The assistant led me down a quiet corridor, away from the lingering eyes in the main hallway. People stared, and of all people, it made me uncomfortable—me, Zarah, the girl who usually ran her mouth faster than her brain could keep up.
My chest still fluttered from the whirlwind moments with Mr. Sinclair. Funny how I only knew his last name, but somehow I felt like I already knew him. He was a snack—no, a full-course meal—the way he moved, the way he laughed, the authority in every step. My brain refused to stop replaying that rare, private smile he'd thrown my way. Impossible, improbable, but it had happened. And it had me... distracted.
"Here we are," the assistant said, stopping in front of a small changing room tucked behind the main office doors.
"You can swap your shirt here. I've left a few fresh options. I didn't know your size, so I just picked something a little bigger than mine. You seem to be D-cup... unlike me, who's B-cup," she said, completely professional, as if discussing chest size were an everyday HR procedure.
My face flushed crimson. I looked down at my chest. What was wrong with being a D-cup? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I nodded, my fingers trembling as I took the clothing. The coffee stain on my rented shirt still felt like a badge of honor—or humiliation. Probably both. At least Miss Irene would understand... hopefully. And above all, I had a job. I could almost hear my mom choking on her own disbelief somewhere in my imagination.
Once changed, I followed the assistant—whose name I still didn't know—through the quieter section of the office. The open-plan workspace stretched before me: rows of glass-walled offices, the faint hum of computers, and the rhythmic clack of heels against polished floors. Everything was pristine, controlled, intimidating.
"Welcome to SkyHigh, Miss Zarah," she said, her smile tight, polite.
I swallowed. Manager of SkyHigh—the biggest construction company in Country B. My chest puffed with pride. Damn, in your face, Mom. I've made it.
My new office was at the far end, a modest corner room with a large desk, sleek leather chair, and a view of the city skyline. I sank into the chair and exhaled. Finally. My space. My little corner of sanity.
The day stretched on, dragging like molasses. I did nothing, literally nothing, pressing my phone in idle boredom, waiting for... something. Anything.
A soft knock at the door jolted me.
"Miss Zarah, Mr. Sinclair requested you come to his office," the assistant said cautiously, her eyes betraying a rare hesitation. "He mentioned it's... important."
Important. My stomach flipped. Every instinct screamed, get out. But curiosity—and maybe something else entirely—kept me rooted.
I followed her to the elevator.
"What's your name, I mean, you know mine," I asked, breaking the silence.
"I'm Sarah, Miss Zarah," she said.
"Miss? I'm not old—girl, call me Zarah."
"That isn't professional, Miss Zarah," she said, eyebrows twitching.
"Fuck professional! Call me Zarah—it's my name," I said, snapping.
"Miss Zarah—"
"Shut it!" I mouthed like I was explaining to a toddler. "Za-RAH. Easy. Got it?"
She laughed, finally nodding. "Za-rah."
The elevator doors opened, and there he was. Tall, immovable, scanning the floor with that cool, imperious gaze. His posture relaxed slightly when he noticed me, just a twitch in the corner of his mouth hinting at a smile—controlled, deliberate, not meant for anyone else.
And just like that, the air felt heavier. Denser. As if the whole building shifted to revolve around him... and me.
When we arrived at his office, the assistant gave a small nod. "I'll leave you two alone."
The doors closed behind me. Silence.
Mr. Sinclair stood behind his massive mahogany desk, arms crossed, sharp eyes fixed on me. The familiar aura of control surrounded him—but now, with an edge of curiosity, of interest.
"Take a seat," he said, calm, commanding. The tension in the room made my pulse spike.
I sat. He leaned against the desk, closer than protocol would allow a new hire to approach. Not intimidating... just dominant in a way that made my knees weak.
"I've reviewed your files," he said, flipping one casually on the desk. "Your proposals... your projections... your strategies. Impressive."
I swallowed hard.
"Thank you, sir."
He tilted his head slightly, amusement sparking in his eyes—the tiniest flicker that told me he was enjoying this.
"Impressive enough that I want you to take lead on a few high-priority projects immediately. You're not just my new manager, Zarah—you're my right hand in operations. I expect results. I expect honesty. No excuses, no cutting corners."
"Yes, sir," I said, my voice steadier than I felt inside.
He straightened, wearing the same all-business look he showed the world. But here—alone with me—he softened just enough. "Good. You'll learn fast... or you'll regret standing still."
I blinked, heart hammering, mind racing. I had just walked into the lion's den—and he wasn't roaring. He was watching. Waiting. Testing.
And I had a feeling... he'd enjoy watching me prove myself.
It was literally my first day.
The assistant guided me back to my office, leaving me alone for a moment to breathe, to process, to try and stop my heart from hammering like a drum. I sank into my chair, gripping the edge of the desk as if it could anchor me to reality. Manager of SkyHigh. My first day. And he actually... noticed me.
Then came the knock—sharp, polite, hesitant.
"Come in," I called, trying to sound authoritative.
A young man in a crisp suit stepped in.
"Miss Zarah... I'm Liam. I'll be assisting you with your projects as insisted by mr Sinclair." His eyes flicked toward the skyline behind me, then back to mine, cautious but curious. "Congratulations on the promotion and appointment."
"Thanks," I said, voice still shaky. "I... appreciate it."
He nodded. "Everyone's... surprised, I guess. You know, Mr. Dalton was supposed to lead some of these projects—"
"Yeah, he's gone," I said bluntly, remembering the CEO's firing. My tone carried more confidence than I felt. "I'll be taking over."
The guy blinked, clearly impressed and slightly intimidated. "Right. Of course. If you need anything—files, schedules—I can get them for you."
"Sure," I said, waving him off gently. "But for now... give me a moment to settle in."
As he left, I sank into my chair again. My phone buzzed. Notifications, emails, messages... all waiting for me to organize, delegate, act. It was overwhelming—but thrilling. This is it. I made it.
Then, across the hall, I caught movement. Mr Sinclair. Of course. The CEO didn't just stay in his office; he appeared to glide across the workspace with that same predatory control, scanning, assessing, occasionally pausing as if he could see everything at once. But when his eyes landed on me, I caught the slightest raise of an eyebrow—a fraction of amusement, something the office had never seen before.
He didn't approach, didn't speak. Just... watched. And I realized that unlike everyone else, I wasn't intimidated. Not fully. Part of me wanted to crumble under his gaze, sure, but another part... thrived. This was his game, and I wasn't about to lose.
By mid-morning, the office chatter started. Subtle glances, murmured conversations, emails forwarded quietly. I could hear the whispers as people passed by: "She's... really the new manager?" "I thought Dalton had it." "CEO must've really liked her work."
I caught a few smirks, a few skeptical looks. But I also caught Sinclair's eyes from across the room. He was still leaning against his desk, calm, collected, untouchable... yet I could swear there was something different there. The tiniest crack in his façade—an acknowledgment that he was aware, interested, calculating how far I'd go.
It was a silent battle, the kind that had no rules, no words. And somehow, I was already in it.
By lunch, Liam returned with a folder of documents. "These are the priority projects you need to review, Miss Zarah."
I grabbed them, scanning quickly. Budgets, timelines, contracts—everything Dalton had mishandled or left unfinished. My pulse quickened. This was my first real test, and Mr Sinclair's eyes... they seemed to follow me even from his office. Every glance, every pause, felt deliberate, as if he was assessing not just my ability, but my reaction.
A knock on my door interrupted my thoughts. It was Sarah, the assistant. "Mr. Sinclair wants a quick word. He says it's... very urgent."
Urgent. My stomach twisted. I knew what that meant. He wanted to see me. Alone. Again ?
I swallowed hard, clutching the folder to my chest. "Fine," I said. "I'll go."
As I walked toward his office, the office seemed unusually quiet. People pretended not to watch, but I could feel every set of eyes following me. And then, there he was again—Mr Sinclair. Calm, commanding, untouchable... except for that rare, subtle flicker of interest reserved only for me.
And I realized: this was only the beginning.
I knocked lightly and stepped into the office, closing the door behind me. The familiar weight of the room hit me—the polished floors, the massive mahogany desk, the skyline stretching like a promise outside.
Mr. Sinclair didn't rise from behind his desk. He didn't need to. His gaze alone made my pulse skip.
"Sit," he said, calm, commanding. Not a strict order—but it carried the weight of authority. "i forgot to mention somethings when you were here earlier"
I lowered myself into the chair, clutching the folder of projects, heart racing. He leaned back slightly, arms folded, studying me like a general evaluating a new recruit. And I realized: this was the same Mr. Sinclair everyone feared—the uptight, untouchable CEO—but with me... something was different. Softer. Curious. Intriguing.
"I've gone through your files again," he began, flipping through the pages with casual precision. "Detailed projections, contingency plans, cost analyses... most people at your level don't even understand half of this."
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "I... I try to be thorough."
He arched an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You do more than that. You anticipate problems before they appear. That's... rare."
My cheeks warmed. I kept my voice steady. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair."
"You can drop the formalities here," he said smoothly, leaning slightly closer. "I'm not... everyone else."
I blinked, caught off guard. His tone carried a weight I wasn't expecting—and an unspoken invitation.
"I—okay... Zarah, then," I said, letting my own voice taste the name.
"Zarah," he repeated softly, deliberate, letting it linger like he was testing the sound. He leaned on the desk, eyes narrowing just enough to make me forget to breathe.
The air between us thickened. Professional boundaries blurred—just enough to make me aware of the tension, the curiosity, the quiet pull simmering beneath his control.
"Here's the thing," Mr. Sinclair continued, flipping another page. "i wanted to remind you again, I need you to lead these projects immediately. Deadlines are tight. Mistakes are costly. I expect excellence. And if anyone tries to push you around... or underestimate you, I'll handle it. Personally."
My pulse spiked. Protection? Threat? Both? The way he said it, casual and controlled, made it impossible to ignore.
"I... I won't disappoint, Mr. Sinclair," I said, swallowing hard.
"I don't doubt that," he replied. After a pause, his tone shifted subtly, a rare spark of amusement. "You're braver than most, Zarah. That's... dangerous."
I nearly choked on my own laugh. Dangerous? Was it a compliment—or a warning?
"Don't worry," he said, straightening, the dangerous edge returning. "I'm not here to intimidate you. Not unless you give me a reason."
The room shrank around us. The hum of the office outside, the skyline—all of it faded. All I could feel was him: watching, assessing, intrigued.
And I realized something terrifying... and thrilling: I wasn't intimidated. Not fully. I was challenged. Tested. And undeniably... curious.
Because if he thought this was just business... he was dead wrong.