Carter Pierce was not a man who second-guessed his decisions. He tested new hires with purpose. Pressure revealed character, and character determined whether someone survived.
When Octavia had scribbled unapologetically across one of his contracts, he'd assumed the boldness was naive enthusiasm. Maybe inexperience. Maybe the misguided confidence of someone who didn't know better.
So he'd told her: Two days.
What he expected was for her to fumble. Apologize. Cave. Preferably in that order.
But instead, hours after the office should have been still and silent, she was hunched over her desk like someone clinging to a lifeline. Papers spread everywhere, paragraphs redrafted, sticky notes forming a frenetic but strangely coherent system.
She didn't notice him watching. She didn't see the hesitation in his step. Or the surprise flickering beneath his calm exterior.
And for reasons that irritated him more than he cared to admit, he walked to the elevator slower than usual, curiosity needling at him beneath the skin.
On the very next day, Octavia arrived early. Far earlier than her shift required. Her movements were stiff, the kind of stiffness born from too little sleep and too much adrenaline. Her curls were wild, frizzed and defiant, like she'd run headfirst through a storm.
Eliza stopped in the doorway to the office and simply stared.
"You're here before me," she said softly, a warning tucked in the worry.
"I needed time," Octavia replied.
Eliza crossed her arms, lips thinning. "Mr. Pierce will not ask you to kill yourself over this."
Octavia hesitated. The truth hovered on the tip of her tongue.
He won't have to.
But she said nothing. Eliza exhaled, defeated. "Then at least take breaks."
Octavia nodded, fully intending to ignore that advice.
He stopped beside her desk on his way to a conference call, hands tucked neatly into his pockets, expression carved into professionalism.
"How is the rewrite progressing?" he asked, voice neutral. But his eyes drifted subtle and quickly over the towers of notes, the edited drafts, the meticulous structure of her work.
"I'm on schedule," she said, though her definition of "schedule" was currently held together with caffeine and sheer will.
He paused.
"Good."
A beat of silence. One heartbeat too long.
"If you need clarification on any clause, my door is open."
Her surprise flickered across her expression, a small involuntary widening of the eyes. He caught it instantly.
"Thank you, sir."
He nodded tightly and walked away, jaw clenched. That was… out of character. She shouldn't have handled such pressure this well. Most new hires cracked under far less. But Octavia hadn't complained, hadn't hesitated, hadn't cut corners. Instead, she worked with the precision of someone who understood not just procedure but the law itself.
Bothersome.
Back in his office, he decided to open her employee file. And it was surprisingly light. Almost empty.
Too empty for someone who could rewrite legal clauses with near-professional accuracy.
So he had to do the only reasonable thing. Dug deeper.
A few keystrokes later, her academic history filled his screen.
Law degree; Top third of her class. Graduated with honors.
No bar exam. No internships. Nothing that explained her ending up as an administrative assistant.
Instead, right before graduation, she'd stepped into marketing, of all places.
A legal mind doing email campaigns and managing meetings? It made no sense.
Unless…
He sighed and shut that thought down. It wasn't his business.
But he closed the laptop slower than usual, irritation prickling along his spine.
By the time darkness fell again, the office had become a graveyard: silent, hollow, lit only by distant emergency lights and the warm yellow glow of Octavia's desk lamp.
Her fingers trembled each time they hit a key. Her breath was shallow in a way you'd wonder if was coming from a marathon.
But she was close, so close, to finishing the rewrite.
Her head drooped once, chin brushing her chest. Then again. A third time before she jerked herself awake.
She didn't hear the soft leather of his shoes approaching across the wood floor.
Not until...
"It is very late," Carter said, his voice carrying easily across the open office floor as he adjusted the lapels of his coat. The overhead lights cast a soft, amber glow over Eliza's empty desk and abandoned coffee mug. The building felt cavernous at this hour. "Why are you still here?"
Octavia startled slightly at the sound of his voice. She had been hunched over her desk for so long she'd stopped noticing the tick of the clock or the dimmed sky outside the window. Her fingers, cramped from typing, fidgeted with the silver ring on her thumb, turning it into frantic half-circles. as she looked around the deserted workspace. Nearly everyone had left hours ago.
"I… lost track of time," she admitted, still playing gently with her ring, twisting it without realizing it. "I was just about to finish the contracts you asked for."
The sound of his footsteps approached a deliberate steady rhythm that echoed faintly in the mostly empty floor. He stopped right behind her, close enough that she felt a subtle warmth at her back and the quiet shift of air as he leaned forward to look at her screen. She froze, hands hovering over her keyboard, and was suddenly struck by something unexpected: his scent.
She had assumed he would smell like every wealthy, overconfident young executive she had ever met. Something like leather, cigars, scotch, and effort. A curated masculinity. But instead, she caught the crisp notes of expensive cologne softened by the unmistakable clean warmth of fresh laundry. Fabric softener, maybe. Something gentle. An odd contrast to his controlled demeanor, and somehow far more disarming.
"That's the clause I pointed out," she said quickly, rolling her chair slightly to give him space.
He nodded silently, reading the paragraph with an expression so focused it bordered on severe. But somewhere around the third line, she saw the faintest flicker. A small but undeniable shift in his eyes, like a person recognizing a solution to a problem they didn't know they had. He looked… impressed. Or at least, she hoped he was. Her chest tingled at the thought.
"I'll ask the company driver to take you home," he said finally.
"There's no need." She stood and pulled her scarf around her neck, smoothing the wool down with twitchy fingers. "I'm used to taking the subway."
"It is far too late," he replied, consulting his watch with that habitually controlled movement of his. "And it's my fault you stayed this long. It's only fair."
She didn't want to push back, as she didn't trust herself not to say something foolish, so she nodded, awkwardly shifting her weight from one foot to the other. He gestured toward the elevator, holding the door as she stepped inside, and followed her in.
The ride was quiet at first. The elevator lights flickered slightly as they descended, casting a soft, almost cinematic glow over the brushed metal walls and the mirrored panels that reflected both of them back in smooth, distorted fragments. Octavia tried not to stare at their reflection, but her eyes drifted there anyway, catching the way he stood, straight-backed, controlled, hands slipping neatly into his pockets as though he'd rehearsed every detail of his posture.
"Marketing has shown significant improvement in profits these last few months," he said at last, his brow furrowing in a thoughtful way that made him seem severe and sharp all at once. "Almost exactly two months after you arrived."
She swallowed and nodded, her fingers finding the edge of her scarf and picking at a single loose thread.
"Were you revising the contracts there too?"
"Some of them," she said softly, lifting one shoulder. "Only the ones that… needed a second look."
He turned, fully facing her now, and his stare made her fingers fidget harder. She pulled at her ring again, twisting it left, right, left.
"You're a lawyer," he said, but it wasn't a question. It was a verdict. "How does a lawyer become a secretary in a real estate corporation?"
She lowered her gaze to the patterned carpet, noticing a tiny flaw near her boot. Her toe nudged at it, then nudged again, as if the motion could swallow the embarrassment simmering in her chest. "Student loans. I needed a job as soon as possible."
"I see." He leaned against the polished brass railing behind him, his coat shifting with the movement. Even relaxed, he looked like he belonged in glossy magazine spreads. Composed, expensive, infuriatingly confident. "Wouldn't you be better paid in your field?"
"Probably," she sighed. "But sometimes it's faster to take a step back. Especially for foreigners."
He raised an eyebrow, the muscles around his eyes tightening ever so slightly.
"I'm legal," she blurted quickly, her voice soft but rushed.
He let out a genuine and warm low chuckle, and it startled her in the best way. "Don't worry. I wasn't planning to call immigration. Where are you from?"
"Rio."
"That's far."
"Not that much," she replied with a small shrug. "It's still America. Only, like, twelve hours away."
"South America" He laughed politely and this time, the sound lingered in the small space.
"Still America"
The elevator chimed as they reached the basement level, and he stepped out first, holding the door open for her again. It was strange, she thought before she could herself, how such a simple gesture made her chest flutter in a confused, half-panicked way.
The underground garage was cool, lit by long fluorescent bulbs that buzzed faintly overhead. The scent of concrete and distant city exhaust filled the space. Rows of sleek vehicles lined the walls like quiet beasts asleep in the shadows. One of them, a polished black sedan, waited with its headlights glowing softly and engine purring.
"Good evening, Jean," Carter said, nodding to the driver as he approached. He gestured for Octavia to slide into the back seat. "Just give him your address. He'll take you home."
She settled onto the leather seat, holding the folders on her lap. Carter closed the door gently, then took a step back.
"Aren't you coming too?" she asked, leaning slightly toward the open window.
"Oh, no." He straightened his coat again, glancing toward the far end of the garage. "I'll be getting a cab."
"But… isn't this your company car?" she asked, her brows knitting together in earnest confusion.
"Trust me, Miss Ramos," he said, a wry smile tugging at his mouth, "you do not want to be seen in a car with me by a paparazzi."
She snorted, far less graceful than she meant to. "I don't waste much time on tabloids. I think I can handle it."
His eyebrow lifted, and that strange mix of amusement and curiosity crossed his face again.
"Endearing," he murmured. "But trust me. It's safer this way."
For a moment, a brief lingering moment, his eyes held hers. Something unreadable flickered there. Something that made her stomach twist, not unpleasantly.
Then he stepped away, and the car pulled forward, leaving her with the faint scent of cologne and fabric softner.