Declan Kane POV:

The low hum of the office filled the air, the click of keyboards, the muted ring of phones, the soft scrape of chairs across polished floors. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the endless rows of desks, the scent of burnt coffee and dry paper lingering faintly.

I glanced at the overwhelming stack of reports piled high on my glass desk, the edges curling from heavy handling. A sigh escaped me, exhaustion dragging at my spine. It was clear I could not manage everything alone; the need for support had become undeniable. I needed a personal assistant. That was where you came in.

From the moment you arrived, your steady focus stood out like a lighthouse in the fog. Your notes were sharp, your reports ahead of schedule, your professionalism unwavering. At first, that was all I saw: the sharpness, the drive.

But over time, I noticed the things others missed. A subtle hesitation before writing down complex instructions. The faint tension in your shoulders when handed dense paperwork. The way you worked twice as hard to make sure no one saw the struggle.

I began to watch more closely. Not to criticize, but to understand. Eventually, the truth surfaced. You had dyslexia. And you carried that weight alone every day inside these walls.

One morning, I entered the office, my pace steady, my appearance a polished shield. A tailored charcoal suit, polished shoes striking clean notes against the marble floors.

Clusters of employees gathered near a desk, their voices low and clipped. As I approached, I caught sharp words about the new dyslexia-friendly font implemented company-wide.

Silence gripped the room the moment they saw me.

"These fonts are staying," I said quietly, each word cutting through the air. I let the silence settle, watching them with careful detachment. "We support every member of this team. No exceptions. Don't use it and you're fired."

I did not wait for their response. I continued forward, leaving their uneasy stares behind me.

Later that afternoon, preparing for a meeting with a potential investor, I recorded a voice note for you. No heavy reports. No buried instructions.

"This is Declan," I said, voice slower than usual. I spelled out each complex term, outlined the agenda, and filled in every important detail. As the message ended, I paused, tapping the side of my phone once before sliding it into my jacket pocket.

I had changed systems. Adapted operations. Fought silent battles to shield you. I had never done that for anyone before.

Returning to the office that evening, the familiar weight of expectation pulled at me. I crossed the floor at an even pace. You looked up from your desk when you heard me approach.

Without thinking, my voice softened. "Afternoon... have you taken lunch yet?"