NYRA
(PAST)
Nyra walked into the Valecrest building believing she had already passed the hardest part.
The email had been polite. Congratulatory. It asked for her ID photo alongside her CV—an unusual request she ignored because the opportunity felt real.
At the reception desk, she gave her name.
"Fourth floor. Left-hand side," the receptionist said, eyes still on her screen.
The HR office was all glass and light. Maribel sat behind the desk, young, composed, her smile practiced but not unkind.
"I'm here for the job," Nyra said.
Maribel typed, paused, and then looked up. Her gaze lingered—not in admiration, but assessment. Nyra understood, suddenly, why her interview had ended so quickly.
Maribel stood and lowered her voice.
"Before you go in," she said gently, "you should know—this company doesn't lose people. People disappear from it. Titles change. Roles blur. Compliments come with expectations no one writes down."
She glanced at the glass walls.
"If you're asked to stay late, dress differently, smile more—pause. Ask why. Confusion here isn't accidental." A beat. "And if you ever decide to leave, leave clean. Don't argue. Don't explain. Just go."
Nyra nodded. She didn't understand yet—but she felt it.
Two days in, the late meetings began.
Clients whose faces never appeared on video. Dinners labeled as networking that stretched long past necessity. At restaurants, hotel lobbies, elevators—staff called her Miss Valecrest.
She laughed the first time. Corrected them the second.
No one listened.
A week later, Nyra sat at the HR desk with her Dell XPS open, the silver edge catching the light. She typed carefully.
Dear Sir/Madam,
Please accept this letter as formal notice—
She deleted the paragraph. Then the subject line. Then the draft itself.
She closed the laptop and opened Candy Crush on her Samsung, the bright colors swallowing the room until her breathing slowed.
The following morning, he asked her to come to his hotel to help prepare for a business trip.
He answered the door in a robe.
The staff greeted her cheerfully. "Good afternoon, Miss Valecrest. We also have special packages for couples, if you're interested."
The CEO didn't correct them.
"We look compatible," he said later, gesturing toward the sofa. "People notice."
Nyra stood where she was. "I wouldn't consider myself a mistress."
The word landed wrong. His expression hardened.
And in that moment, she understood:
names did not protect you here.
Only silence did.