Chapter 4 - Park Avenue Towers
The lobby of Moretti Capital Holdings looked more like a modern art museum in Zurich than a corporate headquarters. Towering glass panels, minimalist steel sculptures, and floors polished to a mirror shine reflected the morning sunlight streaming down from the Manhattan skyline.
I smoothed down my thrift-store navy blazer—the best professional-looking jacket I owned—and clutched my worn leather handbag as I stepped up to the front security desk.
“Maya Vance?” a sharp-eyed receptionist asked before I could even speak.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Moretti is expecting you. Penthouse suite. Elevator three.”
The private elevator ride felt like descending—or ascending—into another dimension. When the doors slid open on the top floor, I stepped out into a sprawling, sunlit office suite overlooking Central Park.
Lorenzo Moretti sat behind a massive mahogany desk, reviewing a thick stack of architectural blue-prints. He didn't look up immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to test my nerves.
I didn't fidget. I stood tall, keeping my hands clasped in front of me.
After a full minute, Lorenzo laid the blueprints down, interlaced his fingers, and raised his dark eyes to meet mine.
“Punctual,” he observed, checking his watch. “That’s a good start. Most people who receive my card are either an hour early trying to impress me or ten minutes late thinking it makes them look important.”
“I respect my time, Mr. Moretti, and I assume you respect yours,” I replied evenly.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Good answer. Sit down, Maya.”
I took the leather armchair opposite his desk.
“Let’s dispense with formalities,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward. “Yesterday, you lost your catering gig because you intervened in a high-society dispute. Furthermore, your background check—which my security team compiled overnight—shows you’re currently working two jobs to support your mother’s specialized physical therapy treatments at New York Presbyterian.”
My spine stiffened instantly. “You ran a background check on me?”
“In my position, I don't let strangers into my orbit without knowing their blood type, let alone their history,” Lorenzo said coldly. “Your mother’s medical bills are roughly twelve thousand dollars a month. Your current income covers about half of that. You’re six months away from financial burnout.”
I stared at him, a mixture of anger and humiliation burning in my chest. “You think because you have money, you can just dig into my private life and wave it in my face?”
May you like
“I think,” Lorenzo countered, his gaze locking onto mine with unwavering intensity, “that you have courage, a sharp mind, and a loyalty that money can’t buy. I need an executive assistant who isn't intimidated by powerful people, who won't bow to social pressure, and who has a personal stake in being fiercely honest.”
---
