Chapter 3 - The Executive Suite
The private elevator ascended in smooth, pressurized silence, rising past the fifteenth floor where the legal department usually hummed with anxious energy, all the way up to the twenty-third.
Lily kept her eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers glowing in amber lights above the brushed-steel doors: 19, 20, 21, 22, 23. Every time a number ticked upward, her small fingers tightened just a fraction more around the fabric of her oversized hoodie.
When the doors slid open, they did not reveal a crowded bullpen or a row of cubicles.
They opened directly into Rowan’s private sanctuary.
It was a vast, minimalist expanse of glass, dark walnut wood, and charcoal leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around three sides, offering a panoramic, wind-swept view of the city skyline beneath a slate-gray morning sky. A massive executive desk sat near the far window, uncluttered save for a sleek monitor, a leather blotter, and a silver pen tray. To the left lay a private seating area with low-slung designer couches, and hidden behind a frosted glass partition was a small kitchenette and private resting quarters.
Sarah Jenkins, Rowan’s twenty-eight-year-old executive assistant—known throughout Rowan Industries for her terrifying efficiency and absolute lack of panic—was already standing by the desk holding a heavy leather binder.
She stopped mid-sentence as she saw who stepped out of the elevator behind her boss.
"Mr. Marlo," Sarah began, her eyes darting from Rowan’s perfectly tailored suit to Lily’s mud-stained sneakers. "The Mercer Group representatives are currently in Conference Room B. They’ve been asking about the—oh."
"Cancel them, Sarah," Rowan repeated, walking straight toward the kitchenette area. He shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of a leather armchair, an action he almost never performed during business hours. "Reschedule for tomorrow afternoon. And I need you to place an urgent call to the city general hospital system. Find out if a woman named Clara Brooks was admitted from the Mercer district within the last seventy-two hours."
Sarah’s professional composure didn't crack, though her eyebrows arched slightly. She glanced at Lily again, noticing the child’s trembling hands and the empty grocery bag. Without a single word of protest or confusion, Sarah closed her binder.
"Right away, Mr. Marlo. And the food?"
"Whatever is warm, substantial, and immediate. Bring it here. Now."
"Yes, sir." Sarah turned on her heel, her sharp heels clicking smartly across the floor as she headed back to the private elevator.
Lily stood near the edge of the plush Persian rug that sat beneath the seating area, afraid to step onto the expensive fibers with her dirty shoes. She kept her arms pinned to her sides, her eyes wide as she drank in the sheer scale of the room.
"You can sit down, Lily," Rowan said, walking over to a small glass coffee table and gesturing to a deep leather armchair. "The chair won't break. And neither will you."
Lily slowly walked forward, her movements hesitant, and perched on the very edge of the leather cushion. The chair swallowed her up, making her look even smaller than she was.
"Is this where you live?" she whispered, looking out at the sprawling view of towering buildings piercing the clouds.
"I work here more than I live anywhere else," Rowan replied, pulling out a small remote and adjusting the climate control to warm the room slightly. He sat down on the opposite sofa, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Now, let’s establish some ground rules. You told me downstairs that you wanted to work for your food."
Lily nodded vigorously, her dark tangles shaking. "I can sweep. I saw the lobby floors. They're very shiny, but I can make them shinier. Or I can carry things. I'm stronger than I look."
"I have a cleaning crew that handles the marble twice a day," Rowan said evenly. "They cost Rowan Industries a considerable amount of money. If I hired an eight-year-old to replace them, my board of directors would have a collective stroke, and labor regulators would shut this building down before noon."
Lily’s face fell, the brief spark of hope in her slate-colored eyes dimming back into a heavy, defeated shadow. She looked down at her scuffed sneakers. "Oh. Because... because I'm a child."
"No," Rowan corrected softly. "Because child labor is illegal, and more importantly, because an eight-year-old's job is not to scrub floors or trade labor for survival. An eight-year-old's job is to eat, sleep, grow, and learn."
Before Lily could find a response to that strange, alien concept, the private elevator chimed again.
Sarah walked back in carrying a large silver tray. On it was a steaming bowl of rich chicken and vegetable soup, a warm, buttered brioche roll from the executive cafeteria downstairs, a glass of fresh orange juice, and a small plate of fruit.
The moment the rich, savory aroma of the soup drifted across the minimalist suite, Lily’s stomach let out a long, audible rumble that echoed loudly in the quiet room.
Lily flushed crimson, pulling her gray hoodie tighter across her chest and looking down in absolute mortification.
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Rowan didn't smile—he never smiled lightly—but the corners of his eyes softened in a way Sarah had never witnessed in her five years of employment.
"Eat, Lily," Rowan instructed gently, gesturing to the tray Sarah had placed on the low table right in front of her. "The contract negotiations can wait until your blood sugar is at an acceptable corporate level."
