Everyone wanted the CEO’s attention at singles night until she crossed the room and chose me

By 7:45 AM on Monday, my face was effectively pinned to the digital bulletin board of Mercer & Row.

I knew this because when I walked into the lobby of the Wacker Drive tower, the security guard who usually scanned my badge with the enthusiasm of a corpse looked up, widened his eyes, and actually said, “Good morning, Mr. Holloway. Have a great day on thirty-four.”

The rumor mill hadn't just churned over the weekend; it had gone completely nuclear.

The elevator ride up was agonizing. At floor 14, two junior copywriters stepped in, glanced at me, stopped their conversation dead, and stared intently at the floor indicator lights. At floor 22, Marcus Green, a senior director who had ignored my presence in budget meetings for three straight years, slapped me on the back.

“Holloway!” he boomed with synthetic warmth. “Looking sharp! We should get lunch this week. Pick your brain on the retail division.”

“I have a packed calendar, Marcus,” I said evenly.

“Of course, of course. Big things happening!”

When the elevator doors parted on the 34th floor, the atmosphere shifted instantly from corporate bustle to monastic silence. Floor 34 didn't have cubicles. It had frosted glass, acoustic walls wrapped in dark charcoal wool, and panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the winding ribbon of the Chicago River.

The air up here smelled different. It smelled like expensive HVAC filtration, polished marble, and unchecked executive power.

A woman with silver hair cut into a razor-sharp bob looked up from behind a curved reception desk that looked like it had been carved from a single block of Carrara marble.

“Grant Holloway?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“Yes.”

“I’m Evelyn. Ms. Mercer’s executive assistant. Leave your personal phone in the drawer on your right.”

I paused. “My personal phone?”

“Company policy for executive-level special assignments,” Evelyn said without blinking. “You’ll be issued an encrypted device for all project communications. Ms. Mercer is finishing a conference call with Tokyo. Take the office to the left. The glass door with the frost.”

I followed her direction. The office designated for me was twice the size of my previous department head’s space. It had a desk made of reclaimed walnut, a leather chair that probably cost more than my first car, and two monitors displaying clean, unconfigured Mercer & Row network dashboards.

On the desk sat a sleek black smartphone and a thick, blue manila folder marked *CONFIDENTIAL: MERIDIAN AUTOMOTIVE STRATEGY*.

Before I could even touch the folder, the heavy glass door swung open.

Julian Vance didn’t knock. He strolled in, hands casually shoved into the pockets of a bespoke three-piece charcoal suit, his silk tie knotted with mathematical precision. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his oxford shoe.

“Quite an upgrade from the cubicle farm on twenty-eight, isn’t it, Grant?” Julian said, leaning his hip against the edge of my desk.

I didn't sit down. I kept my posture relaxed, leaning slightly back against the credenza behind me. “Julian. I didn't know you frequented this side of the building before nine.”

“I go wherever the company’s interests take me,” he said, his eyes scanning my face with cold, predatory curiosity. “You caused quite a stir on Friday night. People are talking. Some people find it romantic. The plucky mid-tier strategist catching the eye of the untouchable CEO at a charity mixer.”

He paused, a humorless smirk playing on his lips.

“I don’t believe in fairy tales, Grant. And I certainly don’t believe Vivian Mercer suddenly developed an appetite for brand planners who drive four-year-old sedans.”

“If you have a question about my credentials, you can take it up with Vivian,” I replied smoothly. “Or HR.”

Julian leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Let’s not play games. Vivian is under immense pressure from the board. She’s erratic. She’s paranoid. She thinks everyone is out to steal her crown because she knows she can’t handle the pressure of this transition. If she pulled you up here, it’s not because of your strategic brilliance. It’s because she wants a loyal dog she can kick when things go sideways.”

“Is there a point to this, Julian? Because I have work to do.”

“The point,” Julian hissed, tapping a manicured finger on the blue folder on my desk, “is that you’re on the wrong side of the boat. This ship is turning, Holloway. And when the new ownership takes control, the people who tethered themselves to Vivian Mercer will be the first ones thrown overboard.”

He reached inside his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine white business card with no company logo—just an embossed phone number—and flicked it onto the center of my desk.

“Keep your eyes open,” Julian whispered. “Tell me what deck she’s preparing for Meridian. Let me know when she schedules meetings with outside counsel. You do that, and when the dust settles, you won't just keep this office. You’ll be running the entire division.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the scent of heavy cologne hanging in the filtered air.

I stared at the white card for five seconds.

Then, the connecting door on the opposite wall slid open with a soft mechanical hiss.

Vivian Mercer was standing in the threshold. She was dressed in an impeccably tailored navy suit, her eyes dark, sharp, and entirely focused on me.

“Did he give you the speech?” she asked quietly.

“He told me you were paranoid and erratic,” I said, picking up the white card by its edges. “And then he offered to buy my soul for a vice presidency.”

Vivian walked into the room, took the card from my fingers, and dropped it into the small paper shredder beside my desk. The machine gave a brief, mechanical growl and turned the card into confetti.