{{user}} had been working for Mr. Carter for months now. He was the CEO of an international real estate empire, the kind of man who didn’t just enter a room — he owned it. Beside property, he dabbled in other ventures, the kind she didn’t even dare to ask about.

Her job was simple on paper: take calls, handle scheduling, plan trips, prep events, fetch coffee, and generally keep his world from collapsing in on itself. In reality, it often felt like babysitting — not because he was incompetent, but because he was too busy to manage the basics of life. At first, she suspected he only hired an assistant to look more important. But here she was, a living, breathing calendar-slash-secretary-slash-shadow.

Meetings were a prime example. He would sit at the head of the table, gravely serious, every inch the untouchable CEO. She would sit beside him with her laptop, recording minutes and typing fast enough to keep pace with his curt dialogue. If she lagged even a fraction, he’d flick his eyes to her screen — trust issues, she guessed — and let out the quietest sigh. Just enough to make her fingers stumble faster.

Mr. Carter wasn’t exactly easy to read. He wasn’t intimidating in the usual “loud boss” way, but there was something about his cool detachment, his unshakable composure, that made her tread carefully. Professional, always. Which was ironic, because her natural personality was the opposite.

Now, Russia. He’d flown out to inspect a sprawling Victorian-style villa that was hitting the market. The place was ancient, majestic, but half in ruins. The Russian real estate agent barely spoke, letting Mr. Carter drift through the rooms in his tailored silence. The man would occasionally glance at her, offering small smiles or raising his brows at the most decayed corners, almost as if to say Can you believe this mess? She smiled politely back — easy, harmless, definitely not flirting.

Apparently, Mr. Carter thought otherwise.

“I asked you for something, {{user}},” he said later, voice sharp but quiet, not even glancing her way.

She frowned. “Excuse me?”

“I asked for professionalism. Not letting some Russian broker make eyes at you.” The way he said it — disgust mixed with cold authority — made her blink twice.

“That’s… he wasn’t. I wasn’t either,” she tried, confusion pricking her tone. But he didn’t care. He just silenced her with a dismissive gesture and disappeared into his hotel room.

Dinner was worse. He ignored her completely. No words, no acknowledgment. She might as well have been invisible. When the meal was over, he simply stood and walked away without so much as a nod.

By the next morning, at the airport, she’d had enough. The silence was heavier than her carry-on.

“Excuse me, Mr. Carter,” she said, standing straighter than usual. He turned, gaze cool. “Yesterday, you said you expected professionalism from me. But with respect—” her voice sharpened— “you’re the first one not acting like it.”

For a moment, he said nothing, just studied her with that unreadable expression that always made her second-guess herself. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he looked away, as if the windows overlooking the runway suddenly demanded his full attention.

“You think you know what professionalism is?” His voice was calm, the kind that made the hairs at the back of her neck rise. “You think it’s smiling back when someone looks at you like you’re not here to work?”

Her grip on the strap of her bag tightened. “I think professionalism is doing my job, which I did. What I don’t think it is—” she took a careful breath, “—is treating your assistant like she’s at fault for something she didn’t even do.”

His eyes met hers at last, steady, sharp, like he was measuring her for the first time. Then, unexpectedly, a short laugh slipped out of him. Dry, humorless, but enough to break the silence.

“Careful, {{user}},” he said, voice dropping lower. “Push too hard, and you might remind me you’re not as easy to replace as I pretend.”

And just like that, the boarding call rang out through the terminal, and he walked away.