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Chapter Text

Rhea Ripley hated Mondays on principle.

They were loud, demanding things, full of people who thought their emergencies deserved her personal attention. This particular Monday had gone a step further and decided to crawl under her skin and take up residence.

Fourteen hours of back-to-back meetings had etched a faint ache behind her eyes. Projections, valuations, legal risk assessments—everyone wanted sign-off, assurances, guarantees that “Project X” would go smoothly.

That it would take Nightmare Industries public without a hitch.

Outside her office, Adelaide’s skyline was bleeding into dusk, the glass towers catching the last smear of sun and turning it into fire. Inside, the nineteenth floor of Nightmare Headquarters hummed with a dull, persistent energy. A few lights still burned in the open-plan spaces outside her door. Somewhere, a printer whirred. Someone laughed too loudly, then immediately quieted when they remembered who shared the floor.

Rhea rubbed at the knot in her neck and forced her attention back to the spreadsheet on her screen. Numbers calmed her. They were obedient, predictable. They didn’t come into her office with their personal catastrophes and ask her for things she didn’t have time to give.

“Ms. Ripley?”

The intercom on her desk crackled to life with her assistant Francesca’s voice, too careful to be casual.

Rhea’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “Yes?”

“There’s been a development with Project X.” A pause. “It’s about Anna Holding.”

Rhea’s jaw tightened. “Put it through.”

The door, not the phone, opened instead.

Francesca stepped in, dark hair pulled into a sleek knot, tablet clutched like a shield to her chest. She closed the door softly behind her and walked up to the desk, shoulders slightly tense in that way that said whatever she was about to deliver, she’d already tried to fix it before involving Rhea.

Rhea leaned back in her chair, black leather complaining softly under the movement. “This had better somehow be good news.”

Francesca winced. “Anna’s here to see you. It’s…personal.”

Of course it is.

Rhea exhaled through her nose. “Send her in.”

Francesca slipped back out. A moment later, there was a knock, then Anna Holding stepped into the office.

If Rhea had a list of people she trusted, Anna would sit near the top. For five years, Anna had taken every impossible deadline Rhea threw at her and somehow turned out results that exceeded expectations. Calm under pressure, brilliant with strategy, obsessively thorough—if Project X was a rocket, Anna had been the one quietly assembling it piece by piece.

Tonight, however, Anna didn’t look calm. She looked…nervous. Her hands were wrapped around a folder a shade too tightly, knuckles pale. The faint glow of the city lights framed her from behind.

“Evening, Rhea,” she said, her voice soft.

“Evening,” Rhea replied. “I thought you’d already left. Sit.”

Anna did, lowering herself into the chair opposite the desk. For a second, her gaze dropped to her lap, and the unusual hesitance in her movement finally snagged Rhea’s attention.

“Is something wrong with the rollout?” Rhea asked. “Because if Legal changed their mind about the risk disclosures again, I—”

“It’s not that,” Anna interrupted gently. “The rollout is…on track. For now.”

Rhea narrowed her eyes. “Then what?”

Anna took a breath, then set the folder on the edge of the desk and pushed it forward. Her hand rested subtly over her stomach as she sat back.

Rhea’s gaze followed the motion.

Ah.

“How far along?” she asked, before she even realized she’d made the leap.

Anna blinked, then gave a sheepish smile. “Four months.” She let out a small laugh. “I was going to wait until after the launch, but my doctor—well. She disagreed rather strongly with that plan.”

Four months. Rhea’s brain immediately started slotting timelines together, rearranging calendars, overlaying them with the milestones of Project X. Investor roadshows. Regulatory sign-offs. Media embargoes. She could see the problem before Anna said another word.

“You’re taking leave,” Rhea said flatly.

“I need to,” Anna replied, apologetic. “My blood pressure’s been high. The travel, the hours…they’re not safe. HR has my formal notice, but I wanted to tell you myself. I’ll be out for at least six months, starting in three weeks.”

Three weeks.

Rhea stared at her, the office suddenly feeling very small. “And Project X?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“I’ve documented everything,” Anna said quickly, tapping the folder. “Roadmaps, contingency plans, stakeholder matrices. I’ve outlined a proposed transition for an interim project lead.”

“Interim,” Rhea repeated. “Because you’re coming back.”

Anna smiled, a little relieved at the assumption. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rhea said. “You’re one of the few people here who hasn’t disappointed me repeatedly. I’m not about to throw that away because you decided to have a baby.”

Something like emotion flickered in Anna’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Rhea nodded once, then flicked the folder open with practiced efficiency. Her eyes skimmed over the headings—Critical Path Dependencies, Key Investors, Governance Structure—but the word “Suggested Replacements” snagged her.

“Who?” she asked.

“Internal options are limited,” Anna admitted. “We need someone who can handle the pressure and isn’t afraid of the scrutiny that comes with an IPO. I’ve been working with Maya in finance, but she’s stretched thin as it is. I think we need fresh talent.”

Rhea raised an eyebrow. “Fresh talent. During the most critical phase of the largest project this company has ever taken on.”

“Yes,” Anna said calmly. “If we choose correctly.”

Rhea sat back, folding her arms. “I assume you have candidates.”

“Shortlist of three,” Anna said. “But one stands out. I’ve already had preliminary conversations with her. She’s sharp. Ambitious. She reminds me of…” She hesitated, then smiled. “Well, you. Younger, obviously.”

Rhea’s mouth twitched despite herself. “That’s a dangerous recommendation, Anna.”

“It’s honest.”

Rhea closed the folder, tapped her fingers on the cover. “What’s her name?”

“Olivia Morgan. Goes by Liv.” Anna’s tone softened, intrigued even now. “She’s currently heading strategic initiatives at a fintech startup in Melbourne. Before that, she was with one of the big four consultancy firms. She’s led pre-IPO transformations before, on a smaller scale.”

“Why would she leave all that,” Rhea said, “to come here and clean up our chaos?”

Anna’s smile turned knowing. “Because she’s ambitious enough to want her name attached to the thing everyone will be talking about for the next year. And because Nightmare Industries is not just ‘our chaos,’ as you put it. It’s poised to be the chaos.”

Rhea considered that. Ego, properly harnessed, could be useful.

“I’ve set up an interview for her,” Anna added. “Tomorrow afternoon with Liam from HR.”

“Good,” Rhea said. “Keep me updated.”

Anna’s expression flickered again, guilt this time. “That’s the other thing. Liam’s not coming in.”

Rhea’s patience began to fray. “Excuse me?”

“His father passed away over the weekend,” Anna said softly. “HR’s down to skeleton staff. No one else is senior enough to vet a project lead for X. We either delay the hire, or…”

“Or what.”

Anna’s gaze lifted to meet hers steadily. “Or you interview her.”

The room seemed to tilt for a fraction of a second.

Rhea almost laughed. “You want me, in the middle of roadshow prep and board politics, to play hiring manager.”

“I know it’s not ideal,” Anna said quickly. “But this is critical. We can’t hand Project X to someone you don’t trust. And frankly, Liv deserves to meet the person she’ll actually be reporting to.”

Rhea drummed her fingers once more on the folder, her nails clicking softly against the glossy card stock. She despised interviews. Hokey rehearsed answers, inflated resumes, nervous laughter. She made decisions based on performance, not potential.

But she also despised handing over control.

“Fine,” she said. “When?”

Anna checked her watch. “She lands in Adelaide at eight tomorrow morning. She rearranged her schedule to come in on short notice. I told her we’d confirm a time.”

Rhea sighed. “Book her for nine. If she can’t handle me before coffee, she’s not cut out for this.”

Anna smiled in that small, knowing way that made Rhea almost suspicious. “I’ll let Francesca know. And…thank you. For being understanding. About the baby.”

Rhea waved a hand. “Go home, Anna. Take the night. We’ll survive tomorrow.”

Once the door closed behind her, the office seemed to fall into a heavier kind of silence. Outside, the last streaks of color were fading from the sky, leaving the city a grid of gold squares. Rhea stared at the folder, then flipped it open again, this time heading straight to the tab marked “Prospective Interim Leadership.”

A resume, crisp and efficient, stared back at her.

Olivia “Liv” Morgan

The bullet points were sharp. Top of her class at university. Two promotions in three years at the consultancy firm. Led a cross-functional team through a series B funding round at the current startup, spearheading strategic pivots that had doubled their valuation in eighteen months.

Rhea’s gaze snagged on a line: Known for unconventional solutions and ability to ‘bring people with her’ through change.

Unconventional. Dangerous in the wrong hands. Necessary in the right ones.

She checked the attached headshot and stopped.

Blonde hair that somehow managed to look both wild and intentional, falling over one shoulder with careless confidence. Blue eyes that seemed to shine even through the flatness of a corporate photo, the hint of mischief there at odds with the professional blazer and neatly knotted blouse. A mouth curved into a half-smile that hovered somewhere between challenge and invitation.

Rhea clicked the screen off a beat too late.

Ridiculous. It was a headshot, not an invitation.

She shut the folder, placed it at the far right corner of her desk, and turned back to her laptop. There were still three decks she needed to review before she could even pretend to consider leaving for the night.

But as the hours trickled past and the building thinned out, she found her gaze drifting back to that corner more often than she’d admit.

Chapter Text

Liv Morgan loved airports.

Not the delays or the recycled air or the overpriced coffee—that part was awful—but the in-between feeling. The illusion that for a few hours, she was unmoored from her routines, suspended in a place where everything could still go in any direction.

Her plane dipped through a layer of early-morning cloud as the captain’s voice crackled overhead, announcing their descent into Adelaide. Liv leaned her forehead briefly against the cool oval of the window and watched as the landscape came into focus—patchworks of suburbs, ribbons of road, the ocean glinting faintly in the distance.

She wasn’t nervous. Not exactly.

She was…electric.

She checked her watch. 7:42 a.m. Anna’s text had come through late last night: Good news, Liv. Rhea will see you at nine. Try not to scare her too much. – Anna

Liv had smiled at that. She liked Anna. There was a solidity to her, a quiet sharpness Liv respected. The fact that Anna had vouched for her inside Nightmare Industries meant more than she’d let on.

Nightmare.

The name still made her want to grin every time she thought it. Who named a company that and then managed to turn it into one of the most aggressively successful tech conglomerates in the southern hemisphere? It was audacious. It was theatrical. It was, frankly, cool.

And at the center of it all: Rhea Ripley.

Liv had done her homework. She knew the story—how Rhea had taken a failing cybersecurity outfit and, over a decade, spun it into a multi-faceted beast devouring market share in AI analytics, cloud infrastructure, and more recently, consumer-facing tech under the Nightmare banner. She knew the rumors—that Rhea was ruthless with underperformers, allergic to bullshit, and apparently had a talent for cutting through elaborate presentations with one deceptively simple question.

What Liv didn’t know, not really, was what would happen when they met.

She intended to make sure it wouldn’t be something Rhea forgot easily.

---

By 8:56 a.m. the following morning, Rhea was regretting the thing she’d said about coffee.

She’d made it through half of one meeting and three strong sips of an espresso that tasted like burnt bitterness when Francesca slipped into her office again.

“She’s here,” her assistant said. “Right on time.”

“Of course she is,” Rhea muttered, closing the report she’d been pretending to read. “Send her in.”

Francesca hesitated. “Would you like me to sit in and take notes?”

“I’ll remember what matters,” Rhea said. “That’ll be all.”

Her assistant nodded and disappeared, leaving the door ajar.

Rhea stood—to offset, unconsciously, the height difference she’d have when the candidate burst in all nervous energy—and moved around to perch on the edge of her desk. It was a subtle shift, but it gave her a better angle to read reactions, body language. People sat differently when the person they were meeting wasn’t barricaded behind a slab of oak and glass.

She smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her black blouse, then scowled at herself. Since when did she care how she looked in an interview?

Footsteps approached. The door opened fully.

And there she was.

Liv Morgan stepped into the office as if it were a stage she’d long been waiting to walk onto. Her navy suit was tailored, not stiff; the jacket open over a pale silk camisole that caught the light when she moved. Blonde hair fell in loose waves down her back, a few strands framing her face in deliberate imperfection. The blue of her eyes was startling in person—sharp, clear, and very, very awake.

For half a second, surprise flickered across Liv’s face when she saw Rhea perched on the desk instead of ensconced behind it. Then her mouth curved into that half-smile Rhea had already seen on paper.

“Ms. Ripley,” Liv said. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Her voice was lighter than Rhea expected, threaded with warmth and something like humor, as if the whole situation amused her a little.

Rhea pushed aside the flicker of…something…and gestured toward the chair across from her. “Ms. Morgan. Sit.”

Liv did, settling into the seat without the fidgety shifts Rhea had come to associate with people sitting in front of her. She crossed her legs at the ankle, not the knee, posture straight but not rigid. Her gaze flicked briefly over the room—the city view, the abstract art, the sleek lines of the office—before returning squarely to Rhea.

“So,” Rhea said, letting the word hang for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. “Anna speaks very highly of you.”

Liv’s smile brightened. “She speaks very highly of you as well. I’ll try not to let either of you down.”

Rhea arched an eyebrow. “Confident.”

“I prefer prepared,” Liv replied. “Confidence without preparation is just arrogance with good lighting.”

Rhea huffed, an unwilling tick at the corner of her mouth. Fine. One point to her.

“You know what Project X is?” she asked, shifting into business.

“I know what it intends to be,” Liv said. “Nightmare Industries’ formal entrance onto the public markets, delivered with enough spectacle to match the name. It’s not just an IPO, it’s a narrative. A statement that you’re no longer just the company people whisper about in industry circles—you’re the one on billboards and business magazines.”

Rhea’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded slightly. “And what does a ‘formal entrance’ like that need?”

“A seamless story,” Liv said without missing a beat. “One that aligns your numbers, your culture, and your vision into something investors feel stupid for not believing in. That means cross-department coordination, message discipline, and the ability to keep about a dozen fires from turning into full-blown infernos at the same time.”

Her hands moved as she spoke, not wildly, but with emphasis—thumb and forefinger pinching the air as if pulling threads together.

“And you think you’re the one to do that,” Rhea said, watching her.

“I know I can,” Liv replied. “I’ve led smaller versions of this play before. This would be bigger. More complex. More high-profile. Which is exactly what I’m looking for.”

Ambitious. Good.

Rhea tilted her head. “What makes you think you can handle me?”

Liv’s lips parted, then curved. “Is this an interview for a project lead,” she asked, “or a warning label?”

Rhea didn’t smile, but something inside her loosened. “Answer the question.”

Liv took a breath, sobering just a fraction. “I’ve worked with difficult people,” she said. “Brilliant, intense, impossible. The ones who care more about the outcome than they do about being liked. I don’t need my boss to be my best friend. I need them to be clear. If I understand your priorities and your boundaries, I can work with your style.”

“And what do you think my style is?” Rhea asked, genuinely curious.

Liv met her gaze without flinching. “You’re direct. You don’t waste time. You value competence over charm, results over excuses. You tolerate mistakes if they’re owned and corrected, but you don’t tolerate repeat offenders. You’re protective of this company, maybe to a fault. And you’ve built something so big, so fast, that losing control of it is probably your worst nightmare.”

The word hung between them, weighted now with more than just branding.

Rhea held her stare.

Bold. Very bold.

“You’ve done your research,” Rhea said.

“I thought it might be polite to know who I’m trying to impress,” Liv replied lightly. There was a flash in her eyes, though, like she’d enjoyed the challenge. “Besides, if I’m going to be responsible for delivering your company’s biggest milestone, I should at least understand what keeps you up at night.”

“Assuming anything does,” Rhea said dryly.

Liv’s gaze flicked over her, quickly, as if taking in the slight shadows under her eyes, the set of her shoulders, the half-finished coffee cup by the monitor.

“It does,” she said softly. “You just hide it better than most.”

The air shifted.

Rhea straightened slightly, surprised by the prickle of awareness down her spine. It had been a long time since someone looked at her like that and saw past the armor.

She cleared her throat. “Give me an example of a crisis you’ve managed,” she said, forcing the conversation back to safer ground. “On a project this scale, we’ll have several.”

Liv nodded, slipping into the rhythm of storytelling—funding rounds gone sideways, regulators calling at inconvenient times, a CEO who’d nearly torpedoed his own company’s valuation with an ill-timed tweet. With each anecdote, she outlined her role, the stakeholders she’d wrangled, the data she’d used to persuade them back into alignment.

She was good. Not just technically competent—though that was obvious—but good with people. She knew where to push, where to concede, how to thread a needle between competing egos.

Rhea asked harder questions. Liv answered them with a mix of candor and tact that was rare in a room like this. When she didn’t know something, she said so, then offset it with how she’d find the answer.

At some point, Rhea stopped glancing at the resume on her desk. She didn’t need it. The woman in front of her was far more interesting than bullet points could ever be.

“And why Nightmare?” Rhea asked finally. “You have options. Your current company seems to think you’re indispensable.”

Liv’s smile turned wry. “Everyone’s indispensable until they decide to leave.”

“Still,” Rhea pressed.

Liv paused, then looked out briefly at the skyline before returning her gaze to Rhea.

“Because I’m tired of helping other people make safe choices,” she said quietly. “They talk about disruption, but what they really mean is incremental change. Nightmare Industries…doesn’t feel incremental. It feels like a leap. I’m ready for one.”

A leap.

Rhea considered that. Considered Liv.

“You understand,” Rhea said slowly, “that Project X will put you under a microscope. If you take this role and it goes well, you’ll have your pick of offers for the next decade. If it goes badly, you’ll be the one they whisper about when they say, ‘Remember that disaster?’”

Liv’s eyes danced, and she leaned forward just a little.

“Then I guess we don’t let it go badly,” she said.

Something sparked between them at that—an unspoken agreement, a shared love for impossible odds.

Rhea felt it. From the slight quickening of her own pulse to the sudden, acute awareness of how close Liv was sitting. The faint scent of her—something clean and bright edged with vanilla—reached her as Liv moved.

This is an interview, she reminded herself, irritated at the distraction. You don’t blur lines. Not with your staff. Not with your projects.

“Last question,” Rhea said, ignoring the part of her that wanted to ask something personal instead. “Why should I trust you with the most important initiative this company has ever undertaken?”

Liv didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied Rhea, like she was trying to choose her words carefully.

“Because I know it’s not just about the company for you,” she said finally. “This is your name. Your legacy. You’ve fought to build it, and you’re not going to hand it to just anyone. You shouldn’t. But if you give it to me, I will treat it like it’s my own. I will stay late, wake up early, take the hits, smooth the politics, and do whatever it takes to deliver what you’re betting everything on.”

Her voice dropped a notch, steady, sure.

“And because I’m not afraid of you,” she added. “Respectful, yes. Terrified, no. And I think you need someone who can stand their ground with you, not someone who crumbles every time you frown.”

Silence settled between them again, thicker this time.

Rhea held her gaze, then slowly stood, straightening to her full height. Liv’s eyes followed her, unflinching.

You are trouble, Rhea thought, without quite knowing why.

“Thank you, Ms. Morgan,” she said. “That will be all for now. Anna and I will discuss, and HR will be in touch.”

Liv rose as well, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her jacket. “Of course. And thank you again for making the time.”

She turned to go, then paused, glancing back over her shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, that half-smile returning, softer now, “I think Nightmare picked the right person to build it. You just need the right person to help you launch it.”

Rhea didn’t respond, but the compliment landed, strange and unexpectedly warm.

The door closed behind Liv with a soft click.

For several long seconds, Rhea stood in the center of her office, staring at the space where Liv had been. The city beyond the glass sprawled indifferent and vast, the morning sun finally burning off the last of the dawn haze.

Francesca’s voice came over the intercom, cautious. “How did it go?”

Rhea walked back to her desk, sat down, and opened the folder Anna provided once more. The headshot of Olivia “Liv” Morgan stared up at her, oddly less vivid now than the woman who’d just left.

“Schedule a follow-up,” she said, her voice unreadable even to herself. “A panel with Legal and Finance. Tell Anna she can stop panicking. I think we’ve found our interim lead.”

She paused, then added, “And Francesca?”

“Yes, Ms. Ripley?”

“Move my three-thirty to tomorrow,” Rhea said. “I want to review the Project X risk register personally this afternoon.”

There was a beat of silence. “Of course.”

The line went dead.

Rhea leaned back and let her eyes close for just a moment. Behind her eyelids, blue eyes flashed, unwavering. A voice echoed, clear: I’m not afraid of you.

Good, she thought.

She was going to need someone fearless.

Especially if the sparks she’d felt in that room were any indication that Project X wasn’t the only thing about to change.

Chapter Text

Liv

By the time the hotel room door clicked shut behind her, Liv’s brain was finally starting to catch up to the day.

She let her bag drop on the small table by the window and toed off her heels in the same motion, sighing as her feet met cheap but mercifully soft carpet. The room wasn’t anything special, standard corporate booking: queen bed, gray and navy color scheme, neutral art that meant nothing to anyone. But from the twelfth-floor window she could see enough of Adelaide to remind herself she was somewhere new. Narrow streets, low buildings, the shimmer of distant water catching light.

She shrugged out of her blazer and hung it over the back of the chair, fingers lingering on the lapel for a second.

She could still feel the weight of Rhea Ripley’s attention on her. The room, the skyline, the sixteen hours of travel,it all faded in comparison to the memory of those dark eyes studying her like she was either a puzzle or a weapon.

Liv blew out a breath and scrubbed a hand over her face. “Get it together,” she muttered.

Her stomach grumbled in protest, reminding her she’d last eaten…what, a protein bar in the airport?

“Okay, okay,” she said, moving toward the desk. “First food, then spiral over your maybe future boss.”

She ordered room service, something simple and quick, and then turned her attention to the other thing she’d been avoiding: her email.

She flipped open her laptop, the familiar boot-up chime sounding too cheerful for how drained she felt. Wi-Fi connected. Notifications popped up in a neat little cluster. Two from her current company, which she ignored on instinct. One from her mother with a link to an article about how to prevent burnout (“Very funny, Mum”). And one with a subject line that made her pulse skip.

Nightmare Industries – Follow-Up Interview

She stared at it for a beat, then clicked it open, suddenly more awake than she’d been since landing.

Dear Ms. Morgan,

Thank you again for meeting with Ms. Ripley and taking the time to discuss the Project X Interim Leadership opportunity.

We would like to invite you to a second-round interview to further assess your fit for this critical role. This interview will be conducted by a four-person panel consisting of senior executives from our Legal and Finance departments.

Date: Tuesday

Time: 09:00 AM

Location: Conference Room 3A, Third Floor – Nightmare Industries Headquarters, Adelaide

During this session, you can expect questions regarding your experience with regulatory environments, financial governance, and risk management for high-profile initiatives. Please arrive ten minutes early and check in at reception on the ground floor. Business formal attire is appreciated.

We look forward to speaking with you again.

Kind regards,

Francesca Rossi

Executive Assistant of Ms. Ripley

Nightmare Industries Corporation

Liv read it twice, making sure she understood every detail. But she was also searching for what wasn’t there.

No mention of Rhea Ripley. She wasn't even cc'd in the email. 

She scanned back up, re-reading each line, as if the name might materialize if she looked at it from a different angle.

Nothing.

She sat back in the chair, chewing the inside of her cheek. A second interview was good—great, actually. A four person panel with Legal and Finance meant they were taking her seriously. That they were already picturing her at the table where the real decisions were made.

But a small, petty part of her felt…disappointed.

She hadn’t realized until now how much she’d been hoping to see Rhea again. To test whether that crackle of tension in the office had been real or just her imagination overreacting to jet lag and adrenaline. And she didn't know why? 

“Four-person panel,” she murmured, scrolling back down. “Two from Legal, two from Finance. No terrifyingly intense CEO mentioned.”

Probably for the best, she told herself. This was the serious part. Now came the scrutiny, the probing questions, the attempts to poke holes in her experience. She needed her brain in performance mode, not in whatever strange space it had drifted into during that interview when Rhea had leaned forward and asked, What makes you think you can handle me?

She shivered, just a little, remembering the way the word me had landed between them like a challenge.

Her laptop chimed again, this time with a different notification. Her phone, tossed onto the bed, started to buzz a second later.

Liv snatched it up, saw the name on the screen, and felt tension ease out of her shoulders.

“Hey, Anna,” she answered, dropping onto the edge of the mattress.

“How’d it go?” Anna’s voice came through warm and slightly breathless, like she’d been half-jogging between meetings. “I’ve been staring at my calendar all day trying not to text you every hour.”

Liv smiled. “Well, I haven’t been escorted out of the building, so that’s a good sign.”

Anna laughed. “Always encouraging. Tell me everything. How was she?”

Liv hesitated, glancing reflexively toward the closed hotel room door, as if Rhea could somehow be standing on the other side.

“She was…” Liv searched for the right word. “Exactly who you said she’d be. Direct. No fluff. Intense.”

“I did warn you,” Anna said dryly. “Did she make you sit across the desk like you’re on trial, or did you get the ‘perch-on-the-edge-of-the-desk’ treatment?”

Liv blinked. “That’s…a thing?”

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Anna said. “Desk means you’re either in trouble or wasting her time. Perch means she’s in hunting mode. Curious. Evaluating.”

Liv’s mind flashed back to the way Rhea had sat, boots planted, hands folded loosely as she watched Liv like she was weighing every word.

“Definitely perch,” Liv said slowly.

“I knew it,” Anna said, smug satisfaction clear even through the line. “So? What did she ask?”

“The usual,” Liv said, defaulting to the safe version of events. “Crises I’d handled, stakeholders I’d managed, why I’m leaving my current role, why Nightmare. She pushed on risk, on pressure. Wanted to know if I’d crack.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t,” Liv said, allowing herself a small grin. “At least, I don’t think I did.”

“That’s my girl,” Anna said. There was a soft rustling sound, followed by a muffled sigh. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get comfortable. Sitting all day is not a pregnant woman’s friend.”

“Hey, you’re the one who decided to grow a whole human smack in the middle of an IPO,” Liv teased gently. “Terrible planning, honestly.”

“Tell my uterus,” Anna said dryly. “Anyway, did she give anything away? With Rhea, silence is not necessarily a bad sign. It just means she’s thinking three moves ahead and not bothering to tell you.”

Liv thought back to the interview. The moments where Rhea hadn’t reacted at all, where those dark eyes just pinned her in place as Liv talked. The quiet beat after Liv had said she wasn’t afraid of her. The way Rhea’s expression had shifted by the smallest fraction of a degree, like something inside her had clicked.

“She was…” Liv said carefully, “hard to read. But she asked smart questions. No trick scenarios, no fake friendliness. Just straight to the point.”

“That sounds like her,” Anna agreed. “Did she challenge you?”

“Constantly,” Liv said. “But it felt…fair. Like she wanted to see if I’d push back.”

“And did you?” Anna’s tone was teasing, but there was something sharper underneath.

Liv hesitated for half a second, remembering the heat in Rhea’s gaze when she’d said she wasn’t afraid of her. “Yeah,” she said. “I did. I figure if she wants someone to nod and agree with everything she says, she wouldn’t be looking for an interim lead for X.”

“Good,” Anna said, satisfaction threading through her voice. “You’re not there to be a yes-woman. You’re there to make sure the rocket doesn’t explode on the launchpad.”

“Comforting imagery, thanks,” Liv said.

Anna chuckled. “So. Did they give you any sense of next steps?”

“I just got an email,” Liv said, shifting back onto the bed and propping herself against the headboard. “Second interview tomorrow morning. Panel with Legal and Finance. Third floor, nine a.m.”

“That was fast,” Anna said. “That’s a very good sign.”

“Really?” Liv asked, staring at the laptop again like it might change its mind.

“Rhea doesn’t like to waste time,” Anna said. “If she thought you were a no, you’d already know. The fact that she’s pushing you to the next stage means you cleared a big hurdle.”

“She’s not mentioned in the email,” Liv pointed out, trying to make it sound like a casual observation instead of the weird, small sting it was. “Just the panel.”

“That doesn’t mean she won’t be involved,” Anna said. “She trusts her teams. Legal will want to drill you on regulatory risk. Finance will want to know you speak their language. But Rhea will see their notes, and if she wants to drop in, she will. She has a habit of appearing in rooms she wasn’t supposed to be in.”

Liv’s pulse kicked up at the thought. “You make her sound like a ghost.”

“A very large, very judgmental ghost,” Anna said. “But seriously, Liv, a panel interview is standard. Don’t overthink it. Use it as a chance to show them you can collaborate with more than just the CEO.”

Liv exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I know. I just…”

Just what?

Just can’t stop replaying every second of that first meeting?

Just can’t stop thinking about the moment Rhea’s gaze had dipped, fractionally, to her mouth?

“Just what?” Anna asked.

Liv shook her head, even though Anna couldn’t see it. “Nothing. I guess I’m still a bit wired from the whole thing. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re allowed to be wired,” Anna said gently. “This is a big opportunity. And for what it’s worth, I pushed hard to get you through the door.”

“I know,” Liv said, warmth spreading through her chest. “Thank you. Really.”

“You’re the one doing the work,” Anna said. “I just nudged a door open. The rest is you.”

There was a pause, then Anna’s tone softened further. “One more thing, because I feel like I should prepare you: Rhea is…standoffish. You probably noticed.”

Liv huffed a quiet laugh. “You could say that.”

“She’s not unfriendly,” Anna said. “She just…doesn’t do small talk. Or obvious emotions. People misread her all the time. They think she doesn’t care. She cares a lot. Maybe too much. It just comes out as being harder on everyone than she is on herself. If she seemed distant, don’t take it personally. It’s not you. It’s her default setting.”

Liv thought about the way Rhea had looked at her when she’d said, I think you need someone who can stand their ground with you. The faint softening around her eyes. The way her jaw had relaxed, just barely.

“Yeah,” Liv said quietly. “I noticed.”

“What did you notice?” Anna asked.

Liv hesitated.

That under all that steel, there was something raw. That beneath the control, there was something fragile she guarded fiercely. That for a few seconds, when Liv had called her out, she’d seen a flash of something like fascination in Rhea’s eyes.

“Just that she’s…not as unreadable as she thinks she is,” Liv said instead. “If you pay attention.”

Anna chuckled. “Careful. People who think they can read Rhea either end up promoted or fired. Sometimes both.”

“Good odds,” Liv said lightly. “Keeps things exciting.”

“That’s one word for it,” Anna said wryly. “Okay, I’ll stop mother-henning you. Get some rest. Hydrate. Bring your A-game tomorrow and remember: if Legal tries to intimidate you, remind them you’re not signing anything without your own counsel.”

Liv snorted. “You know that’s the kind of line I’d actually use, right?”

“That’s why I like you,” Anna said. “Text me after the panel. And Liv?”

“Yeah?”

“If they’re calling you back this fast, Rhea’s interested. That doesn’t happen often. Don’t talk yourself out of believing it.”

The words buzzed pleasantly in Liv’s chest long after they hung up.

Interested.

The word shouldn’t have made her heart do the thing it just did. Interested could mean a hundred things. Interested in her experience. Interested in her track record. Interested in whether she’d crack under pressure.

Not…the other interested that was plaguing Liv's brain.

She tossed the phone toward the bed, and figured she should lay down herself. She walked toward the bed and let herself flop backward for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The cheap white paint had a faint crack running diagonally over the light fixture, splitting the surface in two.

“Stop being ridiculous,” she told it. “This is work.”

Her laptop chimed again catching her attention, but it was just a notification from Zara. But her mind wouldn't escape the trap it set itself in, so she rolled out of bed, curiosity tugging her back to the desk chair. Once seated, she scooted forward, opened her laptop and opened a browser.

If she was going to face down a panel tomorrow—and possibly a surprise CEO drop-in—she wanted every scrap of context she could find.

She typed “Rhea Ripley Nightmare Industries” into the search bar and hit enter.

The results were…extensive.

Articles from financial outlets, tech blogs, leadership magazines. Grainy conference photos where Rhea stood on stage, silhouetted against glowing slides. Interviews where she talked about cybersecurity, AI ethics, data privacy. Quotes about building resilient systems and refusing to compromise on integrity.

Liv clicked through, scanning headlines.

The Woman Behind Nightmare: How Rhea Ripley Built a Tech Titan.

From Adelaide to the World: Nightmare Industries’ Reluctant Visionary.

Ripley on Risk: “If You’re Comfortable, You’re Not Really Innovating.”

Reluctant visionary, Liv thought, amused. That tracked.

She skimmed a few pull quotes, searching for something beyond the polished soundbites.

“I don’t need people to agree with me,” Ripley said. “I need them to be honest with me. If everyone in the room thinks I’m right, I question whether I brought the right people into the room.”

That made Liv smile.

Another article talked about her upbringing—working-class family, scholarship to university, early years in a failing company she’d later turn around. There was a photo of her at some awards gala, sharp jawline, black suit, expression somewhere between bored and impatient.

Liv’s cursor hovered over the image.

She looked younger in the picture. Less guarded. But there was still that same intensity, that same sense of someone who’d decided, a long time ago, that she’d never be the one knocked off balance.

She sat back, then opened another tab almost without thinking.

If the media version of Rhea was this controlled, maybe her social media was less so.

Instagram seemed like the safest bet. She typed in the handle she’d seen mentioned in one of the articles—@rhea.ripley.nightmare—and waited for the profile to load.

Private.

Of course.

But the handle had a blue check and a tiny circular profile picture that matched what Liv remembered—a close-up, half-shadowed, strong lines and dark eyes. The bio read:

CEO @ Nightmare Industries

Adelaide | Everywhere

Building systems that don’t break

Not your motivational speaker.

Liv snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

She hit follow before she could talk herself out of it, then immediately wondered if that was weird. Too premature. Too…something.

Relax, she told herself. Executives followed each other all the time. It was networking, not flirting.

She backed out and searched her name again, this time with different filters. LinkedIn, obviously. Nightmare’s corporate site, where Rhea’s headshot was aligned with the rest of the board and executive team. A few candid shots from industry events—panel discussions, keynotes.

But nothing genuinely personal. No vacation photos. No random pictures of coffee or pets. No blurry night-out shots like the ones cluttering Liv’s own feed from years ago.

She switched to X.

@RheaR_Nightmare

This one wasn’t private. But it wasn’t exactly personal, either. Retweets of research papers, commentary on regulation changes, the occasional dry joke at the expense of grandstanding politicians who didn’t understand tech.

Still, it was…something.

Three weeks ago:

If you’re building something that could change how people live, maybe don’t treat security like a “nice to have.”

Eight months before that:

“Move fast and break things” is how you end up explaining to Parliament why you leaked half the country’s medical records.

Liv scrolled, reading between the lines. The tweets were sharp. Witty. Occasionally brutal. Beneath the professional distance was a pulse of someone who cared deeply about the impact of what they were building.

She liked that.

She caught herself, fingers hovering over the like button on one tweet, and pulled back.

Now doing that would be too much, too soon.

Besides, if things went well, she’d be working under this woman. The power imbalance alone was enough to slam the brakes on whatever weird flutter her brain kept trying to make out of nothing.

Still, the question lingered: Who was Rhea when she wasn’t the CEO? When she wasn’t on stage or in boardrooms or perched on the edge of her desk staring down potential hires?

Was there someone she laughed with? Someone who saw past the armor, past the iron control?

Liv shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought.

Don’t go there.

She clicked over to Nightmare’s official Instagram instead, scrolling through product announcements, glossy videos, behind-the-scenes shots of the Adelaide headquarters. A few frames included Rhea at a distance—talking to engineers, passing through open-plan spaces, caught mid-conversation with some government official.

In none of them was she smiling widely, but there were small, softer expressions. A faint quirk at the corner of her mouth as she listened to someone present. An almost fond look aimed at a group of interns who were clustered around a whiteboard.

Liv lingered on that last one.

You’re not as unreadable as you think you are, she thought, echoing her own words from earlier.

She closed the laptop gently, the lid clicking shut with quiet finality.

Enough. She had what she needed: confirmation that Rhea was as controlled publicly as she was in person, with just enough edges to keep people guessing.

She stood, stretching until her spine popped, and moved toward the small closet where she’d hung the rest of her clothes. She ran her fingers along the row of dresses and blouses, eyes landing on a charcoal sheath dress with sharp lines and a high neckline.

Business formal, the email had said.

She pulled it out, held it against herself in the mirror, and imagined walking into Conference Room 3A tomorrow morning. Four executives. One long table. Possibly a surprise CEO ghosting in late.

She could picture it almost too clearly—the way eyes would flick to her as she entered, the quick mental calculations as they measured her against whatever expectations they’d built from her resume and Anna’s recommendation.

Good, she thought. Let them underestimate me.

She hooked the dress on the outside of the closet door for easy access, then flicked on the kettle on the small counter. Tea, a hot shower, and at least seven hours of sleep. That was the plan.

Except when she finally crawled into bed, lights off, curtains pulled half-closed against the city’s glow, her mind refused to obey.

It replayed the interview in fragmented scenes, like a highlight reel she hadn’t asked for.

Rhea’s voice: low, controlled. What makes you think you can handle me?

The way she’d gone still when Liv said, I’m not afraid of you.

The moment their eyes had locked and the room had narrowed to just the two of them, everything else falling away.

Liv turned onto her side, then onto her back, then onto her other side. The sheets rustled. The air conditioner hummed. A distant car horn blared, then faded.

This is work, she reminded herself again.

But underneath that, like a stubborn bass line she couldn’t shake, another thought thrummed:

It might not always feel like just work.

She exhaled, long and slow, and finally closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, there would be a panel, tough questions, maybe a glimpse of Rhea at the far end of a conference table, face unreadable. Tomorrow, she’d prove she belonged in this arena, that she wasn’t just a gamble but an asset.

Tonight, all she could do was rest.

As she drifted, the last clear image in her mind wasn’t the email, or the panel, or the risk register she’d probably be dissecting if she had another hour of focus in her.

It was Rhea, leaning back against her desk, arms folded, eyes sharp and unexpectedly intrigued.

Like she’d found something in Liv she hadn’t been looking for—but wasn’t quite ready to let go of, either.

Chapter Text

Liv

Nightmare Industries looked different in daylight.

Yesterday, from behind Rhea Ripley’s office glass, Adelaide had been a painted backdrop. This morning, as Liv stepped out of the taxi and stared up at the steel and glass façade of Nightmare’s headquarters, the building felt like something alive, reflecting the pale blue sky, catching the sharp Australian sun along its edges.

Okay, she told herself, fingers tightening around the handle of her bag. There's a four person panel. With legal. And finance. You know this language. You’re here because you belong here.

The lobby was bright and deliberate. Sleek white floors, a ceiling that seemed higher than it needed to be, an abstract metal sculpture in the center that looked like intersecting lines of code turned physical. The Nightmare Industries logo, black and red glowed from behind the reception desk.

Liv checked the time. 8:51 a.m.

Right on schedule.

She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, smoothed the front of her charcoal dress, and approached the reception desk with the easy, practiced smile she reserved for professional settings.

“Hi, I'm Olivia Morgan I have an interview at nine o’clock,”she said. “I should be on the schedule.”

The receptionist tapped quickly on her keyboard, then looked up with a bright, corporate-friendly smile. “Yes, Ms. Morgan. We’ve been expecting you. You have a panel interview with legal and finance for Project X, correct?”

“That’s the one,” Liv said.

“Great. They’re already in Conference Room 3A getting set up.” The receptionist slid a branded visitor badge across the counter. “If you’ll clip this on, I’ll buzz you through. Take the elevator to the third floor, turn left, and follow the signs to Conference Rooms A through D. 3A is at the end of the corridor.”

Liv clipped the badge to her dress, thanked her, and headed through the security gate as it slid open with a soft beep.

In the elevator, she was alone. The doors shut with a quiet hiss, and her reflection stared back at her from the brushed metal walls: hair neatly smoothed, makeup subtle, expression composed.

Inside her bag, her notepad and pen sat ready. On the first page, she’d already written down key terms and questions:

Regulatory timeline

ASX listing requirements

Risk ownership post-Anna

Interdepartmental communication structures

Below that, a smaller list of questions she wanted to ask them—not the stuff they expected candidates to parrot, but the things you only learned from people in the trenches:

Biggest surprise so far with X?

What type of cases or deals are new associates typically assigned?

How does the firm stay competitive in its market with Project X?

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open onto the third floor.

The atmosphere was different here—quieter, more contained. The corridor was lined with glass walls and doors, each etched with “Nightmare Industries” in that familiar red bold font. Through the glass, she glimpsed meeting rooms, whiteboards dense with diagrams, a few early-rising employees hunched over laptops.

She followed the signs until she reached Conference Room 3A.

The door was solid, but the narrow vertical window set into it gave her a glimpse inside.

Long silver table. Black folders spaced evenly across it. Five black office chairs that were pushed in neatly, with a sixth chair positioned at the head of the table. The red Nightmare logo stark on the folder covers.

Four people were already seated, talking quietly.

Liv inhaled once, rolled her shoulders back, and knocked.

“Come in,” a male voice called.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

Up close, the room felt bigger than it looked from the hallway. The far wall was all glass, offering a sweep of the city. Opposite that, a large screen was currently dormant, a faint Nightmare logo ghosted in the center.

Four pairs of eyes turned to her.

“Ms. Morgan,” the man closest to the door said, rising to his feet. He was in his late forties, hair trimmed close, suit precise. “Good morning. I’m Adam Daughtry, Senior Legal Counsel.”

He extended his hand. His grip was firm, nothing performative.

“Good morning,” Liv said, shaking it. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He nodded toward the man beside him, who had a slightly softer look but sharp eyes behind his glasses. “This is George Johnson, also Senior Legal Counsel.”

“A pleasure,” George said, shaking her hand in turn. “We’ve heard a lot about you from Anna.”

“Only the good bits, I hope,” Liv replied lightly.

“Mostly,” he said, mouth twitching. “We’ll see if she undersold you.”

Across the table, a woman with dark, shoulder-length hair and an impeccably tailored navy suit smiled. “I’m Sarah Lincoln, VP of Finance. And this—” she nodded to the man beside her, who had a neat beard and kind eyes “—is Jose Gonzalez, Head of Financial Planning and Analysis.”

Jose stood, giving Liv a warm handshake. “Nice to finally put a face to the resume.”

Liv set her bag down on the chair they indicated at the end of the table and took the seat, pulling out her notepad and pen. One of the black folders lay in front of her, identical to the others. Her name was printed on a white label at the top.

Professional. Efficient.

“We appreciate you making the trip,” Sarah said, folding her hands neatly on the table. “We know this was short notice.”

“I appreciate the opportunity,” Liv said. “And the timing worked out. My current projects are at a stable point for me to be away briefly.”

Adam nodded. “Well, let’s dive in. You’re here because Project X is at a critical juncture. Anna has been our anchor through the planning phases, but with her leave approaching, we need to be sure anyone stepping into her role understands both the legal and financial complexity of what we’re doing.”

George nudged the folder toward Liv. “If you open that, you’ll see a condensed version of the current state. Milestones, key risks, dependency paths. Nothing you haven’t seen in other forms, I’m sure, but adjusted for our little monster.”

“Monster is an affectionate term here,” Jose added with a grin. “We promise.”

Liv flipped the folder open.

The layout was clean: timeline on the first page, Gantt chart style. She recognized some of the dates Anna had mentioned in their earlier exchanges. Due diligence completion. Prospectus finalization. Roadshow windows. ASX listing target.

Behind that, there were sections on regulatory obligations, risk registers, capital structure, and governance.

They weren’t kidding. This was dense.

She loved it.

Adam started them off with regulatory questions.

“What’s your understanding of the continuous disclosure obligations we’ll have once we list?” he asked, setting the tone early.

Liv didn’t look up from the folder; she’d already internalized this weeks ago, but it helped to ground her.

“Once listed, Nightmare will be subject to ASX Listing Rule 3.1,” she said. “You’ll be obligated to immediately disclose to the market any information that a reasonable person would expect to have a material effect on the price or value of your securities, unless an exception applies, such as the information being confidential, incomplete, or related to an internal decision that hasn’t yet been made public.”

Adam’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “And what’s the risk if we misjudge what counts as ‘material’?”

“You don’t just get slapped on the wrist,” Liv replied. “You risk regulatory action, reputational damage, and potential class actions from shareholders who argue they traded without access to information they should’ve had. So the internal controls around identifying, escalating, and assessing information for disclosure need to be tight. Clear thresholds, defined responsibilities, and no black boxes.”

George leaned forward. “How would you handle a business unit lead who resists escalating bad news, worried it might derail their metrics or bonus?”

Liv didn’t hesitate. “By making it clear that hiding information is the fastest way to lose my trust and their job. But also by making sure the culture backs that up. If we only punish bad outcomes and never reward timely escalation, people will bury issues. So we build in incentives that recognize ‘I raised this early’ as a positive, not a career-killer.”

Jose scribbled something down in his notebook.

They shifted to financial structure.

“Walk us through how you’d explain our capital raising strategy to a skeptical potential investor,” Sarah said, tapping a page that outlined projected proceeds and use of funds.

Liv scanned it, then sat back slightly. “I’d start by aligning the numbers with the story,” she said. “You’re not just raising for the sake of raising. You’re funding specific growth levers: expanding cloud infrastructure, accelerating AI product development, and building out your consumer offerings. I’d highlight your current revenue mix, then show how this capital gets you from here to the next phase of your roadmap. If they’re skeptical about dilution, I’d frame it as a trade: short-term dilution for long-term value accretion, backed by concrete milestones, not vague promises.”

“And your view on conservative versus aggressive forward guidance?” Jose asked.

“Realistic,” Liv said. “Slightly conservative externally, ambitious internally. If we overpromise and underdeliver in year one as a public company, the market will punish us and it’ll be hard to rebuild that trust. Better to set guidance we’re confident in, then beat it, while driving the teams harder behind the scenes.”

They fired questions at her for what felt like an hour but was probably less.

Legal ran scenarios involving data breaches mid-roadshow. Unexpected regulatory inquiries. The nuances of cross-border data transfer compliance. Finance pressed her on cash burn, margin expectations, scenario modeling if the market cooled right as they went out.

Liv wrote notes as they talked, occasionally flipping back a page to cross-reference something. She didn’t try to impress them with jargon; she used it when necessary, but always circled back to simple, clear language.

Internally, a part of her was quietly exhilarated. This.. this kind of conversation was oxygen. Complex, high stakes, threaded with risk and possibility.

At some point, she noticed the shift.

The way Adam stopped looking at her like she was being tested and started looking at her like she was already sitting at their side of the table. The way Sarah nodded along with a small grin when Liv articulated a point she’d clearly been hoping to hear.

George glanced at Jose once when she mentioned implementing a “no surprises” weekly risk review, and nodded, as if confirming something between them.

After one particularly thorny hypothetical about a major partner threatening to walk right before pricing, Sarah leaned back and let out a low whistle.

“Not bad, Ms. Morgan,” she said. “You’ve actually thought this through.”

“I’d be worried if she hadn’t,” Adam said, but there was a hint of something like approval in his tone now. “Anna was right. You do understand the landscape.”

Liv felt warmth flicker under her sternum. She kept her smile measured. “I’ve been through similar cycles before,” she said. “Smaller scale, different markets. But the patterns rhyme. The stakes are higher here, but so is the reward.”

“Ambitious,” George murmured, but it sounded like a compliment.

They moved into her questions next.

“You mentioned in the folder that the biggest unknown is regulatory reaction to your AI products,” Liv said, flipping back to one of the early pages. “What keeps you up more—home jurisdiction scrutiny, or international?”

“International,” Adam said immediately. “Home regulators understand us. Overseas regulators see ‘Nightmare Industries’ and assume we’re hacking the planet.”

“That’s a branding conversation for another day,” Sarah muttered.

Liv grinned, then sobered. “So that’s where we build redundancy into timelines,” she said. “Prepare for slower approvals in markets where we’re misunderstood. Line up advocates early. Don’t bet the entire narrative on jurisdictions we don’t fully control yet.”

She asked them about internal bottlenecks. Where Anna spent the most time smoothing friction. Where they felt exposed. What they wished stakeholders understood better about X.

By the time the questions petered out, the black folders were a mess of sticky notes and underlined phrases. Her notepad was half full.

Adam checked his watch, then glanced around the table. “I think that covers our formal agenda,” he said. “Any final questions from our side?”

No one spoke up.

He turned to Liv. “And from you? Anything we haven’t touched on that you think we should have?”

Liv considered.

“Yes,” she said. “Just one.”

Four heads angled toward her.

“If I step into this role,” she said slowly, “what does success look like six months after listing? Not the PR version. The version you’d talk about in a closed-door meeting.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched. “Good question,” she murmured.

Jose spoke first. “For me, success is us having hit or exceeded the guidance we set, with no major financial restatements, surprises, or public embarrassments,” he said. “And a finance team that’s tired but not broken.”

“Legal?” Liv asked, turning slightly.

Adam smiled thinly. “Success is getting through six months without a major regulatory investigation or shareholder action,” he said. “Minor inquiries are fine. They’re expected. But I don’t want to be on the front page because we missed something obvious.”

George nodded. “And success is also cultural,” he added. “We want project teams that trust us enough to bring us in early, instead of treating Legal like the department of ‘no.’ If Anna’s replacement can help reinforce that, we’ll be in much better shape.”

Liv nodded, absorbing it all. “Thank you,” she said honestly. “That’s helpful.”

Adam closed his folder with a decisive thump. “In that case,” he said, standing, “I think we can wrap up the formal portion. Ms. Morgan, this has been…productive.”

As the others rose as well, Sarah glanced at her watch. “Do you have something planned afterwards?” she asked Liv. “Or do you have time?”

“I’m flexible,” Liv said, standing and tucking her notepad back into her bag. “I didn’t schedule anything else this morning.”

“Good,” Jose said. “We’d be happy to give you a quick tour of the headquarters, if you’re interested. It’s one thing to talk about the company in a vacuum, but it’s another to see where everything actually happens.”

“Absolutely,” Liv said, genuine interest sparking. “I’d love that.”

They were all on their feet now, chairs rolling back, the energy loosening into something less formal. Adam reached across the table to shake her hand again.

“Well done,” he said quietly as their hands met. “Not many people can speak both legal and finance without tripping over one or the other.”

“Thank you,” Liv said. “I’ve had good teachers. And I ask annoying questions.”

“That helps,” he said.

George took his turn, then Sarah, then Jose—each handshake accompanied by a small nod or an approving look that said more than their polite words.

Liv’s pulse was steady now, a low thrum of adrenaline settling into something calmer.

She’d done well. She knew it. Whether it was enough, that was out of her hands, but she’d shown them who she was.

“Let us just coordinate with—”

The door opened.

The conversation stopped as if someone had hit mute.

Liv turned.

Rhea Ripley stepped into the conference room like she’d already owned the air in it.

Today, she wore a black suit with a fitted jacket, the sharp lines balancing the strength of her frame. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple, severe style that made her cheekbones more pronounced. The only color on her was the faint, deep red of her lipstick and the glint of silver at her wrist.

For a beat, no one spoke.

“Ms. Ripley,” George said finally, straightening almost reflexively. “We were just wrapping up with Ms. Morgan. The panel’s concluded. We were about to give her a brief tour of headquarters, if time permits.”

Rhea’s eyes flicked over the table, the open folders, the scattered notes, the pushed-back chairs, then landed on Liv.

Where yesterday there had been evaluation and curiosity, today there was something steadier. Assessing, yes. But also…aware.

“Is that so,” she said, her voice calm.

“Yes,” Sarah added. “We thought it might be helpful. Get her acquainted with the layout, the teams, the general—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rhea said smoothly.

Four heads turned toward her in near unison.

Jose blinked. “Ma’am?”

Rhea stepped fully into the room now, letting the door swing shut behind her with a soft click. She didn’t move to the table; instead, she stood at the head of it, where the sixth chair sat unused, her presence filling the space.

“I’ll take it from here,” she said. “You’ve all got enough on your plates without playing tour guide.”

Adam’s brows rose, just barely. Sarah’s eyes widened, then smoothed. George glanced at Liv, then quickly back at Rhea. Jose looked like he was trying not to show his surprise at all.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Liv could feel it in the sudden, charged silence.

Apparently, CEOs of multi-million-dollar corporations did not, as a rule, personally shepherd potential hires around the building.

“I—of course,” Adam said after a moment, recovering first. “We’ll compare notes and send you a summary of our impressions, Ms. Ripley.”

“Do that,” Rhea said, her gaze not leaving Liv’s. “Today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

Sarah closed her folder with a soft thud. “It was a pleasure, Ms. Morgan,” she said, turning to Liv with a professional smile that didn’t entirely hide her curiosity. “We’ll…be in touch.”

“Likewise,” Liv replied, managing to keep her voice even.

The legal and finance executives filed out, one by one, offering Liv small nods as they passed. The door opened, closed, opened again—until, finally, it shut behind Jose.

Leaving the room quiet.

Leaving Liv alone with Rhea.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the faint hum of the building’s ventilation system and the softened city noise leaking through the glass.

Liv swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of her own heartbeat.

Rhea regarded her for another moment, then moved, walking along the length of the table with unhurried steps. The tailored lines of her suit shifted with her, smooth and controlled. She stopped opposite Liv, on the other side of the silver surface.

“You impressed them,” she said, as if commenting on the weather.

Liv’s fingers curled lightly around the back of her chair. “I hope so,” she said.

“You did,” Rhea said. “They’re not easy to win over. Particularly not legal.”

“Adam and George were fair,” Liv replied. “Demanding, but fair.”

“High praise,” Rhea said dryly. “They’ll put that on their team plaque.”

Liv’s lips twitched. “I’ll try not to let it go to their heads.”

For the first time, something like a hint of amusement ghosted across Rhea’s face. It softened her just enough to make Liv’s stomach flip.

“I noticed you came armed,” Rhea said, nodding at the notepad peeking out of Liv’s bag. “Questions. Notes.”

“I like to understand what I’m walking into,” Liv said. “And I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time asking things I could get from a brochure.”

“Good,” Rhea said, approving. “I don’t do well with wasted time either.”

Somehow, that didn’t feel like a statement. Just a fact.

Rhea straightened, slipping her hands into the pockets of her trousers.

“You’ve seen us from the inside of two conference rooms now,” she said. “But that’s not where the interesting things happen.”

Liv tilted her head slightly. “No?”

“No,” Rhea said. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

It took Liv a second to process the words.

“You’re…giving me the tour?” she asked, unable to keep a thin ribbon of surprise from her voice.

“Yes,” Rhea replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re trying to decide if you want to bet your next few months on this place. I think I can spare half an hour to show you what you’d be betting on.”

The explanation was reasonable. Practical, even.

It did nothing to quiet the hum under Liv’s skin.

“Okay,” she said, grabbing her bag and slipping her notepad fully inside. “I’d like that.”

Rhea nodded once, then moved toward the door. She held it open, and Liv stepped past her into the hallway, feeling the familiar charge of proximity skitter along her nerves.

The corridor was busy now, more people flowing through it than when she’d arrived. Conversations drifted in fragments, a mix of accents and technical terms. Screens on the walls displayed rotating data dashboards and internal announcements.

“Third floor is mostly meeting and multi-purpose space,” Rhea said as they walked. “We use it to keep people from making the same excuse about not being able to find rooms.”

“Makes sense,” Liv said, matching her pace. “What’s on four?”

“Engineering,” Rhea said. “Core infrastructure. They’ll tell you they run the building. They’re not entirely wrong.”

They reached the elevator bank. Rhea pressed the button, and the doors slid open almost immediately, as if the building itself had been waiting for her.

They stepped inside.

It was just them again. The doors closed.

Liv felt the shift in the air—contained, close, inevitable.

In the small mirrored panel above the buttons, she could see both their reflections. Rhea taller, composed, gaze forward. Liv smaller beside her, eyes sharp, trying not to stare.

“What did you think?” Rhea asked suddenly.

“Of the panel?” Liv said.

“Of Nightmare,” Rhea said. “Of what you’ve seen so far.”

Liv considered her answer. This, she knew, wasn’t a question to be navigated with corporate fluff.

“It’s…intense,” she said honestly. “Focused. There’s a sense of controlled chaos. Like a launchpad mid-countdown.”

Rhea’s mouth curved just slightly. “And that doesn’t scare you off.”

“It would if it felt sloppy,” Liv said. “But it doesn’t. There are risks, sure. Unknowns. But the people here understand that. They’re not pretending this is easy, and that’s reassuring.”

Rhea studied her reflection instead of her directly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Most people say something about the brand first,” she said. “About the logo, the name, the ‘cool factor.’”

“It is cool,” Liv said. “But cool doesn’t get you through a listing intact. Systems do. People do.”

The elevator chimed and the doors opened onto a different floor, a buzzier one. Rows of workstations. Standing desks. Screens filled with dashboards, lines of code, UI mockups.

“Engineering,” Rhea said. “And a few adjacent teams.”

They stepped out, and the noise washed over them, fingers on keyboards, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter quickly muted when people noticed who was walking past.

A few heads turned. Some employees straightened instinctively. One younger engineer did a double-take, clearly recognizing Rhea first and then clocking Liv beside her with open curiosity.

Rhea nodded briefly to those who met her eye, not stopping.

Liv noticed the way the room seemed to naturally part for her, like she had a gravitational field.

“This is where the backbone of our products lives,” Rhea said. “If you take this role, you’ll spend a lot of time making sure what they build and what we promise the market stay aligned.”

“I like the way you said ‘what we promise,’” Liv said. “Not ‘what Legal promises’ or ‘what Comms promises.’ It’s everyone’s problem.”

Rhea glanced sideways at her. “Responsibility diffused is responsibility forgotten,” she said. “If everyone owns it, no one does. I’m not interested in that.”

They moved through the space, Rhea pointing out clusters of teams, infra, security, platform. Liv listened, asked targeted questions here and there, but mostly watched.

Watched how people behaved when Rhea approached. Watched how Rhea’s gaze lingered on someone’s screen for just a second longer, noticed a bug ticket count or a failed deployment.

Watched how she never raised her voice, but left behind a wake of sharpened focus.

At one point, they paused by a glass wall covered in sticky notes and marker scribbles, some kind of future roadmap.

“This is one of the consumer product teams,” Rhea said. “Not strictly X-related yet, but they will be. Retail investors love a story they can hold in their hands.”

Liv scanned the notes. There, in a corner, someone had drawn a crude, grinning ghost with “Nightmare, but friendly” written underneath.

She smiled. “Your branding is having an identity crisis.”

Rhea followed her gaze. For the briefest moment, her lips quirked into something close to an actual smile.

“Better that than an ethics crisis,” she said.

“Agreed,” Liv replied.

They continued, eventually circling back toward another elevator bank that would take them to the executive floors.

As they walked, Liv realized something:

This wasn’t just about showing off the building.

Rhea was watching her the whole time. Not in an obvious way, her gaze was mostly forward, on the teams, the pace of the floor, but every time Liv commented on something, asked a question, or reacted to a detail, she felt it register.

This tour was another interview. Just quieter.

Good, she thought. Two can play at that game.

When they finally stepped into another elevator, this one sleeker, with darker paneling, Liv felt the morning settle in her bones, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.

“Why me?” she asked suddenly, before she could second-guess herself.

Rhea glanced at her. “Excuse me?”

“You have options,” Liv said, keeping her tone even. “Internal candidates. External ones. You could’ve easily let legal and finance handle this part of the process. Instead, you’re here. Giving me a tour. Making time you’ve already said you don’t like to waste. So…why me?”

The question hung between them.

For a heartbeat, she thought she’d overstepped.

Then Rhea looked away from the elevator doors and fully at her.

“Because Anna doesn’t vouch for people lightly,” she said. “Because your track record suggests you can walk into chaos and find structure without killing the momentum that makes it worth it. Because you sat in my office yesterday and didn’t try to charm me with buzzwords or flattery.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“And because when I asked what makes you think you can handle me, you didn’t flinch,” she added. “Most people do. Or they laugh too loudly and prove they can’t.”

Liv held her stare. “You say that like it’s a test you were expecting me to fail.”

“It’s a test I expect most people to fail,” Rhea said. “Which is why most of them don’t make it to a panel interview.”

The elevator chimed again. The doors opened onto the high-floor corridor she recognized from yesterday.

They didn’t step out immediately.

For a moment, they just stood there, hovering between floors, between roles, between decisions that hadn’t yet been made.

Then Rhea shifted, breaking the moment.

“Come on,” she said, stepping into the corridor. “There’s one last view you should see before we decide whether we’re going to throw you into the deep end.”

We, Liv noted, her pulse picking up again.

Not we’ll let HR decide.

We.

She followed, the click of her heels echoing softly on the polished floor, acutely aware that whatever happened next, this was no longer just another interview at just another company.

This was something else.

A door ahead bore no label beyond a discreet Nightmare logo, smaller than the others. Rhea keyed it open with her badge.

As the lock clicked free, Liv had the sudden, bone-deep sense that she was standing on the threshold of more than just a room.