The afternoon was hell.
There was no other word for it. From the moment Kevin left until the sun started sinking behind the Manhattan skyline, Damien Russo made my life a living, breathing nightmare.
It started small.
"The Henderson file is wrong."
I looked up from my desk to find him standing in his doorway, the file in question dangling from his fingers like something diseased.
"I reorganized it exactly how you asked, Mr. Russo."
"Then you misunderstood what I asked." He dropped the file on my desk. Papers scattered. "Again."
I bit the inside of my cheek and gathered the papers. "Of course. I'll fix it right away."
He disappeared back into his office.
Twenty minutes later, the file was back on my desk. Wrong again. Different reason this time—something about the subsections not being in chronological order, even though he'd specifically asked for them to be organized by priority yesterday.
I fixed it.
It came back.
Fixed it again.
It came back again.
By the fourth time, my eye was twitching and my jaw ached from clenching it so hard.
"Mr. Russo," I said, standing in his doorway with the file pressed against my chest like a shield. "I want to make sure I understand exactly what you need. Could you walk me through the organization system you're looking for?"
He didn't look up from his computer. "If you can't figure it out on your own, perhaps you're not qualified for this position."
The words hit like a slap.
Six weeks. Six weeks of perfect work, of anticipating his needs before he knew them himself, of bending over backward to meet impossible standards. And now, suddenly, I wasn't qualified?
"I've organized this file four different ways," I said, and I was proud of how steady my voice came out. "Each time, you've found a different issue. I'm not a mind reader, Mr. Russo. If you could just—"
"Are you arguing with me?"
His eyes lifted from the screen, and the coldness in them made my breath catch.
"No," I said. "I'm trying to do my job."
"Then do it." He looked back at his computer. "And close the door on your way out."
I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, something hot and dangerous building in my chest.
Walk away ,I told myself. You need this job. You need this job. You need this—
I walked away.
I closed the door.
And I reorganized that goddamn file for the fifth time.
At 5:30, I texted Kevin.
Elena:I'm so sorry, but I have to cancel tonight. Work emergency.
His response came almost immediately.
Kevin:Oh no! Is everything okay?
Elena:Just my boss being... my boss. Rain check?
Kevin:Of course! Tomorrow?
I glanced at the closed office doors, behind which Damien Russo sat like a dragon guarding his hoard.
Elena:I'll let you know. Sorry again.
Kevin:No worries! Good luck with work
He added a little heart emoji at the end.
It should have made me smile. It should have made me feel something warm and fluttery.
Instead, I just felt tired.
I put my phone away and got back to work.
By 7:00 PM, the rest of the executive floor had emptied out. The cleaning crew came and went. The lights in the hallway dimmed to their evening setting.
And I was still at my desk.
Damien had given me a stack of documents to review—contracts, mostly, for deals that weren't scheduled to close for months. Nothing urgent. Nothing that couldn't have waited until tomorrow.
But he'd put them on my desk at 5:45 with a simple "These need to be done before you leave," and that was that.
My stomach growled. I'd eaten Kevin's sandwich around 2:00, but that felt like a lifetime ago. There was a vending machine in the break room two floors down, but leaving my post felt like a risk I couldn't take.
What if he needed something?
What if he came out and I wasn't there?
What if—
The office doors opened.
I straightened automatically, smoothing down my blouse, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
Damien walked out, his suit jacket over one arm, his tie loosened just slightly. It was the most casual I'd ever seen him, and I hated that my stupid heart noticed.
"Still here," he observed.
"You said the documents needed to be done before I left."
"I did."
He stood there for a moment, looking at me. Just... looking. And I couldn't read his expression, couldn't tell if he was pleased or annoyed or something else entirely.
"Are they done?" he asked.
"Almost. Another thirty minutes, maybe."
He nodded slowly. Then he walked toward the elevator, pressing the call button.
"Your friend," he said, his back still to me. "Kevin."
My pen froze against the paper.
"What about him?"
"You were supposed to have dinner with him tonight."
He knew. Of course he knew—he'd heard Kevin mention it earlier, and Damien Russo forgot nothing.
"Yes," I said carefully. "But I cancelled. Because you needed me here."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The doors slid open.
Damien stepped inside and turned to face me. His finger hovered over the button panel, but he didn't press anything. He just stood there, watching me through the slowly closing doors.
"Good," he said.
And then the doors shut, and he was gone.
I sat there for a long moment, my heart beating in a strange, uneven rhythm.
Good.
What did that mean? Good that I was dedicated to my job? Good that I had my priorities straight? Good that—
No. Stop.
I was reading into things. I was tired and hungry and my brain was making connections that didn't exist. Damien Russo didn't care about my dinner plans. He didn't care about Kevin. He didn't care about anything except his company and his empire and his impossible standards.
I was just a tool to him. A means to an end. The assistant who happened to last longer than the others, probably because I was too broke and too stubborn to quit.
That was all.
I finished the documents, left them on his desk, and took the elevator down to the lobby.
It was 8:47 PM.
I'd been at work for over thirteen hours.
The apartment was empty when I got home.
Right. Mira was working tonight. She wouldn't be back until 3:00 AM, smelling like tequila and bad decisions and whatever chaos her bar had produced.
I dropped my bag on the floor, kicked off my heels, and stood in the middle of our tiny living room, feeling the silence press in around me.
This is your life, a voice in my head whispered. Work. Sleep. Work. Sleep. Alone.
I pushed the thought away and headed for the shower.
The hot water helped. It always did. I stood under the spray until my skin turned pink and my muscles finally started to unclench.
I thought about my parents. I tried not to, but sometimes, on nights like this, the memories crept in anyway.
My mother's laugh. My father's hands, big and warm, lifting me onto his shoulders. The smell of the house I grew up in—cinnamon and old books and something that was just home.
And then the fire.
And then nothing.
I turned off the water and stood there, dripping, staring at the cracked tiles of our bathroom.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since I'd had a family. Since I'd had anyone who was truly, permanently mine.
You're fine, I told myself. You've always been fine. You don't need anyone.
It was the same lie I'd been telling myself since I was eight years old.
I dried off, pulled on an oversized t-shirt that I'd had since college, and crawled into bed.
My phone buzzed.
Kevin:Hope your work thing went okay! Sweet dreams
Another heart emoji.
I stared at it for a long moment. Then I typed back a simple "Thanks, you too" and put my phone on the charger.
I closed my eyes.
And tried not to think about grey eyes