The next morning, the sun barely creeping through my apartment blinds, I woke up with a mixture of nerves and excitement buzzing in my veins. Mochi meowed impatiently, circling my legs as if reminding me the world didn't wait for sleepy humans. it was my second day at work but my first assignment review.
Coffee in hand, I sat by the window, scrolling through the brief Mr. Sinclair's assistant, Sarah, had sent. High-priority projects, tight deadlines, and a few signatures to secure by the end of the week. My pulse quickened. This was it—real work. The kind that separated the timid from the fearless.
The cab ride to SkyHigh felt like a parade of anticipation. I rehearsed how I'd handle the morning briefing, how I'd assert my authority without seeming inexperienced, and how I would... survive Sinclair's gaze again.
Arriving at the office, the air felt different—charged, expectant. Whispers followed me as I walked through the hallways. People stopped mid-conversation, glanced, then quickly pretended not to notice. I caught Liam's eyes from across the office, giving me a small, encouraging nod.
"Ready for your first project?" he asked softly as we stepped into the quieter corridor leading to my office.
"I think so," I replied, trying to sound confident. Inside, my chest fluttered like it had the first day.
But nothing could have prepared me for the next moment.
Mr. Sinclair appeared from his office, walking with that same predatory ease. His gaze landed on me immediately, sharp and measuring. I froze for a second—then reminded myself: I wasn't just surviving, I was thriving.
"Zarah," he said, his voice smooth, controlled. "I want you to handle the Marshall project today. The client's expectations are... specific. No mistakes. I'll check back with you personally by noon."
"Yes, Mr. Sinclair," I said, steadying my voice.
He gave a slight nod, that subtle flicker of a smile that seemed just for me, then disappeared into his office, leaving a tangible sense of anticipation in his wake.
The day stretched on, each email, each document, each decision feeling like a test. Every time I glanced at the door, I imagined him watching, assessing, judging—but also... subtly trusting me to handle it.
By lunchtime, Liam returned with a folder. "These are the additional documents for the Marshall project," he said, voice low. "Mr. Sinclair insisted you review them first before the meeting."
I took the papers, flipping through them, already calculating the steps, the strategies, the risks. This was my arena now.
And somewhere deep inside, I knew this wasn't just about the projects, or even the promotion. It was about Mr. Sinclair—about surviving his attention, his quiet scrutiny, and maybe... learning to thrive under it.
As I sat back, Mochi's memory flickering in my mind, I realized: this was the first true test of the fire he'd seen in me. And I intended to burn brighter.
I cleared a space on my desk, stacking the folders neatly before me, the smell of fresh paper mingling with the faint aroma of my coffee. The documents Liam had brought weren't just routine updates—they were a mess of inconsistencies, missing figures, and red flags that screamed "Dalton."
I flipped open the first folder, scanning through budget allocations, timelines, and client correspondence. My pulse quickened, but this time it wasn't nerves—it was adrenaline. The kind that comes when you realize you're stepping into someone else's mess... and you have the power to set it right.
Dalton had left behind more than sloppy work. There were discrepancies in supplier invoices, double-billing clients, and even funds that seemed to have disappeared into thin air. My fingers traced the numbers carefully, comparing them against project timelines. I could almost see his smug little grin as he thought no one would notice. But I noticed. And Mr. Sinclair would notice if I didn't catch it first.
"Liam," I said, voice steady but brisk. "I need you to pull all client communications for the last quarter on the Marshall project. Emails, meeting notes, signed agreements—everything. I want a full audit by the end of the morning."
He raised an eyebrow but nodded, typing quickly on his laptop. "Consider it done."
I leaned back, closing my eyes for a brief second, imagining Dalton's face. That smug, entitled bastard. He'd underestimated me, underestimated everyone, and Mr. Sinclair had given me a chance to clean up the wreckage. And I wasn't about to waste it.
I opened a fresh document and started drafting a report for Mr. Sinclair. Step by step, I outlined the current status of the Marshall project, highlighting urgent corrections, missing funds, and the potential risks that could snowball if not addressed immediately. I detailed corrective measures, proposed deadlines, and contingency plans. My fingers moved fast across the keyboard, thoughts translating into action with precision I didn't even know I had until now.
Every now and then, I glanced at the door. I imagined Mr. Sinclair observing quietly, his gaze weighing, assessing, judging... but also trusting. That subtle acknowledgment from him pushed me further. I wasn't just doing this for me. I was proving that the fire he'd seen in me yesterday wasn't a fluke.
By mid-morning, Liam returned, holding another stack of files.
"Here are the remaining invoices and supplier contracts. There are... some discrepancies," he said carefully, lowering his voice. "Looks like Dalton may have... diverted funds, or at least mishandled payments."
I frowned, flipping through the papers, tracing patterns in numbers, cross-referencing payments, dates, and project phases. Sure enough—Dalton had siphoned off small amounts repeatedly, cleverly masked as operational expenses. It wasn't massive, but it was enough to make a dent, enough to undermine the company's credibility with a major client.
I scribbled notes furiously, drafting a detailed corrective plan. For each discrepancy, I indicated the source, the impact, and the exact steps to rectify it. I even drafted an internal memo outlining how to prevent similar incidents in the future. This wasn't just damage control—it was strategic, proactive, and it would make Mr. Sinclair see me as more than just a manager. I was becoming someone who could protect the company and its clients from incompetence and corruption.
Hours flew by. Emails pinged, calls came in from concerned vendors, and I coordinated revisions with Liam, dictating tasks and timelines with a calm authority that surprised even me. Mochi's earlier purring echoed in my memory, grounding me, reminding me that I was capable.
When I finally leaned back, rubbing my eyes, the Marshall project dossier was nearly complete. The financial missteps were documented, corrective measures in place, and a clear path outlined for the week. I could feel the weight of Dalton's shadow lifting, replaced with something new—a sense of ownership, of control, and... anticipation.
Anticipation because, in the back of my mind, I knew that Mr. Sinclair would review everything personally. The thought sent a shiver through me—not fear, but a mix of thrill and tension. This was my first real test, and the stakes were higher than I'd imagined.
Liam looked at me expectantly. "Do you... want me to prepare this for the client review, or wait for Mr. Sinclair?"
I exhaled, steadying myself. "No. Let's get it ready. But keep the analysis clean, just in case he wants to go through it himself. I want him to see it... unfiltered."
He nodded, impressed by the clarity and decisiveness in my voice. I felt... powerful. Not in an arrogant way, but in that rare, intoxicating way when you know you've risen above chaos and turned it into opportunity.
And as I hit "Save" on the final draft, a quiet thrill pulsed through me. Dalton had tried to take shortcuts, steal from the company, and undercut everyone's trust. But I? I had taken the fire he left behind, forged it into something sharp, precise, and effective. And soon... Mr. Sinclair would see it all.
The first assignment. The first true test. And I was ready.
By late morning, my desk was stacked neatly with the polished draft of the Marshall project report. Every figure cross-checked, every discrepancy accounted for. I exhaled slowly, leaning back in my chair, heart still thrumming with adrenaline. Then Sarah appeared at my door, almost silently, holding her tablet like it contained the fate of the universe.
"Mr. Sinclair would like to see you... now," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes betraying the usual tension that seemed to cling to anyone approaching him. "He mentioned it's urgent."
I stood, clutching the folder as if it were a shield and a sword all at once. "Right. Thank you, Sarah."
The elevator ride felt impossibly slow. Every floor ticked by like a countdown. My pulse raced—not from nerves alone, but from the lingering excitement of knowing Mr. Sinclair would personally see my work. I rehearsed my breathing, my posture, how I'd present the numbers confidently without letting my curiosity about him betray me.
The moment I stepped out, I saw him. Mr. Sinclair, standing near his massive office desk, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the floor like a hawk. He looked up, and our gazes locked. That familiar flicker—interest, calculation, curiosity—flashed just for me before disappearing into his usual composed mask.
"Zarah," he said, voice low, controlled, carrying a subtle edge that made me straighten instinctively. "Come in."
I followed him inside, closing the door behind me, feeling the weight of the room settle around us. The office was quiet—still, commanding, imposing—but the moment felt... intimate, somehow, as if the rest of the building existed elsewhere.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. I obeyed, placing the folder on the desk carefully, trying not to let the slight tremor in my fingers betray me.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he studied me for a moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he picked up the folder and began flipping through the pages. My stomach knotted with anticipation, every flick of his wrist, every pause, feeling like a heartbeat in my chest.
"Impressive," he finally said, voice calm but edged with something I couldn't quite place. "You didn't just clean up Dalton's mess... you anticipated it. Every loophole, every risk, every potential problem. Most people would have followed the obvious corrections. You... went further."
I swallowed hard, cheeks warming. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I... I tried to ensure the project was ready, and... mistakes were accounted for."
He tilted his head slightly, corners of his mouth twitching in a controlled smirk. "You didn't just account for mistakes, Zarah. You protected the company. You protected clients. That... is rare."
I felt my pulse spike—not from fear, but from something unidentifiable, thrilling, dangerous even. His gaze lingered, sharp yet oddly soft in the corners, studying me like he wasn't just assessing my work—but me.
"You noticed the discrepancies Dalton left," he said, leaning slightly forward. "And you traced every one. That took... attention to detail, initiative, and courage. Most new hires would have crumbled, or tried to cover for it. Not you."
I straightened, feeling a quiet confidence blossom. "I... didn't want to let the company down. Or... your expectations."
He paused, eyes locking onto mine, unblinking, as if weighing the truth of that statement. Then, just slightly, the edge of his rare smile curved upward.
"Expectations... yes. But I also want to see how far you'll go when the pressure's real. Today was a first test. And you... passed."
"Thank you, Mr. Sinclair," I said, voice steadier than I expected.
He leaned back, hands folding over each other, studying me silently for a heartbeat longer than comfortable. And yet, in that pause, there was a strange thrill—a quiet acknowledgment, a recognition that we were now both playing a game, one that wasn't written in memos or reports.
"Continue with the Marshall project," he said finally, voice softening just a fraction. "Keep me updated on every step. If you see a problem... fix it. Don't wait. And Zarah..."
I held my breath.
"You've got fire," he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling just slightly, "and I like that. Don't let anyone... or anything... extinguish it."
My pulse raced, not just from the praise, but from the way he had said it—the weight behind his words, the subtle personal charge in his tone. Fire. Interest. Challenge.
"Yes, Mr. Sinclair," I whispered, my chest tight with a thrill that had nothing to do with the project itself.
He nodded once, decisively, then returned to scanning the documents as if our conversation had been a brief storm before calm. I exhaled slowly, realizing that my first true test wasn't just surviving Dalton's mess—it was thriving under the gaze of a man who could intimidate entire floors of employees with a glance... and yet had somehow singled me out.
I left the office with my chest tight, pulse still fluttering, knowing that the fire he had seen in me yesterday wasn't a fluke. It had only begun.
I stepped out of Mr. Sinclair's office feeling as if the entire building had been tilted just a little off its axis. My pulse still hadn't settled. His words echoed in my mind—You've got fire. And the way he'd said it... like he'd seen something in me no one else had bothered to look for.
The hallway felt colder, quieter, as I walked back toward my department. The glass walls reflected my face—still stunned, still processing—yet there was a subtle lift to my posture, a new steadiness in my stride.
By the time I reached my office, Liam was already waiting, perched at the edge of the chair he'd used earlier, a laptop open in front of him. His eyes snapped up when I entered.
"You saw him, right?" he whispered dramatically. "Are you alive? Should I call an ambulance? Start a prayer circle?"
I let out a breathy laugh, shutting the door behind me. "Liam, relax. I'm fine."
"You sure? No fainting? No soul-snatching? No emotional injuries?"
"Actually," I said, dropping the folder on my desk, "he liked the work."
Liam's jaw dropped. "Liked?"
I nodded, fighting the smile tugging at my lips.
"As in... he said it?" he asked, pointing at me. "Out loud? With actual words?"
"Yes, Liam," I said, chuckling. "He said it."
Liam slumped back in the chair dramatically, covering his chest with both hands. "Lord, take me. Because if Sinclair is handing out compliments before noon, the rapture is definitely near."
"Focus," I said, sitting down. "We have work to do. Dalton left more problems than we thought."
At the name, Liam winced. "What did you find?"
I pulled up the files, sliding a stack of printed sheets toward him. "Here. Dalton didn't only misfile data—he manipulated figures. On purpose."
Liam blinked, confusion warping into realization. "He stole? Actually stole from the company?"
"Not money directly. But he padded budgets, shifted invoices, hid missing funds behind jargon-heavy reports. He made it look like client costs were rising when they weren't."
Liam stared at the documents, brows furrowing. "So he made the clients overpay... and pocketed the excess?"
"Exactly."
"Wow. Dalton was bold. He didn't just steal—he performed."
I leaned forward, tracing one of the highlighted lines with my finger.
"Here," I said softly. "This is where it started."
And just like that, the flashback hit—sharp, vivid, almost cinematic.
For the next two hours, the office became our battlefield.
Papers rustled. Fingers typed rapidly. Coffee cups stacked like trophies.
Liam cross-checked invoices while I recalculated projections.
We corrected figures, restructured timelines, cleaned budgets, and redrafted entire sections of the proposal.
At one point, Liam looked at me with a weird mixture of admiration and disbelief.
"How are you this calm?" he asked.
"I'm not," I said truthfully. "I'm just too busy to panic."
A notification chimed on my screen—an email from Mr. Sinclair.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Subject: Update.
Message: Coming to your office in ten minutes.
I froze. Liam froze. Time froze.
"Oh my God," Liam whispered. "He's coming here? Into this office? Into our breathing space? Into the air we're currently inhaling?"
"Liam," I hissed.
"Sorry. I panicked."
But I wasn't listening anymore. My pulse had taken over.
Ten minutes.
Nine now.
Eight.
I straightened the papers, smoothed my hair, tried to steady my breathing. The door suddenly felt too small, the office too intimate, the air too warm.
This was it.
My first assignment.
My first real test.
My first update to a man who didn't tolerate mediocrity—yet had told me I had fire.
I looked at the project drafts scattered across the table, the numbers, the corrections, the explanations we'd crafted.
I looked at the door.
And then—
A soft knock.
Firm. Controlled.
Undeniably him.
Mr. Sinclair.
The knock wasn't loud.
But it carried weight—sharp, precise, intentional.
Like everything he did.
Liam shot up from his chair as if electrocuted.
"Oh my God—he's here—he's actually—"
"Liam," I whispered. "Sit."
He dropped back into the chair so fast the wheels squeaked.
I swallowed, smoothed my palms down my skirt, and walked to the door. My fingers hovered on the handle for half a second—half a second too long—and then I forced myself to pull it open.
There he was.
Mr. Sinclair.
Alexandar Sinclair stood in the doorway, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my entire apartment. His hair was neatly styled, his eyes unreadably sharp, and his expression... composed. Controlled. The kind of calm that demanded respect without raising a single decibel.
But when his gaze slid to me—
it softened by one percent.
Barely noticeable.
But I noticed.
"Good morning once again Zarah," he said.
My throat suddenly forgot what functioning felt like. "Good... good morning, Mr. Sinclair."
He stepped inside, and the office suddenly felt smaller—as if his presence filled corners that didn't exist a moment ago. His cologne lingered subtly in the air—woodsy, expensive, dangerously understated.
Liam stood again.
"Good morning, sir—"
"Sit, Liam," he said without looking at him.
Liam sat. Again.
Almost folded into himself.
Mr. Sinclair turned to me. "You have the updated Marshall documents?"
"Yes," I said, stepping to the desk and gesturing for him to follow. "We've corrected every discrepancy Dalton left behind. I want to walk you through everything before you send it to Legal."
He moved closer, standing beside me, his height and presence swallowing the space. I could feel the warmth of him even without touching. His suit brushed lightly as he leaned over the documents.
"Explain," he said quietly.
I breathed in slowly, steadying my voice.
"We recalculated the projected expenses and removed Dalton's inflated additions."
I pointed at the highlighted lines.
"He added false overhead charges—three times across different phases."
Mr Sinclair's eyes narrowed. Not at me— at the numbers.
"I knew he was sloppy," he murmured. "I didn't expect him to be a thief."
I swallowed. "There's more."
He looked at me. Fully. Directly.
A slow, assessing gaze.
"Go on."
I showed the cross-referenced invoices, the manipulated signatures, the padded time sheets.
Liam added softly, "He covered his tracks well, sir. Most people wouldn't have caught it."
Mr Sinclair didn't even blink. "I'm not most people."
Then—
He turned to me.
"But you caught it."
I froze.
He saw it.
He saw exactly who had traced the red flags, who reassembled the missing pieces, who stayed sharp through the chaos.
"Yes," I said quietly.
His expression shifted—subtly—but unmistakably.
Approval.
Respect.
And something I couldn't name.
"You're thorough," he said. "Much more than Dalton ever was. You notice details. You don't overlook patterns. That's... rare."
The words hung in the air like an unexpected gift.
My cheeks betrayed me with warmth. "Thank you, sir."
He tapped the document once with his finger. "This is good work, Zarah. Better than I anticipated."
My heart somersaulted.
Then, unexpectedly—he stepped closer.
Close enough that I could feel the faint brush of air when he breathed.
Close enough to see the faint shadow of a smile ghosting his lips.
"And you did all of this in one morning?"
"I... yes," I whispered.
He studied me again, slower this time.
Like he was trying to understand something he hadn't expected.
"Impressive," he said, voice lower.
Liam cleared his throat loudly.
Mr. Sinclair blinked once, the spell breaking. He straightened, business mask sliding back into place.
"I'll take these to Legal myself," he said. "We'll present the clean report to Marshall tomorrow morning."
He lifted the folder, but didn't move toward the door.
Not yet.
"Zarah."
"Yes?"
"If anyone in this department gives you trouble," he said, eyes steady on mine, "you come to me. Directly. No middlemen."
I swallowed. Hard. "Okay."
"And," he added, "I want you sitting in on tomorrow's meeting."
I blinked. "Me? But—"
"No arguments."
His gaze flicked to my lips for the briefest second before meeting my eyes again.
"I want you there."
My voice almost betrayed me. "Then... I'll be there."
He gave a small, satisfied nod—almost like he already knew I'd say yes.
Then he turned to Liam.
"Make sure she has everything she needs."
"Yes, sir!"
"you're her new assistant too"
Mr. Sinclair headed for the door. For a moment, I thought he would leave without looking back.
But he paused—hand on the doorknob—
and glanced over his shoulder.
"Good work," he said quietly. "Both of you."
Then the door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then—
Liam exploded.
"Oh. My. GOD. ZARAH!"
I dropped into my chair, burying my face in my hands. "Don't start—"
"NO, BECAUSE WHAT WAS THAT?" he yelled dramatically. "WHAT—WAS—THAT?"
"What?"
"Girl, he was flirting. FLIR-TING."
"He wasn't—"
"He was," Liam insisted. "That man looked at you like you were a limited-edition contract only he could sign."
I groaned.
Liam leaned in. "Zarah. You are in trouble."
"Why?"
"Because Alexander Sinclair doesn't look at anyone like that. Ever. And he just handed you power like he was placing it into your palms."
My breath caught.
Because he was right.
And I knew it.
And that terrified me more than Dalton ever could.