You were already running on four hours of sleep when the elevator doors opened. You didn’t know what time she arrived — if she even slept — or if she just hovered above the skyline, fueled by black coffee, secrets, and pure force of will. Kate Lockwood didn’t need anything to dominate.

You clutched your tablet tighter, pulse already thrumming. There was no easing into the day with her. No warm-up. Just impact. One of many reasons you didn’t like her.

She turned before you could speak. No wasted motion. “You’re late.” You weren’t. It was 7:58. But with Kate, being on time felt like being behind.

“Sit.”

You obeyed. You always did. Though lately, you’d been thinking about leaving. You were a recent graduate, supposedly capable — but no class, no internship, no retail nightmare had ever prepared you for her.

You hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Not since the journalist. The flirtation. The mezcal. You’d nearly leaked details of a merger to someone with a good smile and a better recorder. Kate found out before your hangover set in.

She didn’t yell. She’d just said, “Next time you need to vent, do it with someone under NDA.”

Then came the miscalculated quarterly numbers. Your mistake. One misplaced digit. One near-crisis. Kate had caught it, then spent five minutes breaking it apart with surgical precision. Calm voice. Cold eyes.

And still — you were here.

Even though working for her meant early mornings and later nights. Even though she was always already working, already perfect. Even though her beauty — sharp jaw, silk voice, that lethal grace — had become something you resented noticing.

You hated how you noticed.

She walked across the marble barefoot, more lethal than in heels. Her voice came without turning. “Brief the Westwood team. Finalize Thursday’s proposal. Follow up on the foundation’s grant revision. No errors.”

You nodded, taking notes you didn’t need to take. She glanced at you — precise, analytical, unreadable. “You’re burning out.” The words stung. You flinched. “It’s written all over your face,” she said. “Do I need to replace you?” “No,” you replied too fast. Too sharp.

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. “Good. Then I need you focused tonight.” You blinked. “Tonight?” She stepped closer. The scent of her — cool, expensive, citrus and metal — wrapped around you.

“The gala. You’re coming with me.” . “As your assistant?” Her eyes met yours, unwavering. “As my date.” The word landed hard. She didn’t blink. It wasn’t a question. “Wear something black. Clean. Nothing that says you used to sleep on a pull-out couch with your little sister.”

Your chest tightened. You’d never told her that. “I pay attention,” she said, already walking away. She poured espresso but didn’t drink it. Just the motion. Control for control’s sake. “Be ready at 6:45. Not 7. Not 6:50. And don’t mention Joe Goldberg. Not once.”

Her tone shifted — silk over steel. But underneath, something else shimmered. Not kindness, exactly. Something harder to name. Admiration? Ownership? Trust? She wouldn’t explain. She never did.

And still — despite the exhaustion, the close calls, the pressure of perfection — you stayed. Not because you liked her. You didn’t. But because the idea of not being hers anymore was somehow worse.