The next morning, the office buzzed with quiet urgency.
Phones rang, heels clicked, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the glass halls of King's Corporation.
Amelia stepped in, her reflection catching on every polished surface — sharp blazer, steady gaze, but the faint exhaustion in her eyes betrayed a sleepless night. Dinner with the devil had a way of doing that.
As she reached her desk, something unusual caught her attention — a slim, matte-black folder lying neatly on top of her workstation. No name, no label, no note. Just her initials handwritten in neat, confident strokes: A. J.
Her pulse skipped.
Because beneath those letters, in smaller, colder writing, were his — C. K.
She didn't need a memo to know this wasn't office routine.
Christopher King didn't write initials for nothing.
---
"Morning," Mark greeted, passing by with his usual calm efficiency. "You're early again. Trying to impress him?"
"Trying to survive him," she muttered, picking up the file.
He grinned. "Good strategy. Oh, and brace yourself — he's in one of his moods today."
"When isn't he?"
Mark chuckled and disappeared down the hall.
Amelia stood there a moment, staring at the folder like it might explode. Then, with a deep breath, she sat and flipped it open.
Inside were two things:
A sealed project brief stamped CONFIDENTIAL and a note in his handwriting.
> "You have forty-eight hours. No assistance. No excuses. Deliver excellence or don't deliver at all."
— C. K.
Her eyes widened. No assistance?
That meant no team, no department, no buffer between her and failure.
Amelia exhaled through her nose. "Okay, devil. Let's dance."
---
Hours blurred into a haze of research, phone calls, and quiet swearing under her breath.
The project was massive — a potential international partnership between KingTech and a luxury real estate firm in Monaco. If executed right, it would catapult the company's image globally.
And apparently, she was supposed to handle the initial proposal alone.
By noon, her desk looked like organized chaos. Her coffee had gone cold, her hair had fallen loose from its clip, and her laptop hummed with a dozen open tabs.
That's when the door behind her clicked open.
"Busy?"
The voice froze her mid-typing.
Christopher stood at the entrance to her cubicle, jacket off, sleeves rolled, holding his coffee like a weapon of quiet intimidation.
"Trying to be," she said without looking up.
He stepped closer, leaning one hand on the edge of her desk. "Good. I wanted to see how you handle being thrown into deep water."
She looked up sharply. "You mean drowning?"
His lips curved slightly. "Only if you forget how to swim."
"I wasn't aware I signed up for survival training," she shot back.
"Every job here is survival training," he said, tone even. "You're learning faster than most."
She met his gaze, steady. "You don't make it easy."
"I'm not supposed to."
For a long second, silence stretched between them — the kind that hums with everything unsaid.
Finally, he broke it. "Forty-eight hours. Impress me."
Then he turned and walked away, his cologne lingering like a challenge.
---
By the time the sun dipped behind Nova Heights' skyline, Amelia was still at her desk.
The office had emptied hours ago. Only the hum of distant traffic and the glow of her monitor kept her company.
Her phone buzzed.
A video call — from Aunt Chloe.
She smiled tiredly and answered.
"Amelia!" Chloe's warm voice filled the screen. "You look exhausted, sweetheart. Working too hard again?"
"Always," she said, trying to sound light. "How are my troublemakers?"
A shuffle of giggles followed — three small faces squeezing into the frame.
"Mommy!" Ethan shouted. "Lily said you got into a fight with your boss!"
Amelia gasped. "What—who told you that?"
"Lily," Chloe said, laughing. "She overheard me telling my friend you work for a difficult man."
Amelia smiled faintly. "He's… complicated."
Emily piped up. "Is he mean?"
Her throat tightened. "Sometimes. But Mommy can handle him."
"Of course you can," Chloe said warmly. "But don't forget to handle yourself too, hmm?"
"I'll try."
When the call ended, the silence in the office felt heavier — like the city itself was holding its breath for her.
---
It was past midnight when she finally printed her draft proposal — thirty pages of analysis, strategy, and creative direction.
She stared at the cover page, her name sitting right below his.
Prepared by: Amelia Jones. Reviewed by: Christopher King.
"Reviewed," she muttered to herself, smirking. "We'll see about that."
She slipped the document into a sleek folder and headed to the top floor.
The elevator ride felt eternal — her reflection mirrored in the silver walls, tired but determined.
When the doors opened, his office light was still on. Of course it was.
She hesitated at the doorway. "Mr. King?"
He looked up from his desk, pen in hand. "It's past midnight."
"So fire me for overachieving."
He gestured for the file. She placed it before him.
He flipped it open, scanning through pages with silent precision. The air between them thickened with every turn.
Finally, he closed it, set it down, and looked at her.
"This isn't bad."
She blinked. "That's… your version of praise?"
He leaned back. "Don't get used to it."
She crossed her arms. "You should really work on your compliments, you know."
"I don't give them. They lose value."
"Then what do you give?"
His gaze darkened. "Opportunities."
Something about the way he said it made her pulse quicken.
Then, just as she turned to leave, he added quietly,
"Good work, Miss Jones. You've got fight in you."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't even kind.
But it was the closest thing to respect she'd ever heard from him.
And somehow, it meant more than anything else.
---