The subway rumbled under Vanic's feet, the car swaying just enough to make his headache worse. He stared at his reflection in the scratched window — pale face, red-rimmed eyes, collar still too tight around his neck.
He could still hear Lorenzo's voice, crisp and cool, echoing in the hollow spaces behind his ribs.
One simple thing.
Don't waste my time.
The words clung to him like the stale scent of the office coffee. He imagined them sinking into his skin, branding him: Useless. Incompetent.
When the train lurched to a stop at Queensboro Plaza, Vanic nearly missed it. He stumbled out, the door hissing shut behind him like a sigh of relief. He wondered if he'd ever step onto that train again feeling like someone who deserved to be there.
Benthy was waiting on his stoop.
She sat cross-legged on the top step, chewing a stick of gum like she was about to punch someone in the mouth — which, knowing Benthy, she probably was. Her phone balanced on her knee, blaring tinny music that stopped as soon as she saw him.
"Took you long enough," she said. Her eyes narrowed. "You look like hell."
Vanic didn't even have the strength to protest. "It was a bad day."
She popped her gum, pushed herself up, and grabbed his bag before he could. "You're staying at my place tonight."
"Benthy—"
"Nope. No arguments." She jerked her chin toward the building's door. "You're gonna pack pajamas, your laptop if you must, and that's it. We're ordering greasy food and watching trash TV until you forget the name Atlas."
He laughed, but it came out flat. "I can't. I have to—"
She turned on him so fast he flinched. "Vanic. Look at me."
He did. Her eyes softened, but only a little. "You're not a robot. You're not his punching bag. You're my best friend, and you're gonna come eat noodles and yell at reality TV with me, or I swear to God I will drag you by your hair."
She meant it.
He felt the fight drain out of him. "Okay," he murmured. "Okay."
Benthy's tiny apartment smelled like leftover takeout and lavender candles. She tossed him a pair of plaid pajama pants that had to be her brother's, shoved a bowl of microwaved instant noodles into his hands, and plopped down beside him on the battered couch.
They watched two episodes of a terrible dating show before she paused it, her eyes flicking to him.
"You gonna tell me what he did?"
Vanic poked at his noodles. "He… didn't do anything."
Benthy made a disgusted noise. "Don't lie. You look like you cried for an hour."
He flinched, and she caught it immediately. Her jaw tightened.
"He yelled at you?"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, Van."
He put the bowl down, suddenly queasy. "I messed up. He told me not to make mistakes, and I did. That's my fault."
She stared at him like he'd just confessed to murder. "You think that means he gets to tear you apart in front of everyone?"
He shrugged. He didn't know what to say. Maybe he did deserve it.
Benthy grabbed his hand, squeezing his cold fingers in her warm ones. "Promise me something."
"Not this again."
"Promise me you won't let him make you feel small."
Vanic managed a tired smile. "I'm not sure I have a choice."
Benthy's eyes flashed. "If he ever crosses a line, you tell me. I don't care if he's a billionaire. I'll key his stupid sports car and throw a brick through his glass tower."
He laughed, for real this time, and Benthy leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I mean it, Van. He's not allowed to break you."
Much later, after she'd fallen asleep on the couch beside him, Vanic slipped away to call his mother. He needed her voice the way other people needed sleep or food.
Beatrice picked up on the second ring.
"Vanic. Are you okay? It's late."
He sank to the floor by Benthy's coffee table, curling his knees up to his chest. "Yeah. I'm with Benthy. Just… wanted to hear your voice."
Her tone shifted — softer, worried. "Long day, sweetheart?"
He closed his eyes. "Yeah."
"Your boss?"
Vanic hesitated. He didn't want to worry her more than she already did. But Beatrice Rov knew him too well.
"He was… hard on me," he admitted.
Her breath crackled through the speaker. "You listen to me, Vanic Rov. No man — no matter how rich or important — gets to decide your worth. Do you understand me?"
He swallowed, voice small. "Yes, Mama."
"You're smart. You're good. And you don't let anyone take that from you. Not even him."
"Okay."
She paused, then softened. "I'm proud of you. Even when you're scared. Especially when you're scared."
He felt his throat close. "I love you."
"I love you more. Now get some sleep."
Back in Manhattan, Lorenzo Atlas didn't sleep.
He rarely did — not more than a few hours here and there, drifting on the edge of exhaustion and sharp clarity. He liked it that way. Sleep left too much room for thoughts he couldn't control.
He sat alone in his penthouse office, city lights sprawling beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows like a galaxy at his feet. A glass of untouched whiskey sat on the desk. His phone glowed with messages he ignored.
Cole had texted an hour ago: Come out tonight. You're turning into a ghost.
Lorenzo hadn't replied. He didn't want to see Cole's stupid grin tonight, didn't want to drown himself in faceless warmth that wouldn't stick. Instead, his mind kept replaying the look on Vanic Rov's face — wide eyes, the way his mouth trembled when Lorenzo raised his voice.
He'd seen that look a thousand times in a thousand different employees. Usually it bored him. Or worse, satisfied him — a reminder of his control, his power.
But this one lingered. The innocence of it. The way Vanic's throat bobbed when he swallowed his apology. The way he hadn't tried to argue, only stood there and took it.
He should've felt satisfied. But all Lorenzo felt was an unfamiliar irritation — a hairline fracture in the armor he'd built around himself.
He hated it.
He pushed up from his desk, glass untouched, and stared out at the city that bowed to him by daylight but swallowed him whole by night.
Weakness, he told himself.
That's what softness was. What innocence was. A hook begging for teeth.
He'd built an empire on refusing softness.
So why the hell did he keep thinking of a boy with green eyes and shaking hands, alone on the other side of his glass walls?