Chapter 3 - The First Move
The next morning, I stood in front of the ornate mahogany doors of Apex Media Group in downtown Monterrey.
The purple bruise on my jaw had deepened into an ugly plum shade, but I had spent forty-five minutes in Clara’s bathroom expertly concealing it beneath high-coverage foundation, finishing powder, and carefully styled curtain bangs that framed the left side of my face. I wore a tailored black blazer, crisp white button-down, and pointed-toe heels—armor purchased with my last hundred dollars from a consignment shop.
Today was my first day as a Senior Campaign Strategist at Apex. It was the highest-paying marketing firm on the coast, known for managing high-profile corporate accounts and ruthless brand rehabilitations. I could not afford to look like a victim. I could not afford to fail.
“Amanda Wilson?”
A sharp, commanding voice broke through my thoughts. I turned to see Julian Vance, the thirty-six-year-old CEO and creative director whose reputation for perfectionism terrified half the corporate sector in California. He was tall, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit without a tie, with piercing slate-gray eyes and a sharp jawline that missed nothing.
“Yes, Mr. Vance. Good morning,” I said, extending my hand with a firm, practiced grip.
Julian looked down at my hand, then his eyes flicked up to my face. His gaze lingered for a split second on the subtle swelling beneath the makeup on my cheek. He didn't say anything, but an eyebrow arched minutely before his expression reset into cool neutrality.
“Call me Julian. Welcome to Apex,” he said, turning on his heel and gesturing for me to follow him through the glass-walled corridor. “I don’t care about pedigree or sob stories here, Amanda. I care about results. We just took on the crisis management account for Horizon Energy. They’re facing a massive PR fallout after an executive scandal, and our pitch to the board is at three this afternoon. The strategy we have is lukewarm at best. Your portfolio showed an uncanny ability to read public sentiment. I want your revisions on my desk by noon.”
Most new hires would have panicked. I felt a surge of pure, electric focus. After surviving psychological warfare at the hands of my family, a corporate PR crisis looked like child’s play.
For four hours, I buried myself in market metrics, consumer sentiment analytics, and grassroots digital strategies. By eleven-thirty, I placed a thirty-page redesigned campaign brief on Julian’s desk. It stripped away corporate apologies and replaced them with radical transparency, redirecting the company’s budget toward community green initiatives that forced public accountability.
Julian read it in silence for fifteen minutes while I stood opposite him. When he closed the folder, he looked up at me, his gaze unreadable.
“This is brilliant,” he said simply. “You’re presenting this with me at three.”
The board meeting was a triumph. The board members, who had entered the boardroom looking ready to fire Apex, left offering handshakes and signing a multi-million-dollar retainer. As the room emptied, Julian packed his leather portfolio and paused, turning toward me.
“You’re exceptionally talented, Amanda,” he said quietly, his voice dropping its corporate edge. “Which makes me wonder why someone with your intellect let someone put their hands on your face.”
My heart stopped. My hand instinctively fluttered toward my cheek.
“Julian, I—”
“You don’t have to explain your personal life to me,” he interrupted gently, holding up a hand. “I recognize the look. I grew up in a household where doors had locks on the outside. All I’m saying is this: your salary here is well into six figures, plus performance bonuses. You have leverage now. Never let anyone make you feel small again.”
Before I could reply, my phone vibrated in my blazer pocket. I pulled it out to see five missed calls and a barrage of venomous text messages from my mother:
*You ungrateful little bitch. How dare you call the police on your father? Officers showed up at our house with a summons. If you don’t drop this absurd complaint by tonight, Greg is filing for emergency custody of Lily. He already knows you ran away to that lunatic Clara’s house. You have twenty-four hours to come back here, apologize to your father, and drop the charges, or you will never see your daughter again.*
The cold breath left my lungs.
They weren't just defending themselves. They were conspiring with my abusive ex-husband to tear Lily out of my arms.
I looked at Julian. My hands were trembling, but my eyes were burning.
“Julian,” I said, my voice tight. “Does Apex keep an attorney on retainer who handles aggressive family litigation?”
Julian looked at my phone, then into my eyes. Without a word, he pulled a sleek silver business card from his pocket and slid it across the table.
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“Her name is Evelyn Cross,” Julian said, a lethal edge in his voice. “She doesn't just win cases, Amanda. She burns scorched earth behind her.”
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