DAY ONE AT THE TOP FLOOR
The executive elevator required a fingerprint.
That was the first thing that told me my life had been decided.
I stood alone in the private lift at 7:02 a.m., my thumb hovering over the scanner, heart beating so loudly I was sure the cameras could hear it. The doors were steel, spotless, reflective enough to show my pale face staring back at me like a stranger.
Personal secretary to the CEO.
The words still didn't feel real. It felt like I was hallucinating.
The scanner showed green and the door slid open.
As the elevator rose in a smooth, silent ascent, I realized something unsettling—there was no floor button. Just one destination. Which is the top.
The twenty-sixth floor welcomed me with silence.
There was no noise, Every inch of the executive wing was queit and controlled just like a place where sound itself had learned obedience.
A woman in a tailored black suit was waiting towards me.
"Miss Tessy," she said crisply. "I'm Ms. Hale. Executive operations."
She didn't smile.
"This way, please."
She led me down a wide corridor lined with glass offices, each one occupied by people who looked important. No one looked up as we passed. Or maybe they did—and had simply learned not to show it.
"This floor operates differently," Ms. Hale said. "No unnecessary movement. No personal calls. Everything that happens here stays here."
I nodded. "understand."
She stopped in front of a desk positioned directly outside the CEO's office.
This one was different from the others.
No decorations. No personal photos. Just a sleek workstation, a secure landline, two monitors, and locked drawers with a biometric pad.
"This is yours," she said.
I stared at it.
"You will manage the CEO's schedule, calls, documents, and private correspondence," Ms. Hale continued. "You do not discuss his affairs with anyone. Not even other executives. If he requests something at 3 a.m., you respond. If he cancels meetings without explanation, you rearrange everything."
She turned to me, eyes sharp.
"And if he tells you to forget something you've seen or heard—"
"I will forget it," I finished quietly.
A flicker of approval crossed her face.
"Good. He'll see you now."
The door behind me opened.
I didn't hear it unlock. I didn't hear footsteps.
Only his voice.
"You're late."
I turned
Clifford Ethan stood just inside his office, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. The morning light cut across his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones, casting his eyes in shadow.
"It's 7:07," I said automatically. "My reporting time was—"
"Seven," he said with an authoritatively
"I apologize," I said.
He studied me for a long moment, then stepped aside. "Inside."
His office was larger than I remembered—and colder.
The glass wall overlooked the entire city, stretching endlessly, like a kingdom under his control. His desk sat perfectly centered. Everything had its place. Nothing personal. Nothing human.
"Did you sleep well," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "Barely."
"Good. You'll need it."
He walked past me, already speaking.
"My schedule."
I hurried to the desk, logged in, hands moving on instinct.
"You canceled three board calls overnight," I said. "Moved the legal review to Friday. And—"
"And lunch with Director kay?"
"Postponed indefinitely."
"Good."
I glanced up. "Sir?"
He was standing by the window now, back to me, hands clasped behind him.
"People who ask questions too often don't last here," he said. "But I hired you because you're observant. Not because you're obedient."
I didn't respond.
"Speak when something doesn't make sense," he continued. "Silence is useful. Blindness is not."
I swallowed. "Understood."
"Good. First task."
He turned and handed me a thin folder.
"These are revised shareholder documents," he said. "I want you to cross-check every signature against the originals. Flag anything that doesn't match."
My stomach tightened.
"You want me to… verify them?"
"Yes."
"You know I'll notice—"
"I want you to notice," he interrupted calmly.
I looked down at the folder.
This was intentional.
He wasn't just keeping me close.
He was testing me.
"I'll do it," I said.
"Of course you will."
The day went bye like a flash
Calls came in constantly—board members, foreign partners, politicians who pretended they weren't nervous. Every time I announced a caller, Ethan decided within seconds whether they were worth his attention.
"No."
"Schedule for next week."
"Tell him I'm unavailable."
"Tell her I'm not interested."
No hesitation. No explanation.
Power, wielded like breath.
At 11:46 a.m., his father's name appeared on the private line.
My fingers froze.
I looked at Ethan.
He saw the caller ID.
For half a second—just one—his expression cracked.
Then it was gone.
"Don't answer," he said.
"Sir—"
"I said don't."
The phone rang out.
My chest felt tight.
"You'll forward all family calls to me first," he said. "Every time."
"Yes."
He paused, then added, "You handled that correctly."
It wasn't praise.
It felt like permission to survive.
At noon, he didn't eat.
At one, he worked straight through a legal confrontation that left three senior executives pale and silent.
At two, someone leaked false information to the press.
By three, Ethan had crushed it.
By four, I was exhausted.
"You're still standing," he said suddenly.
I looked up from my screen. "Yes."
"Most people don't last their first day."
"I don't have the luxury of quitting."
Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"No," he said quietly. "You don't."
As evening settled, the office emptied. Lights dimmed. The city outside glowed gold and gray.
"You can leave," he said at last.
I stood, relief flooding me.
"Miss Tessy."
I paused.
He didn't look at me when he spoke.
"You did well today."
My breath caught.
"Thank you, sir."
He finally met my eyes.
"And remember," he added, voice low, controlled, dangerous, "everything you saw today stays with you."
I nodded.
As I stepped out of the office and the door closed behnd me, one truth echoed clearly in my mind:
This wasn't just a job.
It was a test.
Clifford Ethan watching to see whether I would break—or become indispensable.