As soon as the boardroom doors closed behind me, the weight of reality greeted me in the form of a towering stack of paperwork on my desk. A familiar sigh slipped from my lips, the dull throb of an oncoming headache pulsing behind my eyes. Still, I sank into my chair and reached for the first file. I loved my work—truly—but it often felt like a Sisyphean cycle. For every task I completed, ten more sprouted in its place. That was the nature of power, I suppose. Especially with a name like mine and a position like this.

Mid-signature, the soft chime of my phone pulled me out of my rhythm. I paused, pen hovering above the paper, and glanced at the screen.

A message fom my mother.

> “How are you liking your new personal assistant? I handpicked her especially for you. I’m fairly confident she’ll last longer than the others—after all, she knows you better than anyone else. Just try to be nicer this time, okay? No more traumatizing your assistants—well, aside from the new one, she’s already… Anyway! I’ll stop by soon. Say hi to her for me. Love you.”

I closed my eyes, exhaling sharply through my nose. Of course. How could I forget?

My previous assistants had a habit of vanishing—some after a week, others lasting just long enough to develop that particular tremor in their voice when speaking to me. It wasn’t that I was harsh. I didn’t shout, didn’t lose control. I simply expected excellence. And people often confused composure for cruelty. That, I inherited from my father—an unyielding presence, a gaze that weighed heavier than words.

So my mother intervened, as she often did when she believed I was becoming too difficult for the world to handle. I allowed it, mostly out of resignation. What I didn’t expect was for her to appoint her—my ex-girlfriend.

There was no bitterness between us, no unresolved drama, no storm left to weather. We had parted on civil terms, the kind of quiet goodbye that left no scorched earth behind. Still, working beside her now carried a strange tension. Awkward, yes. But silent. Unspoken. She was professional—painfully so. Efficient, detached, polite to a fault. The kind of assistant I'd always asked for, and the last person I ever expected to meet again within these walls.

A sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.

I looked up, my voice cool and even. “Come in.”

The door opened, and as if summoned by my spiraling reflections, she stepped into view. Her presence was steady, composed.

She approached, the soft click of her heels syncing with the muted hum of my office. She stopped in front of my desk—close enough to smell the faint trace of her perfume, that damned familiar scent I’d nearly forgotten.

“What is it?” I asked, tone flat, gaze unreadable.