Mallory McInnis awoke at 6:00 a.m. sharp.No arm needed.
Her body ran on habit. Her mind on precision and intention.
Working for Elliot Voss—yes, that Elliot Voss, the impossibly wealthy, maddeningly charismatic visionary entrepreneur—meant mornings often arrived with texts that could derail the best-id pns for the day. But she didn’t mind.
If anything, she loved it.
There was a certain electricity in being needed. In knowing she was indispensable. Not out of codependence, but from the kind of self-assurance that comes from knowing your worth.
Voss didn’t just demand excellence. He inspired it.
To stay grounded, Mallory held fast to her morning ritual: thirty minutes of yoga, a calming cup of green tea, and a few precious moments of solitude before the storm of the day kicked dust up in its inevitable wake.
She brushed out her auburn hair, tied it into a high ponytail, and slipped into soft light-blue yoga pants and a form-hugging white sports bra—functional, sleek, and subtly fttering. Padding barefoot across warm oak floors, she moved into her personal studio, the space filled with soft morning light and the gentle scent of eucalyptus from a nearby diffuser that was set to turn on at this time every day.
She closed her eyes.Exhaled.Let the world fall away.
Her body flowed through the poses effortlessly, muscle memory meeting meditative grace. Years of disciplined practice had made her movements fluid, purposeful. Strength in stillness. Bance in motion.
Afterward, she stepped into her minimalist kitchen. White cabinets. Matte bck hardware. Concrete-style quartz countertops gleaming beneath pendant lighting.
She boiled water and chose her favorite Japanese sencha tea. The soft, grassy aroma instantly transported her back to the narrow streets of Tokyo, where she’d lived for a year during grad school. That year had changed her. Broadened her pate, sharpened her worldview, deepened her cultural grace.
Sipping slowly, she opened her tablet and scrolled the morning headlines.Another flurry of chaos from the new U.S. president. More bluster. More division. The markets trembled under his test tantrum.
Mallory shook her head.For someone like Mr. Voss—who preferred true impact to hollow theater—this must feel like scraping metal across stone.
She took another slow sip of her tea, her brow furrowing as she scanned more of the headlines.Why does everything feel so hostile now? So personal? So divisive?
Voss had always chosen peace and conflict resolution rather than escation. He never stooped so low as to get involved in politics. Never pyed their games.
But even he had to feel it—the way the world was shifting.
How long can he stay above the fray?And how will this chaos ripple through the empire he’s built?
Her phone buzzed at exactly 7:00 AM, right on schedule.He’s respecting my time, she thought. Always does.
The message, as usual, was short. Direct.Mallory, good morning. I need you in my office at 8 a.m. sharp. We have much to discuss.
She rinsed her teacup and set it gently on the drying rack.So much for easing into the morning.Time to move.
After a quick shower—ending, as always, with fifteen seconds of ice-cold water to bst away the st wisps of sleep—Mallory toweled off, dressed in a slim-fitting charcoal skirt and soft white blouse, and headed out the door.
Her car, a sleek midnight-blue Ford Mustang Mach-E, waited for her in the garage. A gift from Voss.
He’d insisted she go electric. Even bought the car for her after she closed one of his more… unusual acquisitions: a small, uninhabited isnd in the Pacific, a few hours west of Honolulu. Johnston Atoll.
To this day, she didn’t know why he’d wanted it. An old chemical depot. A crumbling airstrip. Virtually no infrastructure.
But Voss wanted it.And Mallory got it.That was the job, after all.
She still remembered the day her life changed forever.
During her final year of w school, she had quietly resolved a veritable shitstorm of a scandal for a newly elected Senator whose office she’d been interning in. As thanks, he scapegoated her—firing her in a way so public and vicious that, although she passed the Bar, she became untouchable to every reputable firm.
A few weeks ter, as she was exiting a coffee shop in Ann Arbor, a man approached her. Military, by the look of him—broad shoulders, shaved head, posture like a drawn arrow. But his manner was calm, his voice gentle.
“Ms. McInnis, I’m here on behalf of my employer. We were impressed with how you handled yourself during the… incident with the Senator. There may be an opportunity avaible, if you’re willing to hear it.”
Two days ter, she was being driven through a secure gate at Willow Run Airport. After a short ride, she stepped aboard a sleek private jet where the man was waiting—tall, composed, and cold-eyed. Calcuting. The kind of gaze that measured everything and missed nothing.
He introduced himself as Graham Thorne.Advisor to a man named Elliot Voss.
Graham had an edge to him. Moved like someone who could break bones in one moment and pour tea in the next. Special forces, maybe. He didn’t say. But he treated her like she mattered.
And she remembered that.
The respect.
Turned out Voss’s people had been watching her, quietly impressed with how she’d dealt with the high-stakes scandal in Michigan Senator Barrett Langston’s office. She hadn’t buckled. Hadn’t compromised.
She was smart, yes. But more importantly, she was incorruptible.
And for a man building something secret, powerful, and world-changing... incorruptibility was more important than genius.
That was what Elliot Voss needed most.
Ten years ter, Mallory pulled into her usual spot at Voss Tower.Same smooth routine. Same guarded calm.
She took the elevator to the twentieth floor.The doors slid open with a muted chime.
She stepped out into the posh hallway of the executive wing—And felt that quiet sense of anticipation settle over her again.
Elliot Voss stood at the far end of the room, silhouetted against a wall of gss that framed the San Francisco Bay in golden morning light.
A tte sat untouched on his desk. Still steaming.
Even after a decade of working for him, his presence still held weight.Not fear. More like gravity.
The kind that shifted tides.Bent rules.Rewrote futures.
“Mallory,” he said, without turning. “Good morning. Come in and have a seat. Take notes. We have a lot to cover.”
He paused.
Then, quietly:“Today, everything you know changes. It’s time to begin what I’ve spent the st sixty years preparing for. By the end of this week... the world will never be the same.”
Mallory blinked—just once—then crossed the room, heels soft on polished stone.
She took her seat. Opened her notepad.Uncapped her favorite rollerball pen.
And began taking the most important notes of her life.