C1 Ghosts in the Glass Tower

Skylar Jones eased her black SUV into the underground garage of Apex Global, the engine’s low rumble echoing off cold concrete walls. At twenty-five, she had finally made it to New York City—a hard-earned transfer from her marketing job in Chicago. No silver spoon, no rich parents bailing her out. Everything she owned came from her own grind: the sleek car, her savings, and the stylish Upper East Side apartment she shared with her ride-or-die best friend, Mia Torres.

That morning, golden sunlight flooded their open-plan kitchen as Mia danced around in pink silk pajamas, her wild curly dark hair bouncing with every step. Mia was unforgettable—big brown eyes that sparkled with mischief, a laugh that filled rooms, and flawless caramel skin that made fashion brands beg her to rep their lines. As a top brand ambassador, she lived out of suitcases, flying first-class to shoots in Milan or events in Dubai, but she always came home to Skylar with stories and hugs.

“You ready to slay, babe?” Mia asked, sliding a fresh coffee across the wide marble island.

Skylar wrapped her fingers around the warm mug, inhaling the rich aroma. “Trying to be. Big city, bigger company. I just don’t want to walk in looking like a lost tourist.”

Mia rolled her eyes dramatically. “Lost? Girl, please. You closed that million-dollar campaign in Chicago single-handed. Apex Global should be thanking their lucky stars they snatched you up. You’re about to run that marketing floor.”

Skylar smiled softly, tucking a loose strand of long auburn hair behind her ear. Her hazel eyes held quiet fire, and even in a simple black blouse and fitted pencil skirt, she turned heads—soft curves, graceful posture, natural beauty that didn’t need filters. “I hope so. I’ve worked too hard to let nerves ruin it.”

Mia leaned closer, voice dropping. “You deserve this, Sky. After everything you went through growing up… this is your win. Own it.”

Skylar’s throat tightened at the gentle reminder of her past, but she pushed it down. “Thanks, Mi. Tonight we celebrate—no excuses. Pizza, cheap wine, trashy reality TV.”

“Expensive wine,” Mia corrected with a wink. “I just got paid. Now go be brilliant.”

Traffic was brutal, but Skylar didn’t mind the slow crawl. Manhattan roared around her—honking taxis, delivery bikes weaving lanes, skyscrapers gleaming under a crisp winter sky. She parked, grabbed her bag, and stepped into the soaring lobby of Apex Global. Everything screamed money and power: shiny marble floors, massive glass walls, security in sharp suits nodding politely.

Her new manager, Carla, greeted her with an enthusiastic handshake. “Skylar! So glad you’re here. Your reputation preceded you—Chicago won’t stop bragging about losing you.”

The marketing floor buzzed with energy—rows of sleek desks, glowing screens, young pros laughing over coffee. Skylar settled in quickly, already jotting ideas and charming her new teammates. By lunchtime, whispers circled the break area.

“Blackwood was spotted leaving some rooftop club with Victoria Slade again. Paparazzi went wild.”

“Victoria Slade? That supermodel? Of course. Logan Blackwood only dates tens.”

“Lucky if you ever see him, though. He stays up on the executive floor like a king in his castle.”

Skylar tuned most of it out, fingers flying across her keyboard. Logan Blackwood. The name tugged at a dusty corner of her mind, but she ignored it. Rich, womanizing CEOs were everywhere in this city.

Then her inbox pinged: company-wide alert. URGENT – Emergency pitch meeting. All available marketing personnel to the executive boardroom in ten minutes.

Her pulse jumped. Executive floor. First day. No pressure.

She snatched her MacBook, rode the private elevator upward, and stepped into a hallway of dark wood and frosted glass. Muffled voices leaked from the massive boardroom doors ahead. Heart pounding, she smoothed her skirt, lifted her chin, and pushed inside.

Senior executives lined the long polished table, laptops open, faces tense. At the head, in a high-backed leather chair, sat the CEO.

Tall. Broad shoulders straining a charcoal suit. Dark hair perfectly tousled. Jawline carved from stone.

Piercing green eyes locked on her the second she entered.

Twelve years melted away.

It was him.

Logan Blackwood.

Her Logan.

All grown into raw, breathtaking power.

Shock flashed across his face for one heartbeat—then his expression hardened into something cold and unreadable. His fingers tightened around the pen in his hand until his knuckles whitened.

Skylar’s breath snagged in her throat. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted out.

He knew exactly who she was.

And from the ice in those unforgettable green eyes, he wasn’t happy about it at all.