drew in a breath.
"Because… I needed something that spoke healing," I said. "Not as a marketing tool. As a scent. A presence. Something soft that still walks into the room first."
"Personal story behind the name?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Tell it."
I glanced at Maverick. He gave nothing away.
I looked back at Alex.
"It was what my mother used to wear," I said. "Or something like it. I don't remember the brand. Just the feeling. When I think of her, I smell that. It made me feel safe. And seen."
Alex nodded once. "Good. Emotional hook. Legacy feel."
He leaned back.
"What kind of products?"
"Perfumes. Sprays. Maybe oils, eventually."
"Where do you want to start? What's realistic?"
"We don't have the infrastructure yet," Maverick added. "We'll need to partner with existing producers for now. Third-party manufacturers."
Alex stood, walked to the whiteboard, uncapped a pen.