The headquarters of Aurelio International towered over Florence like a black mirror—sleek, silent, and unnervingly perfect. As Rihanna stepped out of the sleek company car, she couldn't help but pause and take it in. The building was beautiful in a cold, intimidating way. Like a palace made of glass and secrets.
She walked through the automated doors, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The lobby was vast—tall ceilings, minimalistic décor, and an atmosphere too sterile to feel warm. The receptionist smiled when she approached, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Rihanna Thompson. First day," Rihanna offered, clutching her handbag tightly.
The woman scanned her screen and nodded. "You're expected. Top floor. Elevator to the right."
"Thanks."
As she entered the elevator alone, Rihanna took a deep breath. The doors slid shut with a soft chime, and the silence inside felt heavier than it should've.
Aurelio Headquarters — Top Floor
The elevator opened to an open-concept workspace lined with glass partitions and well-dressed professionals typing in silence. Every step Rihanna took was met with glances—some curious, some indifferent, some cold. She smiled softly, offering polite nods.
No one smiled back.
A man passed her and muttered something in Italian under his breath. She couldn't catch it, but his glance lingered too long. Another woman near the coffee bar paused mid-sip and whispered to her colleague, both looking directly at her.
Was she being paranoid?
She approached the main reception desk where a tall assistant with dark lipstick and a tight bun waited.
"Rihanna Thompson," she said again, trying not to let her voice waver.
"Yes. You're assigned to Floor Director Russo. You'll be briefed before the orientation."
"Russo?"
The assistant tapped her earpiece and responded dryly, "Bianca Russo. You'll meet her shortly."
The name echoed in her ears like something important. Like she should remember it.
The assistant gestured. "Meeting room three. Wait there. Someone will escort you."
Meeting Room Three
The room was empty and silent, save for a small glass of water on the table. Rihanna sat and stared out the window at Florence's skyline. It looked soft from up here. Too far away to be real.
She tried to shake the discomfort from earlier. Maybe the employees weren't cold. Maybe they were just focused. Professional. That was common in high-end corporations, right?
She checked her reflection in the glass. Straightened her shirt. Adjusted her blazer. She still looked like the girl from her small hometown pretending to belong here.
And then she heard it—heels clicking down the hallway, calm and deliberate.
The door opened.
And in walked a woman so perfectly composed, it made Rihanna instinctively sit straighter.
Bianca Russo.
Dressed in a fitted white blouse and black high-waisted trousers, she moved like she didn't need to command a room—she already owned it. Her hair was twisted into an elegant knot. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, flicked over Rihanna with a smile so flawless it almost hurt to look at.
"You must be our Miss Thompson," Bianca said, voice silky but cold.
"Yes," Rihanna stood, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you."
Bianca didn't take it. Instead, she stepped closer, tilting her head slightly, as if studying a painting.
"I've read your profile," she said. "Quite a jump—from a local Indian firm to one of Italy's finest. But bold moves are always... interesting."
Rihanna lowered her hand slowly. "I'm grateful for the opportunity."
"Oh, we chose you for a reason." Bianca smiled again—calculated, pristine. "We like ambition here. Especially the kind that doesn't ask too many questions."
Before Rihanna could respond, Bianca turned toward the door.
"Orientation begins in twenty minutes. I suggest you get comfortable, Miss Thompson. You'll be working closely with some... important people."
As the door closed behind her, Rihanna was left in silence again.
But this time, the silence felt heavier. As if it were warning her.
And for the first time since she'd arrived in Italy, Rihanna wondered—
Did she really earn this opportunity?
Or was she simply... selected?