Rhea curls into the corner of the couch, wrapped in one of her father's old sweaters. The fabric smells faintly of detergent and medicine, stretched thin from years of use.
Beside her, Fred is slumped, but he isn't resting. His shoulders hitch with every breath, a heavy, rhythmic struggle that seems to take all his strength.
The news scrolls disasters on the muted television. She barely sees them. She's too busy counting the seconds between his inhalations.
"Rhea."
His voice is wet, raspy. It's the sound of someone speaking through a throat tight with fluid.
"Yes?" She looks up immediately.
He studies her face like he's committing it to memory. He tries to sit up straighter, but his ankles, swollen tight against his slippers, seem too heavy to move.
He settles for a shaky exhale that ends in a short, bubbling cough.
"Thank you," he rasps.
She frowns and pushes her glasses up. "For what?"
"For staying," he says. He pauses, his chest heaving as he fights for enough oxygen to finish the thought. "For... caring."
Her chest tightens. She reaches for his sleeve, her fingers brushing the pulse at his wrist. It's thready and fast, skipping beats like a tired engine. "That's my job, Dad."
He shakes his head, a slow, labored movement. "No. It was mine. I was supposed to... provide. Not wither."
Before she can respond, her phone vibrates in her hand. The sharp buzz-buzz feels like a physical jolt against her skin.
An email.No subject line.No sender.
Her breath stutters.
Fragile.
Resume at the office tomorrow by 8:00 a.m.
Not a minute late.
Her pulse spikes. She reads it again. Slower.
Fragile.
Only one person had called her that.
This isn't a job offer. There's no greeting, no signature. Just a command. Her stomach tightens.
"What is it?" her father asks.
She hesitates. "I think… I got the job."
"At Axiom?" His eyes widen.
"I think so."
The lie tastes thin, but the truth feels worse. This doesn't feel like acceptance. It feels like being summoned.
She locks her phone and sets it face down on the table.
Tomorrow.
Eight a.m.
Not a minute late.
Whatever decision had been made after that interview, it wasn't finished with her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rhea steps into the lobby, her heels disappearing into the building's vastness. It isn't quiet, just disciplined. Workers move in tight lines toward the elevators, voices low, eyes fixed ahead, every motion efficient and rehearsed.
She checks her watch.
7:47 a.m.
Exact.
The reception desk blazes under fluorescent lights. Marble floors sprawl wide and spotless, polished enough to splinter her reflection as she moves in her fitted dress, sensible heels, shoulders locked back by habit.
She looks composed.
Too composed.
She gives her name to the receptionist. That's all.
No questions. No warmth.
The receptionist gives her a badge print and an ID access to the nineteenth floor, permission granted without ceremony.
The elevator ride is silent. She stands among strangers, hands clasped around her bag, eyes fixed on the rising numbers.
On the thirteenth floor, everyone is already off the elevator; she rides to the nineteenth alone.
When the doors open, the floor stretches wide and clean, a second reception desk stationed off to the right like a sentry.
She takes three steps forward, breath steadying, ready to introduce herself.
"Ms. Voss."
A voice calls her.
Rhea turns. The woman from her interview approaches, tablet tucked neatly under her arm, her posture immaculate.
Up close, her smile is controlled. Polite. "You're on time."
"Yes, ma'am," Rhea says, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I was told punctuality mattered."
The woman nods.
"Follow me."
They move down the corridor in silence, passing the desk without acknowledgment.
Rhea's heels echo too loudly against the polished floor. She smooths her dress, adjusts her glasses again, aware of every step, every breath.
They stop in front of a door.
CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER.
"You'll wait here," the woman says.
Rhea hesitates. "For how long, ma'am?"
The woman studies her, just briefly. "Until you're called."
Then she's gone.
Rhea stands alone.
Time thins. Stretches. Slips.
She checks her watch again.
8:55 a.m.
She has been waiting for almost an hour.
Her pulse ticks louder than the silence. She shifts once, then stills, forcing her spine straight, her expression neutral.
The door opens.
He doesn't invite her in.
He stands framed in the doorway, white shirt crisp against darker walls, top button undone like an intentional oversight.
His presence sharpens the air, controlled, measured, unyielding.
His gaze moves over her slow and deliberate before settling on her face.
"You came," he says.
"Yes, sir. Good morning, sir." Rhea replies.
"On time?"
"Yes, sir."
The corner of his mouth tightens. Not quite a smile.
"Good."
He steps aside.
Rhea enters, fingers brushing her glasses as she crosses the threshold.
The office is large in a way that feels deliberate, not indulgent. A broad desk anchors the far end, its surface almost bare. Two low couches face each other near a coffee table. Shelves line one wall, books arranged too precisely to be casual.
There's space, too much of it.
The lighting is low. Intentional. Nothing here hides behind clutter.
The door closes behind her.
He doesn't sit.
"Did you think this was a job offer?" he asks, already moving toward the couch. He takes his time before lowering himself onto it, one ankle resting over the opposite knee.
Rhea remains standing.
Her pulse stutters. "I wasn't sure what it was, sir."
He studies her with his head slightly tilted, like he's assessing a flaw only he can see.
"And yet you came."
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
The question presses harder than it should. She swallows. "Because you told me to and I need the job."
Silence settles between them.
He rises and steps closer, not enough to touch her, not enough to corner her. Just close enough that she's acutely aware of him.
"Wrong," he says softly. "I didn't tell you."
Her breath slips.
Why does he wield so much authority at such a young age?
"You came," he continues, "because you needed to."
She doesn't argue and that unsettles her more than his certainty. Need can sound like choice when fear is quiet.
His gaze drops briefly to her hands, curled tight at her sides, then lifts again.
"Sit."
This time, she obeys.
He stays standing.
That, she realizes, is deliberate.
"You don't have the job yet," he says, voice even.
Rhea's fingers curl against the edge of the couch. "Then why am I here, sir?"
"Because I'm not offering you employment." A pause. "I'm offering you terms."
Her pulse thuds louder. She keeps her chin level. "What kind of terms, sir?"
He steps closer again, tilting the balance without breaking it. The scent of clean fabric and something sharper reaches her.
"The kind you're free to refuse."
The word free lands oddly. She stores it away, untouched.
"You said this role supports the CEO directly," she says. "Is that you, sir?"
"Yes."
The word explains the summons. The silence. The absence of process.
"What would I be doing, sir?" she asks, adjusting her glasses.
"I need precision," he says. "And discretion."
He sits opposite her at last, fingertips resting against the cushion like an anchor.
"These are the terms," he says calmly. "Listen before you decide."
She nods once.
"Your time and all of you belong to me. If I call, you answer. If I summon you, you come. Whatever I do with you, you don't get to complain. No shared calendars. No explanations."
Her breath tightens. "That isn't standard, sir."
"I'm not interested in standard with you."
"You will not discuss your work," he continues. "With anyone."
"My father already…"
"Especially your father."
The interruption is calm. Absolute.
"If that's a problem," he adds, "we end this now."
The room feels smaller. Cooler.
"And the compensation, sir?"
"Triple the listed salary," he says. "And whatever you decide you want from me financially."
Her stomach drops. That kind of money doesn't just solve problems, it erases them. And erasers, she knows, always demand something in return.
"And the work?" she asks carefully.
"You will manage my schedule. Control my access. Decide who reaches me and who doesn't."
"That's more like an assistant."
"Yes."
His gaze sharpens. "That's what I chose you for."
Chose.
"I didn't impress you, sir."
"No," he agrees. "You look like something I want to have."
Her breath catches.
Have?
She's probably six years older than him; she shouldn't feel this way.
Yet sitting there, under his gaze, she does. Smaller. Unsteady.
"These are the first rules you need to understand before anything else."
She nods, heart hammering.
"You don't call me unless instructed. You don't interrupt unless invited. You don't lie." A pause. "And when I give you a directive, you follow it."
Silence stretches.
"If you break a rule," he continues, "we handle it privately."
Heat flickers low in her stomach, unwelcome, undeniable.
She grips the couch. This is bad. This is total control.
But the money is worth it.
"And if I follow them?" she asks.
"Then you're compensated accordingly."
He slides a single sheet of paper across the table.
No branding. No padding. Just clean bullet points.
"Read it," he says. "Then decide."
Rhea looks down. The terms are stark. Demanding. Clear.
They don't just ask for her labor; they ask for her autonomy.
Total Availability: 24/7 access.
Absolute Discretion: No mention of the CEO's personal or professional life to anyone, including family.
Physical Presence: Attendance at all summoned locations without question.
Private Dispute Resolution: No HR. No third parties. Only him.
When she looks up, he's watching her like her answer is already known.
And she understands.
This was never about a job.
And whatever he was calling consent feels dangerously close to something else.