If hell had an elevator, I'm pretty sure it would sound like this one — classical music playing way too loud, air freshener strong enough to murder a toddler, and the looming threat of a billionaire at the top floor waiting to ruin your life.
That was me, first day as Damien Blackwood's personal assistant. My blazer was thrifted, my heels were two sizes too small, and my soul? Already in shambles.
"Breathe, Ariella," I muttered under my breath as the elevator dinged. "It's just a job. Just a paycheck. You've survived worse. You can do this."
The doors slid open, and I stepped into what could only be described as a cathedral made of money. Blackwood Enterprises' executive floor was glass, gold, and intimidation. The carpets were softer than my bed. The receptionist was prettier than most influencers. And the vibe?
Rich. Cold. Judgy.
Like even the air here had a net worth.
"Miss Monroe?" the receptionist said with a voice like lavender and judgment. "Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."
Of course he is. The puppet master always watches his strings.
I followed her through glass doors into an office so massive, I could've fit my whole apartment in one corner. Damien Blackwood stood by the window, back to me, arms crossed, as if gazing at the skyline helped him plot world domination.
His suit today was charcoal gray, his shirt black, and his aura? Still 100% menace.
"You're late," he said without turning around.
I blinked. Checked my phone. "It's 8:57. You said 9."
"I said 'be early.' I expect my assistant to anticipate, not just obey."
I inhaled sharply. We're starting with mind games. Cool. Cool cool cool.
"Noted," I said through clenched teeth.
He finally turned to face me. His eyes dragged over me like a scanner, calculating, cold — and something else. Something hotter. Hungrier.
Great. He was hot and dangerous. The worst kind of man.
"Sit," he said, pointing to the chair across from his desk like I was a misbehaving pet.
I sat.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, muscles flexing beneath custom stitching. "Let's get one thing clear, Miss Monroe. I didn't hire you because I like you."
"Trust me, the feeling's mutual."
His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. "You're not scared of me."
"Should I be?"
He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell his cologne — dark, woodsy, probably cost more than my rent.
"I don't tolerate laziness. I don't explain myself twice. And I never accept excuses."
"Damn," I said. "Remind me to crochet that on a pillow."
That did it. He laughed — short, sharp, surprised. Like I'd broken a rule no one else dared touch.
"You're interesting," he said, almost to himself.
"Nope. Just broke."
He stood straight. "Follow me."
We walked through the office together, or rather, he walked and I power-walked to keep up. Every employee we passed either stiffened or fake-smiled with the enthusiasm of hostages. The man ruled this place like a cold-blooded king.
He showed me to my desk — minimalist, modern, already intimidating.
"Your job is to keep my schedule, handle my calls, prep my meetings, and make my life easier."
"And when do I get to breathe?"
He didn't blink. "On your lunch break. If you earn it."
"I see," I said. "So this is a dictatorship. Got it."
"Exactly. You're catching on."
---
Twelve Minutes Later:
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
His calendar was a mess, three calls were ringing at once, and I accidentally sent an invite to a "board meeting" with the subject line "Let's Get This Bread."
To the entire board of directors.
He walked by my desk mid-meltdown and raised an eyebrow. "Are you sweating?"
"No," I lied. "I'm… shimmering."
"I'll add 'delusional' to your file."
"Oh please do," I shot back. "Might as well include 'sassy,' 'underpaid,' and 'trying her best not to commit murder.'"
He paused. Tilted his head. And for one split second, I swear he smiled. Like… genuinely smiled.
Then he walked away, and I was left with a ringing phone, a glitching email, and a fresh fear that this job might actually kill me.
---
Lunchtime (aka, The Illusion of Freedom):
I sat on the back balcony with a granola bar and half a bottle of water, just trying to make it to 5 PM without having a breakdown or a felony charge.
"Mind if I join you?" a voice asked.
I looked up to see a guy with soft brown eyes, curly hair, and a kind smile. Intern vibes. Not dangerous. Definitely not a Damien.
"Sure," I said.
He sat. "I'm Miles. Marketing intern. You must be… the new assistant?"
"The one who insulted the boss and somehow still got hired? Yeah. That's me. Ariella."
He whistled. "Bold move."
"Stupid move."
He laughed. "You'll need nerves of steel to survive here. Blackwood's known for breaking people."
"Cool," I said. "I'm already broken, so he's wasting his time."
Miles grinned, but something flickered behind his smile. "Seriously… be careful. He doesn't just break people. He changes them."
---
End of Day One:
I survived. Barely.
As I gathered my things, Damien appeared out of nowhere — because of course he did. Rich people always move like ghosts.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I expect coffee. Black. No sugar. No cream. Hot. On my desk by 8:00 sharp."
I narrowed my eyes. "Do I look like your barista?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You look like someone who wants to keep this job."
I exhaled through my nose, already regretting every life choice that led me here. "Fine. Coffee. 8 AM. You got it, your majesty."
"Goodnight, Miss Monroe."
"Goodnight, Mr. Blackwood."
I turned and walked away, heels clicking, spine straight — because if he was going to break me, I'd at least make sure I cracked with style.