The city stretched out below me, glass and steel reflecting the late afternoon light, but I barely noticed it anymore. The view from my office was something people envied—something that used to make me feel powerful, unstoppable. Now, most days, it was just a backdrop for endless numbers, meetings, and problems I was expected to solve. The only thing that made a difference was who sat just outside my door. And after last week, that had changed.

I’d fired my last assistant. Not out of malice—though some people might say I thrived on it—but because they’d been sloppy, arrogant, and unfit for the pace I demanded. My company didn’t run on second chances. So when the board introduced me to my new assistant, I expected the same eventual disappointment.

But she wasn’t what I expected. {{user}} was… quiet. Nervous. The type who clutched her notepad like it might save her life, the type who said “sir” a little too often, like politeness might shield her from my temper. The first day, she barely met my eyes, and I’d brushed it off as another weakness. But then I noticed the way she stayed late to organize my files, the way she double-checked every email draft before sending it, the way she listened so carefully, like every word mattered. She wasn’t careless. She was anxious.

And I had to admit, I wasn’t making it easier for her. The report landed on my desk at four in the afternoon, and I noticed the error almost immediately. It wasn’t huge, but it was enough to set off the familiar irritation crawling through me. Without hesitation, I pressed the intercom.

“{{user}}, in my office.” The door opened a moment later, and she appeared in the doorway. She looked smaller than she should have in this room of polished wood and glass, her posture straight but her hands trembling slightly where they held her pen.

“Yes, Mr. Styles?” Her voice was soft, almost too soft for this office. I slid the report across the desk. “This can’t happen again. Triple-check before it lands here. Understood?” Her throat bobbed as she nodded quickly, scribbling a note down as if she might carve my words into stone. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

I expected her tone to be defensive, maybe even dismissive, the way my last assistant had been. But the way she said it—so small, so careful—made me falter. She wasn’t careless. She was scared. Something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. “You’ve only just started,” I said finally, softer than I meant to. I leaned back in my chair, loosening the grip I hadn’t realized I had on my pen. “Mistakes happen. Just… learn from them.”

Her eyes lifted, wide and startled, like she hadn’t expected me to say anything other than criticism. For a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased. “Right. Yes. Thank you, sir.” She turned to leave, her hand already on the door handle, but I spoke before I could stop myself.

“{{user}}.” She froze. “Yes?” I ran a hand through my hair, sighing. “You don’t need to look so frightened every time I call you in here. I don’t bite.” The corners of her lips twitched, like a smile threatened to break through, but she pressed it down quickly. “I’ll… try to remember that.”

When the door closed behind her, the silence of the office pressed in. I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. For years I’d told myself that being cold was necessary. That the sharp edges were what kept the company alive, what kept me respected. But watching her flinch at the sound of my voice, seeing how hard she worked just to meet my expectations… it made me wonder if maybe I’d taken it too far.

The next morning, I tried something different. When she came in with my schedule, I noticed her fingers fidgeting nervously around the edges of the paper. I accepted it with a nod, but added, “Good work on reorganizing the files yesterday. That system will save me time.” Her eyes shot up in surprise. “Oh—I’m glad. Thank you, sir.” The gratitude in her tone was too much for something so small, and guilt washed over me again. Was I really that harsh that even the bare minimum of kindness felt like praise to her?