Amara woke up early, a flurry of nerves fluttering in her stomach. The business card Damien gave her sat like a crown jewel on her nightstand. Sleek. Polished. The name Damien Everhart, CEO embossed in clean silver letters shimmered under the early morning light. She dressed with extra care, choosing the most professional outfit she could pull together—plain slacks and a blouse that didn't quite scream elegance, but said, I tried.
The headquarters of Everhart Enterprises towered over the city like something out of a futuristic movie. Chrome, glass, and sharp edges. She hesitated before stepping through the giant revolving door. Inside, everything gleamed. White marble floors reflected soft golden lights overhead. People in designer suits glided past her, speaking into earpieces, clutching tablets, moving with a kind of purpose Amara had never known.
A polished woman at the front desk barely spared her a glance before pointing her to the executive floor. "Last elevator to your right."
The ride up felt like ascending into another universe.
When the elevator doors slid open, Damien was already waiting.
"Good. You're on time," he said, his voice unreadable. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, he looked like he belonged in another realm entirely—impossibly powerful, devastatingly calm.
She nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
His brow twitched, amused. "Don't call me 'sir.' It makes me feel ancient. Damien is fine."
"Right. Damien," she said, testing the name like it was a secret.
He led her through a hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling windows and sleek offices. Everyone seemed to already know who he was—and clearly noticed her.
Her desk was right outside his office. Immaculate. Modern. Her laptop already set up, a stack of files waiting. There was even a small vase with fresh white lilies.
Damien's voice was calm as he explained her tasks: managing emails, organizing meetings, reviewing contracts. Simple enough, except for the fact that every name she touched was worth millions.
By noon, she had accidentally sent a wrong calendar invite, misfiled a contract, and spilled coffee on her own notebook.
Still, she refused to crumble.
When she apologized, Damien merely raised a brow and said, "Learn fast. That's all I ask."
It wasn't unkind—it was honest. And it pushed her to try harder.
By the end of the day, she was starting to get the rhythm. Damien rarely spoke, but when he did, it often wasn't about work.
"So… you've always lived in the city?" he asked randomly while scanning a report.
"Yes. Most of my life," she replied, glancing up.
"Do you like it?"
She hesitated. "I think I like the idea of what it could be. Not what it's been."
He met her eyes then, and for a fleeting second, his mask slipped.
"I get that," he said simply.
Then he was back to work, leaving her heart knocking strangely against her ribs.
The office emptied around 7 p.m. One by one, the elite team disappeared, leaving the floor silent and still. Amara stood, packing up, when Damien's door creaked open again.
"You're still here," he said, surprised.
"You are too."
He gave a half-smile. "Touché."
He gestured toward his office. "Come. I'd like to talk."
She hesitated, then followed.
His office was vast but intimate—bookshelves lined with hardcovers, a fireplace flickering beneath a framed photograph of a young woman smiling at the camera. Damien sat behind his desk, but it felt less like a boss calling his employee and more like… a man trying to not be alone.
"I'm guessing this job isn't exactly what you pictured," he said.
"No," she said honestly. "But I'm not complaining."
He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Most people can't handle my world. You already look like you're part of it."
Amara's heart stumbled at the compliment, though she wasn't sure if it was truly meant as one.
Then his tone shifted.
"You remind me of someone," he said quietly. "Someone I lost."
The room fell silent.
She tilted her head slightly. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He stared past her, eyes shadowed. "Not yet. Maybe another time."
She nodded. Something in her softened. For the first time, she saw the man behind the suits, the empire, the money. Not just a savior plucked from fate, but someone carrying his own ghosts.
"Thank you for today," she said. "For everything."
He looked at her then, eyes lingering. "This job… it's more than just answering emails and managing my schedule. You'll see soon enough."
Amara's brows lifted. "Is that a warning or a promise?"
Damien smiled faintly. "Maybe both."
They fell into a comfortable silence, the low hum of the city below filtering in through the tall windows. For a moment, the world felt quiet. And peaceful.
Then his phone rang.
He checked the screen and immediately stood, tension slashing through his calm. "I have to go."
Amara rose too, alarmed. "Is everything okay?"
Damien's expression was unreadable again—but his voice was different now. Softer. Edged with fear.
"My mother's in the hospital," he said. "I just got the call."
And then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps leaving her standing alone in the shadows of a world she was just beginning to understand.