The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a world that smelled of polished glass and ambition. Every surface gleamed; every person seemed to walk with purpose.
I clutched my file against my chest, reminding myself to breathe. It's just a job, I repeated like a prayer. A job that could finally pay the rent, erase the debts, and maybe—just maybe—give me a fresh start.
"Floor forty-two," the receptionist had said with a sympathetic smile. "Mr. King's office."
Even saying his name made my stomach twist. Adrian King. The youngest CEO in the city. The man who built an empire before thirty, rumored to fire people faster than most changed lunch orders. I'd read about him in magazines—
his success, his ruthlessness, his face that looked carved from control itself.
I hadn't expected to actually work for him.
When the elevator stopped, I stepped out into silence. No chatter, no phones ringing. Just the rhythmic click of heels and keyboards. Every employee seemed to move like clockwork—precise, careful, efficient.
A woman with sharp eyes and a sharper suit approached.
"You're late," she said, checking her watch though I was five minutes early. "Follow me. Don't speak unless spoken to."
I swallowed. "Yes, ma'am."
She led me down a hallway of glass-walled offices. Inside one, a man was talking on the phone, his back to the window. Even from behind, there was something commanding about him—broad shoulders, dark suit, posture too composed to belong to anyone but someone in charge.
The woman stopped at the door. "He hates interruptions. Speak clearly. Don't ramble." She knocked once, then pushed the door open.
"Sir, your new assistant."
He turned.
And the world narrowed.
Adrian King looked nothing like the man on the magazine covers. Those were polished and distant. The man before me was alive with quiet power—sharp grey eyes, jaw tight from thought, a gaze that seemed to strip away every excuse and defense I had.
For a moment, he said nothing. Just studied me.
"You're the replacement?" His voice was smooth, deep, and not nearly as patient as I'd hoped.
"Yes, sir. Emma Hart."
He gestured to the desk near the window. "You'll handle my schedule, correspondence, and travel coordination. I expect precision, Miss Hart. No mistakes."
I nodded, trying to ignore how his eyes lingered a second too long, as if testing how much of my confidence was real.
"I don't tolerate lateness," he added. "Or excuses."
"Understood."
He leaned back, watching me with unreadable calm. "We'll see."
The woman who'd escorted me slipped out, leaving the door to close with a soft click.
And just like that, it was me, my heartbeat, and Adrian King—who made the air in that office feel heavier with every passing second.
"Start with my calendar," he said finally, eyes returning to his laptop. "And Miss Hart—"
"Yes, sir?"
"Next time you walk into my office," he said without looking up, "don't look so nervous. People here smell fear."
I bit the inside of my cheek, straightened my posture, and sat at my desk.
Welcome to King Enterprises, I thought.
And for the first time that day, I realized: the warning wasn't about the job.
It was about the man.