My alarm screamed at 5:30 AM, and I was already awake.
I'd been awake for twenty minutes, actually, staring at the water stain on my ceiling that looked vaguely like a middle finger. Fitting, really. The universe had been giving me that gesture for the past sixteen years.
I silenced the alarm and swung my legs off the bed, my feet hitting the cold floor of the apartment I shared with Mira. Shared was a generous word. The place was barely big enough for one person, let alone two. But rent in this city was a monster that required sacrifices, and privacy was one of them.
Mira was still asleep in her corner of the room, her purple silk bonnet askew, one arm hanging off her bed. She wouldn't wake up for another four hours. The perks of working as a bartender—late nights, late mornings, and a life that actually involved fun.
I didn't know what fun was anymore.
I padded to the bathroom we shared with three other apartments on our floor, grateful that no one else was up yet. The mirror showed me what it always did: tired eyes, decent bone structure wasted on someone who didn't know how to use it, and hair that couldn't decide if it wanted to be wavy or just chaotic.
I tamed it into a low bun. Professional. Forgettable. Exactly what I needed to be.
Forty-five minutes later, I was showered, dressed in my usual black pencil skirt and white blouse, and heading out the door with a granola bar I'd eat on the train. Breakfast of champions. Breakfast of people who couldn't afford to be late.
Because being late meant facing him in a bad mood.
And gosh, his bad moods were something else entirely.
Russo Industries headquarters was a beast of glass and steel that pierced the Manhattan skyline like a middle finger of its own. Fifty-two floors of corporate ambition, and I spent my days on the very top one.
The executive floor.
HIS floor.
I stepped off the elevator at exactly 7:15 AM—forty-five minutes before Damien Russo was scheduled to arrive. Forty-five minutes to prepare his coffee (black, no sugar, specific beans imported from Colombia that cost more than my weekly grocery budget), organize his schedule, check his emails, and make sure everything was perfect.
Because perfect was the minimum.
Anything less was unacceptable.
The executive floor was empty at this hour, all gleaming marble and muted lighting and that subtle scent of money that I'd never get used to. His office took up the entire east side of the building—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that cost more than my college tuition, and a desk that probably had its own security detail.
I set my bag down at my station just outside his office doors, the smaller desk that served as his gatekeeper, and got to work.
Coffee first. Then emails. Then his schedule, printed out exactly how he liked it, color-coded and annotated with everything he needed to know. Meeting with the Tokyo investors at 10. Lunch with Marcus—his brother, though they shared nothing but genetics and mutual disdain. Conference call with the London office at 3. Review of quarterly reports at 5.
A full day. A demanding day.
A normal day.
I'd been doing this for six weeks now. Forty-two days of surviving Damien Russo, which apparently made me some kind of legend. His previous assistants had lasted, on average, about a week. Some had walked out crying. One had reportedly thrown a stapler at his head (she missed). Another had simply vanished, leaving only a resignation letter that said, "I'd rather be homeless."
But I was still here.
Not because I was special. Not because I was better. But because I had nowhere else to go and nothing else to lose, and that made me surprisingly tolerant of impossible men.
By 7:55, everything was ready. His coffee sat on his desk at the exact temperature he preferred, his schedule was printed, his emails were sorted by priority, and I was back at my station, looking calm and collected.
Inside, my stomach was doing its usual morning acrobatics.
Because in five minutes,HE would walk through those elevator doors.
And every single day, no matter how many times I told myself not to, I felt it.
That flutter.
That stupid, ridiculous, absolutely unprofessional flutter.
At 8:00 AM.
The elevator chimed.
I straightened in my chair, fixed my expression into pleasant neutrality, and watched the doors slide open.
Damien Russo stepped out, and the air in the room changed.
It always did. There was something about him—something that went beyond the tailored charcoal suit, beyond the dark hair pushed back from a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin women, beyond the height and the build and the way he moved like he owned not just this building but the very ground it stood on.
It was the presence.The weight of him. The way his eyes—grey, cold, swept over everything and found it wanting.
He didn't look at me.
He never looked at me. Not really. His gaze would move past me, through me, like I was just another piece of furniture in his carefully curated world.
"Good morning, Mr. Russo," I said, the same words I'd said every morning for six weeks.
"Elena."
Just my name. Not "good morning." Not "hello." Just my name, spoken in that low voice that did absolutely nothing to me. Nothing at all.
God, I was such a liar.
He walked past my desk, and I caught it—that scent of his cologne, something woody and expensive and completely unfair. It lingered in his wake like a taunt.
He's your boss, I reminded myself. Your terrifying, demanding, impossible boss. Get a grip.
"Your coffee is on your desk," I said to his retreating back. "Your schedule is next to it. You have a call with Tokyo at—"
"I know my own schedule."
The office doors closed behind him.
And that was it. That was our interaction. Forty-five minutes of preparation for six words and a door in my face.
Welcome to my life.
The morning passed in its usual rhythm of demands.
9:00 AM: He wanted the Henderson file. I had it ready.
9:15 AM: He wanted the Henderson file reorganized. I did it.
9:30 AM: He wanted to know why the Henderson file wasn't organized the way he wanted the first time, even though he hadn't told me how he wanted it. I apologized and fixed it again.
9:45 AM: He wanted coffee. Fresh. The first one had gone cold while he was criticizing the Henderson file.
10:00 AM: The Tokyo call started. I sat outside his office, listening to his muffled voice through the doors, taking notes on anything he might need.
This was my life. This was what I'd fought for—the job that every business graduate in the city would kill for. Executive Personal Assistant to Damien Russo. Six figures a year. Benefits. The kind of resume line that opened doors.
All I had to do was survive him.
And I was surviving. Barely.
Lunchtime brought an unexpected complication in the form of Kevin Park.
Kevin worked in IT, three floors down. He was nice. Normal. Had a kind smile and a tendency to bring me coffee even though I'd never asked. He'd been asking me out for two months, and I'd been politely declining for just as long.
But last night, Mira had finally broken me.
"You need to live, Elena," she'd said, waving a mascara wand at me like a weapon. "You can't just work and sleep and work and sleep. When's the last time you went on a date?"
I couldn't remember.
"Exactly. Kevin is cute. Kevin is nice. Kevin won't murder you and leave your body in a ditch. Stop waiting for something that's never going to happen and give the man a chance."
She was right. I knew she was right.
So when Kevin asked me again last night, I'd said yes.
And now he was standing in front of my desk, holding a sandwich he'd brought me from the café downstairs, smiling like I'd given him the moon.
"Hey," he said. "Thought you might be hungry."
"Kevin." I blinked at him, then at the sandwich. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He set it on my desk. "Turkey and swiss, right? You mentioned it once."
He remembered that. From a conversation we'd had months ago. That was... sweet. That was the kind of thing a good boyfriend would do.
Boyfriend.God, that word felt strange. We'd been on one date. One awkward dinner where he'd talked about his gaming hobby and I'd nodded along and tried to feel something.
I hadn't felt anything.
But maybe that would come. Maybe attraction was something that grew over time. Maybe I just needed to give it a chance.
"Thank you," I said, and I meant it. "That's really thoughtful."
Kevin's smile widened. "So, dinner tonight? There's this new Italian place that—"
"Elena."
The voice came from behind me—from the office doors that I hadn't heard open.
Kevin's smile faltered.
I turned.
Damien stood in the doorway of his office, and he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Kevin. And something in his expression made my stomach drop.
"Mr. Russo," I said quickly, standing. "Is there something you need?"
His eyes finally moved to me, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing.
"The quarterly reports," he said. "My office. Now."
I opened my mouth to remind him that the quarterly reports weren't scheduled until 5 PM, that we'd blocked out time specifically for—
But the look on his face stopped me.
"Of course," I said instead. "Right away."
I grabbed the reports from my desk and turned to Kevin. "I'm sorry, I have to—"
"No, yeah, of course." Kevin took a step back, his eyes flicking nervously to Damien and then away. "I'll, uh, I'll text you about dinner."
He practically fled toward the elevator.
I didn't blame him. Something in the air felt wrong, charged with a tension I couldn't name.
I walked into Damien's office, reports in hand, and the doors closed behind me.
He didn't go to his desk. He stood by the windows, his back to me, looking out at the city spread below him like a kingdom.
"The reports, Mr. Russo."
"Who was that?"
The question caught me off guard. "I'm sorry?"
"The man. At your desk." His voice was flat. Casual. But something about it wasn't casual at all.
"That's Kevin Park. He works in IT."
"I know where he works." He turned then, and his eyes met mine. "I'm asking who he is to you."
My heart stuttered.
This was none of his business. My personal life was mine—completely separate from this office, from him, from everything. He had no right to ask.
But he was Damien Russo, and he did what he wanted.
"He's..." I hesitated. What was Kevin to me? A boyfriend of one day? A man I was trying to feel something for? "He's a friend."
"A friend who brings you lunch."
"Yes."
"A friend who wants to take you to dinner."
"...Yes."
Something shifted in his expression. Something I couldn't read. And then it was gone, replaced by that familiar coldness.
"The quarterly reports," he said, turning back to the window. "Leave them on my desk. And cancel my lunch with Marcus. I don't have the patience for him today."
"Yes, Mr. Russo."
I set the reports down and turned to leave.
"Elena."
I stopped with my hand on the door.
"I need you to stay late tonight. There's work to be done."
My heart sank. "I have plans tonight, Mr. Russo. Dinner with—"
"Cancel them."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't even a demand. delivered in that cold, flat voice that made it clear my answer didn't matter.
I thought of Kevin. Of the dinner I'd agreed to. Of Mira's voice in my head telling me to "live".
But I also thought of the rent I couldn't afford to miss. The student loans hanging over my head. The years of fighting just to get here, to this job, to this chance.
"Of course, Mr. Russo," I said.
And I hated myself for how easily the words came out.